Rogue in Red Velvet (8 page)

Connie could have disabused them of that notion but she chose not to. However much the motherly woman sitting opposite her probed and poked, she enlightened her no further.

After the first day’s excitement and the first night’s uncomfortable lodging, when she shared a sagging rope-bed with her maid, Connie spent most of the next day’s travel catching up on her sleep. The days passed until they had only two more nights on the road before they reached London.

By the time they reached Leicester, she was heartily sick of travelling. When the coach stopped for a meal and a change of horses, she took the air with Saxton in tow. Better than eating food she didn’t really want in the stuffy taproom of the inn.

“Come, Saxton.”

The maid accompanied Connie, grumbling under her breath, her stout figure wobbling on the uneven cobbles of the coaching inn yard.

They strolled along the street, Connie relishing the fresh air and the lack of tedious gossip.

She paused in front of the window of a print shop, looking for amusement in the caricatures. She scanned the images on display then her attention returned to one in particular. Her heart missed a beat.

In the center of the window, larger than the other offerings was hung a print of Alex and his cousins in their imperial finery. They appeared incongruous in the center of London society because the printmaker had dressed them in the style of their namesakes. So Alex had a breastplate and Roman kilt and his cousin Julius a purple-edged toga.

Alex’s family was an important one. Even someone in a provincial town like Leicester would know who they were. They didn’t need the joke explaining to them.

Finally the death knell tolled on her hopes. She had no chance of attracting such exalted figures and no right to expect it.

The man she’d met and dallied with wasn’t for her. She didn’t move in his circles, wouldn’t know how to conduct a dinner discussing events of the day, events the guests would have direct involvement in. She couldn’t swan around a ballroom pretending to be one of the great and the good. Alex would marry a woman who could do all these things and she’d be a credit to him. Not for Connie the fate of being caricatured for the amusement of the nation. Few people knew who she was, or would, once she married Jasper. Mrs. Dankworth, even Lady Downholland couldn’t evoke that kind of attention.

Her mood plummeted. She was going to London to marry Jasper then she’d retire with him to Yorkshire, or her home in Cumbria, and take her place in local society. She’d never see Alex again.

The prospect filled her with a numb sorrow. Until now, she hadn’t realized what Alex had done to her. He’d spoiled her for other men.

Saxton tugged her shawl. “They won’t wait for us, missus. We have to go now.”

She’d turned, slightly dazed, and headed back to the inn and the hated coach.

That she’d met him seemed a dream. That she’d kissed him seemed impossible. Alexander Vernon, Baron Ripley, heir to the Earldom of Leverton. No, not her, not him.

She’d put him behind her with all the strength of will she could muster.

When they reached London, she assumed it wouldn’t take long to reach the
Belle Sauvage
on Ludgate Hill, where they were disembarking.

However London proved much larger than she’d supposed and it took an hour for the unwieldy coach, weighed down with travelers inside and on the roof, to reach the center of the city. The travelers separated into two groups, the ones who had been before and took it all in with an air of weary cynicism and the ones, like her, who watched, fascinated, as the city passed the windows in all its variety.

They passed through a couple of hamlets first, villages with a prosperous air and modern, well-constructed houses, any of which would have provided a suitable dwelling for a lady of her style and circumstance. The road led into the main part of the city, past dilapidated buildings of disreputable appearance, half falling down and propped up with beams and then rows of neat houses, small but with an air of comfort and well-being. Every building bore streaks of soot. Something she hadn’t expected but should have done. So many houses belching smoke all day must produce this kind of appearance. She’d have had her house scrubbed every month but perhaps the battle was too much for the people who lived here.

Finally, they swung up Ludgate Hill and the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral towering majestically over the buildings clustered around it. Its classical magnificence and its sheer size dwarfed and scorned everything else around it. Breathtaking.

She promised herself a visit there, as well as the Palace of Westminster and the Banqueting Hall, all that remained of the old palace of Whitehall, which had burned down seventy years before. Her spirits lifted at the thought, more, to her shame, than at the thought of meeting Jasper again.

She recalled the history of London from her books, the books she’d spent the nights before her trip poring over. Anything but remembering how close Alex was to her here, how she could pay a visit and see him again. But she would not.

How would she cope with that? From what Jasper had said in his letter, he’d started to move in those circles. She couldn’t avoid Alex. She had to steel herself to the possibility of meeting him, pretending a slight acquaintance. Anything more would appear encroaching. And the chance of seeing him with a woman, one who could claim him for her own. Perhaps he’d offer for Louisa, pretty, young and rich, everything Connie wasn’t.

She suffered from an infatuation, she assured herself, as she had many times before. Nothing more. It would pass. It
had
to pass.

* * * *

Connie had become adept at climbing down the tiny steps of the coach on to the cobbled yard of yet another coaching inn. Except this one was the last in her journey and the last she’d need to face for some time. She felt cramped, tired and ready for bed, although it was barely four in the afternoon. Food didn’t appeal. She was too weary to eat. Not that Saxton felt the same way, if her rumbling stomach was to be believed. Connie ought to take pity on her maid.

“Let’s eat something while we wait to hear from Mr. Dankworth.”

Saxton nodded. “I’ll see the bags unloaded first, missus.”

Connie had almost forgotten them.

Saxton snagged a passing ostler by the simple expedient of grabbing the waistband of his breeches and waving a shilling under his nose. She barely came up to the man’s chest. “That trunk and that bag.”

The man climbed up to get them down.

Connie went inside and headed for the nearest unoccupied table.

A man dressed in plain but serviceable clothes stopped her. “Mrs. Rattigan, is it?”

