Instead, she only looked at her lap and said quietly, yet fiercely, “I am not a damsel.”
He thought she was more one than she realized. “Perhaps not. A damsel after all would hardly jump from a moving carriage.”
“Runaway,” she corrected.
And speaking of runaway carriages. “I’ve learned the men who did this to you were indeed French. They hit another stage several nights ago heading out of Portsmouth.” Among other various crimes.
“I wonder what their aim is?” she murmured.
Jason didn’t know for certain, but he had a suspicion, one he would verify at the first opportunity. The fact these incidents were so close to his estate was not lost on him.
Emily yawned and covered her mouth, her dark eyes apologetic.
“You should go up to bed,” he said.
She cocked her head. “I thank you for your offer of traveling with me, and for saving my life and your wonderful generosity.” A slight frown appeared between her brows. She licked her lips and swallowed. “But I will not imposition you further. Besides, it seems they only hit at night and I can travel the stage during the day.”
Jason sighed. People rarely went against him. It was a good move, but pointless. He propped his chin on his fist, leaning to the side in his chair. “You could.”
She smiled.
“But you won’t.”
The smile died and something flashed in her eyes. Did her composure ever slip? Did she ever show emotion other than polite responses? Should he push her to see?
“It seems I am tired after all, my lord.” Her foot tapped daintily on the floor.
“Back to ‘my lord’, am I?”
That earned him a glare and he barely managed to hide his smile.
She gingerly rose and he stood to help her up. But she ignored him and stepped to the side. “Good night.”
When she was at the door he said, “Good night, Emily.”
He caught the faint huff and smiled.
* * * * *
Jason was not smiling two mornings later. It was a little past dawn when he stood outside his new traveling coach, looking up at the house.
“My lord?”
He turned back to
Grims
. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” The missive he’d received from
Isobelle
was cryptic at best, and left him worried.
Please come. There is something I must tell you. Someone you have to meet. I am dying. Your ever loving,
Isobelle
.
She’d given him directions to her cottage in the
Cotswolds
. And now, here he was a half an hour after opening the missive, getting ready to depart.
“Take care of Mrs. Smith and let her know I’ll be back as quickly as possible.” He climbed aboard and thumped the roof of the carriage.
As the miles rolled by, his worry about the message he received overshadowed his concern for his house guest. When he’d come back from the Continent, wounded and disillusioned with war, though still strong in his hatred for one Corsican and busy setting up the lucrative façade of a shipping company, he’d found a mistress.
Isobelle
Travers. She was of Portuguese descent with dark hair and eyes, wonderful olive skin and so beautiful it had made him—along with every other male in White’s and any other St. James club—salivate.
Jason had returned home after being wounded near Lisbon in the fall of 1810. When he received word that his father was ailing and he had a responsibility to his family, title and country to come home, he did just that. Sold his commission—for form’s sake, since it had been years since he’d actually served under any actual officer—and returned to the civilized world of drawing rooms and vast estates.
But then that’s what he, along with his partners in the shipping business, had been ordered by the War Ministry to do. Jason had met
Isobelle
soon thereafter and it had been more than just lust between them. Certainly that had been a wonderful benefit to their arrangement, but she was intelligent, sharp-witted, and knew what she wanted out of life.
Jason had respected
Isobelle
, not only as his mistress, but also as a friend.
Then one day, several months into their mutual relationship, she’d up and disappeared. He’d searched everywhere for her, but to no success.
Cotswolds
? What was she doing there? And who in the blazes did she want him to meet?
* * * * *
Emily took one last glance around this room. She’d mended and healed quickly, or so she’d been told, but then, she’d had to learn to heal quickly.
The silks in this room were pale ice, the color of folded snow. Silver shot through the window coverings and the bed curtains. The counterpane was a darker hue. Treasures, old and fragile sat on the vanity, the little side tables, the mantle, things she dared not touch for fear of breaking some priceless family heirloom. Like the vase so thin it appeared almost like mere skin. She’d been afraid to touch it, but watched as her host had dropped the roses he brought everyday into the fragile thing as if it were no more than a wooden jar.
