Читать книгу The Vanishing Viscountess - Diane Gaston - Страница 8

By the time Mr Davies’s old horse pulled the cart to the front of the cottage, Tanner was more than ready to leave this place. He had no wish to tarry until the son returned.

Tanner pressed a hand to his still-aching ribs, remembering the strength of the man’s boot. He had no wish to meet young Davies again.

He stepped aside for Miss Brown to walk out ahead of him. The red cloak the old lady had found for her was threadbare, but Tanner supposed it would keep her warm enough. His lack of a top coat did not worry him overmuch. The temperature was not that harsh and would keep him alert.

Mrs Davies trailed behind him. “You promised us payment, sir.”

He turned to her. “I will pay when your husband delivers us where we wish to go.” He strode on.

She skipped after him. “How do we know you will pay? Your lady is walking away wearing my clothes. We can’t afford to give our possessions away. Times are hard.”

He stopped again and the old woman nearly ran into him. “You will have to trust my word as a gentleman, will you not?” He walked over to where Miss Brown waited next to the cart.

He did not know how much of her story to believe, but he’d be damned if he’d turn her over to a magistrate. No matter what she had done, she’d paid for it by what that deuced Bow Street Runner made her endure, leaving her to die while he saved himself. As far as Tanner was concerned, that alone should give her freedom.

Saving her life absolved him, in part, for the other deaths that weighed on his conscience. He would see her safe to help repay that debt.

He touched her arm. “I will climb up first, then assist you.”

His ribs only hurt mildly as he got up next to the old man. He reached for Miss Brown’s hand and pulled her up. As she settled next to him, he wanted to put his arm around her. He wanted to touch her, to keep fresh the memory of their naked embrace. He remembered the feel of her in his arms as he lay between sleep and waking. Her skin, soft and smooth and warm. Her curves, fitting against him as if tailored to him.

“Let us go,” he told the farmer.

Mr Davies snapped the ribbons and the old horse started moving.

“You make him pay, husband!” Mrs Davies shouted after them.

The old horse pulled the cart past the vegetable garden, colourful with cabbages and kale. Wheat was already planted for the winter crop and a rook swept down and disappeared into the field of swaying stalks. The cart rolled at a slow speed finally reaching a road, leaving the cottage some distance behind.

At the road, Tanner turned to Mr Davies. “Take us to Cemaes.”

The old man’s head jerked in surprise. “Cemaes is north. You’ll be wanting to go south to the ferry to Holyhead.”

“We wish to go north. To Cemaes,” Tanner said.

Mr Davies shook his head. “You want to go to Holyhead, I tell you.”

Tanner felt a shiver crawl up his back. He’d wager the old man had some mishap planned on the road to the ferry. He held up the sovereign, which glittered in the sunlight. “If you wish to earn this coin, you will take us to Cemaes.” He returned the coin to his pocket. “If not, we will walk from here.” Tanner began to stand.

The farmer gestured for him to sit. “I’ll take you to Cemaes,” he grumbled and turned the horse and cart north.

The road, still muddy from the rains, wound past more farmland and other small cottages like the Davies’s. Sometimes Tanner could glimpse the sea, looking calm this day, like a slumbering monster that had devoured its fill. The old man kept the frown on his face and did not speak. Miss Brown gripped the seat to steady herself as the cart rumbled along, but she, too, was silent. The cart jostled her against him, from time to time, keeping Tanner physically aware of her.

Her face was obscured by the hood of the cloak, and Tanner missed watching the play of emotions on her face. He’d seen her angry, earnest, frightened and relieved. He would enjoy hearing her laugh, or seeing passion light her face.

He also wished to discover her real name and the names of the people from whom she had supposedly stolen jewels. If she confided in him, he could help her. Even if she was guilty of the theft, he could make her troubles disappear. Money, power and influence overcame justice most of the time. If he repaid the son for the jewels, he’d wager the theft would be totally forgiven.

Tanner could not gaze at her without being obvious, so he settled for the warmth of the sun on his face, the scent of the fresh sea air and fragrant fields, and the sight of the peaceful countryside. It was not precisely an Arcadian paradise, not with men toiling in the fields and cottages too small for comfort, but it was solid and timeless and vastly preferable to the cold, fickle sea.

As the sun grew higher in the sky, they passed a windmill spinning in the breeze, and a standing stone placed there by Celtic people long erased from history. Tanner guessed the time to be about noon. He dug his fingers into his pocket for his timepiece. It was no longer there.

His head whipped around to the old farmer driving the cart. The old man had gone through his pockets, he’d wager. “I wonder what time it is,” he said.