“Why? Who wants to know?” She was dressed plainly, her pearl necklace tucked under her fichu. She could have been anyone from a shopkeeper to a lady.

The man handed her a folded note addressed in her future husband’s handwriting.

Dearest,

The man who gives you this is one of my servants. You may trust him. He will take you to the Downholland’s house after you’ve eaten and refreshed yourself. I am looking forward with eager anticipation to seeing you again. We will marry as soon as possible. I can hardly wait. - J

A brief note and to the point but Jasper’s care for her touched her. She smiled up at the man, her spirits lifting. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Rattigan.”

“Are you alone?”

“My maid is in the yard, supervising the luggage. She’ll join us shortly.”

The man gave a brief nod. “There are some private parlors here. I have bespoken one of those for your comfort. If you’ll come this way, I’ll return for your maid.”

“That sounds good.” She followed the man to the parlor, which was small and comfortable. He furnished her with a glass of wine from the decanter on the table.

She eyed the basket of bread with more avidity than she’d imagined she could have a few moments before. Jasper’s note had relieved her growing tension and worry that she might have to fend for herself and her maid for at least a night.

The wine tasted good enough and she’d downed the first glass without really noticing, wondering if she could put her feet up on one of the stools and relax for an hour. She wondered where her maid had got to when the latch rattled.

The world rocked under her feet. As if her perception had suddenly developed an echo and followed her rather than coming with her. She heard the man saying the same thing twice, saw blurred double images of him. More tired than she’d thought. With a sigh, she sank back on to the hard wooden settle. Her senses telescoped and unconsciousness washed over her.

Chapter 7

Connie groaned then stopped because it hurt too much, the sound reverberating around her head. Submitting to the inevitable, she rolled over and vomited, a bare second’s warning between coming awake and her stomach rebelling.

Someone held a foul-smelling pot under her chin.

She was grateful all the same, as she was beyond doing such things for herself. Her hair fell around her face until someone yanked it back. The roots pulled but she strained forward and expelled whatever noxious substance had churned in her stomach. She couldn’t speak, could only gasp, regaining her breath.

The person leaned her back against a hard surface.

A bedroom, adequately but roughly furnished. Something gauzy and shimmering draped the bed and burning pastilles heavily perfumed the air. A thin stream of smoke spiraled up from a pottery cottage on the mantelpiece. She closed her eyes. “Am I still at the Belle Sauvage?” Even speaking made her head throb.

“No, dearie, you’ve moved on. You’re in my house now.”

The voice was female and the accent unfamiliar. She squinted up and spied a woman, her face creased with so many wrinkles she seemed timeless, as if she’d defeated death. She wore a gown of youthful yellow with fancy lace ruffles and a cap that fluffed around her iron-grey curls like a morning raincloud.

Connie didn’t like the oversweet smell but approved of the other things, like the soft bed and the way the drapery masked the over-bright sunshine outside. “So where are we?”

“Covent Garden.”

If that meant something special, she missed it, but considering her state, she was lucky to remember her own name. Her head swam and throbbed and her limbs felt like lamb’s wool. She forced herself to concentrate.

The room was small and strangely decorated but that might be the difference in taste between her home and London. The luxurious bed contrasted with the other perfunctory and cheaply made fittings. But she wouldn’t dare criticize. They might toss her out and the way she was feeling, she couldn’t risk that. But she didn’t know anyone who lived in Covent Garden, unless the Downhollands had leased a house here. “Is this a lodging house?”

“Just so, dearie.” She didn’t like the familiar “Dearie,” but let it pass. “You must have eaten some bad food. So you need to eat some good to build up your strength and then we’ll see about getting you out of bed.”

She covered her eyes with one hand. “Not yet.”

“No, not yet. But I’ll bring you something light on a tray and then we’ll see how you feel. Keep sitting up and I’ll bring you a fresh pot. Maybe two.”

“Can you contact my fiancé, Mr. Jasper Dankworth, please?”

“He knows.”

Connie sat very still, thinking but her mind whirled and she couldn’t concentrate. Someone was shouting in the corridor outside and she wished he would stop.

* * * *

If Alex had thought to cast off his sole remaining parent by moving out of the house his father owned in London, he was doomed to disappointment.

Father dropped around regularly, this time to share breakfast with him. “You disappoint me, boy.” Lord Leverton presented far too colorful a figure at breakfast, his blue coat and green waistcoat magnificent in their disdain for each other.

Alex enjoyed breakfasting on his own but today he had to make conversation and think on his feet. Alex reached for the coffee pot. “Refusing to offer for Miss Stobart?”

“Precisely. A considerable heiress and ripe for childbearing.”

“I don’t want for money, sir and I’m not your only son.” He pushed his plate aside. Bacon could lose its appeal very quickly in the right circumstances.

His father glared. “I thought La Stobart had you but you slipped out of that one. Then she chased you and I thought she’d snare you but here you are, still unattached.”

“Not Miss Stobart, Father.”

“Pick somebody. I want the succession settled before I pass on. It’s time. You know it. I know it.” The picture of robust good health, his father glared at him, his dark eyes beacons of disapproval.

“I will, Father, but I haven’t met the right woman yet.” One face came to mind and he dismissed it, as he’d got in the habit of doing recently.

Lord Leverton snorted. “You’ve met many women who would have made you an excellent partner in life. You’re just too fussy. Or you prefer bachelorhood. There is no reason you should not go along the way you always have after your marriage. You’ve always been reasonably discreet with your mistresses. I don’t even know if you have one in keeping at the moment.”

“No, sir. The last one proved a bore in the mornings.” He sipped his coffee. At least he didn’t have those tantrums to cope with any more. “Do women think they get more money if they scream a lot?”