Sighing, she laid the quill down and fanned the letter, waiting for the ink to dry. Jason…Lord
Ravensworth
, had been a wonderful gentleman. She reached into the borrowed reticule and pulled out several coins. What to do with them? She had nothing to put them in. Ah, yes, the handkerchief.
It galled her that everything, even her cloak now, was borrowed. Jason had lent her his sister’s old wardrobe. Beautiful gowns, but still she felt horrible for taking them. And there had been mourning gowns from their father’s death. Not knowing what the borrowed clothing—two dresses, cloak and undergarments—cost, she took several more coins out and laid them with the rest in the center of the kerchief. At least she’d had the money that had been sewn into her petticoat, and the letters she had stashed in her old cloak.
She folded the paper and stood, the black traveling gown swirling around her ankles. She’d just leave the note and coins in his room. As she stepped through the adjoining door, she stopped, realizing how such a simple action could almost seem like trespassing. His room smelled of spice and the outdoors, a scent that would forever be imprinted on her mind as his.
Lord
Ravensworth
would not be pleased when he found her gone. They might be newly acquainted, but she was hardly a fool. He’d left two days ago on urgent business and promised to return as soon as possible.
Well, it was no secret she had relatives in London, but he didn’t know who they were—or even where. Besides, she’d imposed enough on him. It was time to move on. Emily knew the
marquess
was frustrated with her vague and half answers, but so be it. The man had more questions than that Socrates person she’d read about. Some
Ravensworth
had asked, she’d simply ignored. He’d wanted to know who Mary was.
She ran her hand down the black skirt and breathed deeply. Some things she would discuss with no one.
Sighing, she hurried across the room and put the letter and coins on the dark mahogany writing desk. In her own room, she grabbed the black bonnet from the bed and put it on, flinging the veils over her face. Perhaps she would be left alone by any inquisitive persons. She picked up the valise, again a borrowed one from
Ravensworth’s
sister, and the black cloak.
As she walked down the stairs, she wondered if perhaps she should wait another day, only having been allowed to walk about the last few days. She tended to tire easily. But, if she waited, his lordship could return and then he’d insist on going with her.
That thought brought her up short as it always did. Finding her family was something she had to do alone, practically a quest for her. It made no sense to others, she knew, but to her it was important. There was at least one thing in her life she could do on her own. Had to do by herself—
for
herself.
She took another deep breath and grabbed the banister and shakily descended the steps. By the time she’d carried her bag to the bottom, she wished she could sit down, but that would never do. She had places to go.
“Madam?”
Emily gasped and turned. The man moved like a cat. “Yes, Mr.
Grims
?”
He looked over her with shrewd gray eyes. “If it pleases, Madam, as I’ve stressed before, it is just
Grims
.”
The man seemed to hate having “mister” put before his name. For the life of her, Emily could not understand why.
He continued, looking down his long, beak-like nose at her. “I can’t help notice you seem packed.” His gaze landed on her bag.
A smile threatened, but she quelled it. “How observant of you,
Grims
.”
“I am ever observant, Madam. May I inquire as to why you are seemingly readying for a journey?”
She couldn’t hold in the smile. “You may indeed inquire, and I shall tell you that your powers of deduction have proved you correct.”
“May I assist you?”
The man was so incredibly stiff, he oft reminded her of Theodore though he’d never been anything but kind and polite to her.
“Yes, I need a carriage, if you please, to take me to the stage stop?”
One gray brow rose. The stare was silent and made her squirm. She backed up.
He tilted his head. “As you wish, Madam, but may I ask as to your destination? Perhaps a private conveyance would be more suitable. We wouldn’t want a repeat of The Attack.”
