Once an Innocent (6 page)

He started to inquire after the duke’s brother, whom he assumed would escort the ladies, but Marshall interrupted with a raise of his hand.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet. Will Lady Whithorn act as hostess?”

“I sent Clara an express this morning,” Jordan answered. He smiled as he thought of his stepmother, a lovely woman only ten years his senior. “Nothing feeds her ego like knowing she’s invaluable. I’ve no doubt she’ll meet me at Lintern Abbey with bells on.”

“Will Lady Kaitlin also come?” Marshall’s question was simple on the surface and delivered in an even tone, but Jordan didn’t miss the tightness around his friend’s mouth.
Shrewd devil
, he thought. Marshall was really asking if Jordan believed the situation safe enough for his own younger half sister’s presence.

The answer was more complicated than a simple yes or no.

In truth, Jordan didn’t know
what
he would find when he got home. If his plan worked — and he had every reason to believe it would — then the ladies in attendance would simply enjoy a country house party, never the wiser as to the true purpose of the armed men prowling the estate. Even so, some things were not suitable for children. There were no roles for babes in the staging of political stratagems, and so Jordan had not included Kate in his letter to Clara.

Saying so might decide Marshall against him, though, and Jordan needed the ladies to attend. “No, Kate won’t come,” he answered. “This is to be a house party in truth, Marshall; there will be entertainments in the evenings. As Kate’s still in the schoolroom, it wouldn’t do to bring her to the Abbey, only to keep her locked away.”

Marshall frowned. His chin worked side to side as his lips twisted in thought. He fidgeted in the saddle and threw Jordan a scowl. “Can you ensure my sister’s safety?”

Inside, Jordan squirmed, but he tossed off one of his devil-may-care smiles and chuckled. “I can’t guarantee Lady Naomi won’t meet any mishap whatsoever, my friend. There are stairs she might tumble down, needles upon which she might prick a finger — ”

“Freese.” Marshall’s voice carried a warning tone. “Prevarication does not endear me to your cause.”

Jordan scratched his chin. He pulled Phantom to a halt. Under his thighs, the stallion huffed and stomped the soft grass. The animal wanted a good run, and grew impatient with Jordan’s sedate pace. Marshall brought his horse to a stop, as well. He lowered his head and stared at Jordan.

“Marsh,” Jordan said in a more serious tone, “the ladies will be no danger. If my ruse works as I anticipate, they’ll spend a few pleasant weeks in the country — nothing more. Besides, with Lady Janine for her chaperone and Clara hostessing and Grant watching out for her — ”

The duke’s dark brows snapped together. “Who mentioned Grant?” Amadeus sidestepped, as though detecting his master’s sudden change in demeanor. Marshall moved around him in a tight circle. Jordan stared straight ahead, accepting his friend’s lambasting. “You asked me for women to sit in your parlor. You didn’t request another man to take up arms for your mysterious cause, Freese.”

Jordan started to protest, but Marshall forged on. “Despite your claims of safety for the women, I cannot imagine you could issue any such guarantee for my brother. If you will step out every day with firearms, it is because you face the possibility of meeting similarly armed enemies.”

Damnation, the man had a point. Grant Lockwood was no agent of the Foreign Office. But if he came to Lintern Abbey to hunt, he might wind up exchanging fire with Frenchmen, instead of felling birds. In good conscience, Jordan could not enlist an unwitting combatant to his cause.

Bringing Amadeus nose to nose with Phantom, Marshall shook his head and spat. “This is lunacy. Forget it, Jordan — all of it. I’m not putting my family in harm’s way for you.”

So saying, he jerked his horse around.

Jordan’s eyes squeezed shut while thoughts tumbled through his mind. By gad, he
needed
Naomi and Lady Janine. Time was too short to find more ladies. He should have already been pounding his way up the Great North Road.

“Marshall, stop,” he called. His friend did so, but did not turn. Jordan cursed under his breath, disgusted with himself for the tactic he was about to employ, but necessity left him no choice. “Last night,” he said, “I believe I was the only one who noticed that Lady Naomi was in some degree of distress.”

Marshall wheeled Amadeus around. “What are you talking about?” he snapped.

“She was distracted, upset. I saw her slip out of the salon with Wayland Hayward.” He arched a brow and asked in a blasé tone, “Did you notice when your sister went missing, Marshall?”