No she didn’t want a repeat of—as everyone around here seemed to term it—The Attack. She’d already wrestled that fear earlier this morning, but saw no help from it.
“London.”
Grims
turned and walked away silently. He was forever doing that, asking her questions and then just leaving. She had no idea what to make of the austere man.
Tired, she walked over to an ivory settee and perched on the edge of it. If the trip down the stairs and merely packing left her this drained, she hated to think what the trip to London would do, but it didn’t matter. She was going.
As she waited, Emily ran her gaze around the grand entry of the house. The black and white marble floors gleamed, reflecting the sunlight. Marble columns stretching up to the plastered ceiling marched down each side of the entryway. Mirrors adorned the walls, statues were hidden in alcoves. This part of the house was lovely, but she preferred the older wings she’d discovered a few days ago. The ancient stones of the house told of stories forgotten, armor and faded tapestries depicting battles hung from those walls. That part of this giant mansion reminded her of knights of old. This part of the house, new and shiny she just couldn’t really understand.
Minutes later
Grims
stood to her side. She jumped, her hand flying to her chest and glared before dropping her gaze to the floor.
“I apologize, Madam, for startling you. The carriage will be brought around shortly and will see you safely to London.”
The words surged relief through her. “Thank you,
Grims
.”
He cleared his throat. “You do understand that his lordship will not be happy about this?”
He couldn’t see her behind her veils so she smiled again. “I’m sure he’ll come to terms with my leaving,
Grims
. The
marquess
has more important things to worry about than an imposing houseguest.”
His look said he thoroughly disagreed.
* * * * *
The
Marquess
of
Ravensworth
was rarely speechless, but there were exceptions.
How was he to deal with this?
It had taken him almost two days to get to the village in the
Cotswalds
and when he’d arrived, it had been well after dark. He’d stayed at a nearby inn, The Goose and Gander, to wait until morning.
Now it was morning and here he stood inside
Isobelle’s
cottage. His heart ached when he saw the vibrant woman sick and pale in bed. Her once lustrous hair was limp and dull. She’d lost so much weight, the once curvaceous woman appeared gaunt to the point of starvation.
The story she’d told him shocked him and he had no idea what to say to her.
Anger came hot and fast, roaring through his veins. But he’d never been one to show his anger, let alone to a woman, and now didn’t seem the time to start with one that was at death’s door.
He took a deep breath through his nose and wondered what he was supposed to say.
“I’m telling—” She broke off in a fit of strangled coughing. The maid hurried to her, but
Isobelle
waved the woman away. “I’m telling you the truth, Jason.”
He didn’t doubt it.
Isobelle
had been unfailingly honest above all else. It had been one of the many commonalities between them. “Why? Why wait to tell me this?” He thumped his hand on his thigh, wondering what to do, too many emotions hitting him all at once. Coldly he asked, “Did you think I… Damn it, I had a right to
know
. Why
Isobelle
?”
“I’ve no real excuse that you’d understand, not one that even makes sense to me.” That smile he remembered so well, faintly tilted her lips, but her once sparkling eyes were darkened and filled with pain. ”I should have been honest at the time, and then I found out I was sick.” Her breath wheezed from her lungs. “I waited as long as I could. I’m selfish. Always have been, and I only got such a short time. You have all the rest, Jason. All the rest. Please don’t be angry with me. It would, after all, be wasted on a dying woman.”
How could he argue with that? Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and walked to her. Jason sat on the edge of the bed, picking up her frail hand. The cloying scent of sickness wrapped around him.
…dying woman…
“I’ll send for another physician,” he said, wondering who and how quickly they could arrive.
The edges of her mouth tightened and her eyes slid closed even as her hand tightened on his with surprising strength. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over her bony knuckles.
Finally, her eyes slid open. “Jason. So strong, so right, so damn honorable and…and…good.” Her sigh caught on a moan. “I’m dying. There’s nothing anyone can do. Not even you.”