The duke frowned. “I was occupied with the auction.”

Jordan returned his friend’s frown with a bitter smile. “Too occupied to notice she’d vanished, I suppose. However, I
did
notice. I watched for her return, and when it didn’t happen, I purchased two fruit pies for an inordinate sum and went searching. As it happens, she was in need of … assistance.” Jordan didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

He’d struck home with that remark, he saw, even as the bitter taste of bile burned the back of his tongue at divulging Naomi’s predicament.

Shame and pain contorted Marshall’s features. “Thank you for your service to my sister,” he rasped, his jaw hardening. The muscle at his temple twitched, and Jordan thought Hayward would be lucky if he escaped from Marshall with nothing worse than a lashing.

Jordan met his vengeful expression. “I tell you this to illustrate I am already concerned for your sister’s welfare. Not only is she your sibling, but she’s also one of the finest ladies of my acquaintance. I would lay down my life before I let her come to harm, my friend.” The odd thing was, as the words left his mouth, Jordan knew he spoke the truth. “She’ll be perfectly safe at Lintern Abbey. Grant need not come, but please allow Naomi and Lady Janine to attend. You might not have been able to save my hide in Spain, but you can help me now by simply sending your ladies to my party.”

The lump of Marshall’s tongue moved behind his lips. He held Jordan in a fierce stare. “You will return my sister to me in the same condition in which I send her to you,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “Anything less will be your skin.”

Jordan nodded once. “That I will, Marshall. I swear it.”

Marshall turned Amadeus away without bidding Jordan farewell.

As Jordan watched the retreating view of Marshall’s back, he had the sinking feeling he may have signed on for more than he was prepared to deal with. Though the French threat was undeniably the more important matter in the grand scheme of things, Jordan couldn’t help feeling excited by the prospect of having Naomi Lockwood under his roof for a few weeks. He could take the opportunity to explore the attraction he’d sensed blossoming between them. After all, the French might miss Lintern Abbey altogether, giving him plenty of time to further their acquaintance.

Damnation! His mind was already wandering. With a vicious snarl, he pulled Phantom in the opposite direction and dug his heels into the horse’s sides. He tore hell-for-leather down Rotten Row, attempting to pound his priorities back where they belonged.

It occurred to Naomi — as she examined the illustration of an infant’s head emerging from his mother’s body — that she really was allowing her unfettered curiosity to get out of hand. But the books she read were so
interesting
, and the information she learned sometimes proved to be valuable, as it had when she’d rightly advised Isabelle to lie on her left side to stop her pains.

She sat in the window seat in her bedroom, a refuge from the household’s bustle as preparations were made to decamp to the country. Turning a page, she inhaled at an illustration of the newborn infant, his umbilical cord trailing from his belly back into his mother. “Thank goodness for French obstetricians,” she murmured. Continental sensibilities, being rather less restrained than English, proved to be quite a boon in matters such as medical texts. She doubted she could find such a frank examination of pregnancy and childbirth penned by an English doctor.

Just as well she’d held on to this book all these years, she reflected. She’d come into possession of it when she was just eight years old. Her mother, Caro, had suffered a mid-pregnancy stillbirth. Father was sitting in Parliament, Marshall at Oxford, and Grant at public school. Naomi was the only one Caro would allow to tend her. She’d stolen the book out of the midwife’s bag, frightened and desperate to understand what was happening to her mother and how she could help. The text was beyond her rudimentary French skills, but with the help of a French dictionary she’d spent hours each night working her way through the book, increasing both her command of the language and her comprehension of Caro’s plight.

While the experience had stripped away some of her innocence, it had been the moment when she’d first felt the satisfaction of being useful. It had also given her a taste of the power of information, of knowledge. She’d been hunting it ever since — in secret, of course. A genteel young lady was not supposed to know about placentas. But she did. A polite miss ought never to have read a brazenly sexual poem like Donne’s “The Sun Rising.” But she had.

And more. Much more.

But all in secret.

Aunt Janine already wore the brand of bluestocking for the Lockwood clan. An eccentric aunt was one thing. It lent the family an exotic flair. Being regarded as an eccentric oneself, however, was an entirely different matter. Naomi found herself in trouble enough with this Snow Angel business — she had no desire to add Overly Educated to her list of deficiencies.

She licked her finger, turned the page, and was thoughtfully absorbing the proper technique of clamping and cutting the umbilical cord when she was startled by a soft knock at the door. Naomi slammed the book shut and hastily stuffed it under the cushion as Brenna entered and curtsied.

“His Grace wishes to see you, milady,” the maid said. “He awaits you in the library.”

Naomi knit her fingers together in her lap. “Thank you.” She maintained a placid countenance even though her right sitting bone perched painfully on the hard cover.

After Brenna left, Naomi retrieved the book. She passed a half-packed trunk standing at the foot of her bed and shoved the volume beneath a pile of shifts.

In the library, she found Marshall standing beside the fireplace — filled with a painted screen now, instead of a fire — and Aunt Janine seated on the sofa. Naomi’s eyes flitted across the room to the spot where Jordan had put an end to Mr. Hayward’s unwelcome advances. She flushed, remembering the kiss Lord Freese had spontaneously pressed to her forehead after issuing his baffling remark about needing women.

“I was going to go to Kew Gardens today,” Aunt Janine said in an indignant tone, “to see this one’s exhibit of Amazonian plants.” She pointed an accusing finger at Marshall. “You’d best have a good reason for spoiling my morning, boy. And you owe me a private tour, too.” She pursed her lips in a miffed fashion and nodded firmly, flapping the brim of her lace cap against graying hair.

Uneasiness stole over Naomi. “Is Isabelle all right?” Her sister-in-law was not present for what looked like a family meeting. Had something gone wrong during the night?

“Isabelle’s fine,” Marshall assured her. He waved absentmindedly at the sofa. Naomi sat beside her aunt, who was dressed in a typically unstylish frock. The drab flower print of her calico dress recalled a funerary arrangement. Aunt Janine’s sharp eyes cut to Naomi. Suddenly self-conscious under the older lady’s scrutiny, she jerked her gaze back to her brother.

“Are you all packed?” Marshall asked.

“Nearly so,” Naomi answered. She prettily folded her hands on the muslin lap of her own fashionable morning dress.
Thank goodness I don’t share Auntie’s disdain for style, too
, she thought.

“Good.” Marshall braced an arm against the mantel. He parted his lips and hesitated, then turned a heavy gaze on her. “There’s been a change of plan, Naomi. You and Aunt Janine will travel to Lintern Abbey, rather than to Helmsdale.”

Confusion shook her. “Lintern Abbey?” For a moment, she struggled to recall whose property bore the name. “Oh!” Her startled eyes flew wide. “That’s Lord Freese’s estate! Why ever would you send us there, Marshall?”

Aunt Janine straightened and lifted her chin. “I am not going any such place, young man. I’m remaining right here in Town for another month, and
then
I shall come to Helmsdale in time for your child’s birth, just as I said I would do.”

“And I promised Isabelle I would help arrange the nursery,” Naomi added. “Besides, why should Lord Freese want to host the two of us?”

He looked from one to the other, his jaw working from side to side. “It’s not just the two of you,” he explained. “Lord Freese is hosting a house party and has graciously invited you to attend. Wouldn’t you like to have fun with other young people? There won’t be any excitement at Helmsdale for a while.”

Naomi frowned. Despite his talk of fun and parties, it seemed like Marshall was trying to get rid of her. Her stomach knotted as she felt more than ever like an interloper. “I’d rather be at home with my family,” she said unhappily.

Maybe Isabelle didn’t want Naomi there, after all, and had asked Marshall to find her somewhere else to go. Had the incident the night of the auction vexed Isabelle more than she’d let on?

“And I should much rather be in Town.” Aunt Janine stood and poked Marshall in the chest. “I’ll not be bullied about by my own nephew.”

Marshall took Aunt Janine’s hand and gently lowered it. “Lord Freese tells me there will be dancing,” he told Naomi. “And there is a ruin to explore, and gardens. Jordan’s stepmother, Lady Whithorn, is hostessing. She and the earl don’t come to Town much, so you haven’t made her acquaintance. I believe you would get on with her very well, though.”

The more Marshall talked, the more convinced Naomi became that she was unwanted at home. Her throat tightened and she blinked rapidly. “Please don’t send me away.” Her voice was thick with misery, scarcely more than a whimper.