The old man’s jaw flexed.

Tanner coughed and winced as the pain in his ribs kicked at him again. Miss Brown looked over at him with concern in her eyes. He returned a reassuring smile, before glancing back to the old farmer.

He ought to deprive the man of the sovereign he’d promised, glad he’d had the presence of mind to hang on to his purse after he’d peeled every piece of wet clothing off his body, making a sopping pile on the cottage floor. Miss Brown had been shivering so violently, Tanner had been desperate to make her warm.

Mr Davies flicked the ribbons and glanced at Tanner nervously, fearful, no doubt, that Tanner would challenge him on the theft of his timepiece.

Tanner glanced back to the road. Let the man keep the watch, he said to himself. As payment for his bed. Tanner would have given the man anything for that warm bed. For her. To save her from the killing cold as he had saved her from the killing sea.

Two slow hours passed and Tanner suspected they could have walked faster than the old horse moved on the muddy road. Finally rooftops and a church bell tower came into view.

“Cemaes,” said the old man, lifting his chin towards the town.

Miss Brown leaned forward. What was she thinking? Tanner wondered. What plan was she making for herself?

They came to the first houses, gleaming white, edged with chrysanthemums and marigolds. Up ahead the buildings became thicker and Tanner could see people walking about.

Miss Brown put her hand on Tanner’s arm. “May we stop here?” She gave him that earnest look again.

He drank it in for a moment, then turned to the old man. “Mr Davies, you may leave us off here.”

The old man’s bushy brows shot up. “It is no distance to the inn.”

“Good!” Tanner responded in a jovial voice. “Then it shall be only a short walk for us. Stop, if you please.”

The farmer shrugged and pulled on the ribbons, halting his horse. Tanner climbed down and reached up for Miss Brown. Putting his hands on her waist, he lifted her down to the road and was reluctant to let go of her. He fished in his pocket for the sovereign and handed it up to Mr Davies, who grabbed it quickly, as if fearing Tanner would change his mind. Without a word of farewell, the man flicked the ribbons again, and the old horse clopped its way into town, to the inn and some refreshment for them both, Tanner suspected.

“You gave him a sovereign.” Miss Brown said in a disapproving tone.

Tanner kicked a pebble into the street. “Yes.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Too much?”

“I dare say,” she responded. “Half that amount would have been generous.”

He tilted his head, somewhat chagrined. “Especially since the man also stole my watch and I highly suspect his son was the man you hit over the head.”

Her jaw dropped. “Tell me it is not so.” Outrage filled her face. “How shabby of them to take such advantage.”

This was an odd reaction for a supposed thief, Tanner thought. “Well, it is done…” He glanced around him, at the cobblestones in the street, at the tidy houses. “Why did you wish to be let off here?”

The sun illuminated her features and made her eyes sparkle like sapphires. He felt momentarily deprived of breath.

“I wanted a chance to talk with you.” She gazed at him intently. “To prepare.”

It took a moment for him to respond. “Prepare for what?”

She frowned in concentration. “I cannot enter that inn saying I am Miss Brown off the shipwrecked packet from Dublin, the prisoner escorted by a Bow Street Runner. I must think of some fiction to tell them.”

Tanner nodded. He’d not thought much beyond being rid of Mr Davies and finding an inn with good food and a comfortable bed, but, then, he was not much accustomed to thinking ahead while travelling. The next meal, the next bed and the final destination were all he considered, and half the time they were arranged by his valet or his secretary.

She went on. “And I cannot walk in as the companion of the Marquess of Tannerton.”

He felt a bit like a rejected suitor. “Would that be too scandalous?”

“It would be too foolish.” Her expression turned patient, as if speaking to a dull child. “The Marquess of Tannerton is sure to create a great deal of interest, especially if the marquess almost drowned. If I am seen with you, I will become an object of curiosity as well, and that I cannot have. I must slip away without anyone noticing me.”

This woman must never look at herself in a mirror, Tanner thought. Surely she could not go anywhere and not be noticed.

“I see.” He nodded, trying not to be distracted by his vision of her. “What do you propose?”

Her expression gave the impression of a mind turning like the intricate gears of his stolen watch. The road forked a few paces away and led to a stone bridge over a stream. She gestured for him to walk with her. They strolled to the bridge, where they stood side by side, leaning on the wall, gazing into the stream, swollen and brown from the previous day’s storm.

She turned to him. “I—I must be on my way. The sooner I leave Anglesey, the sooner I will be forgotten. I want it thought that I drowned in the shipwreck. If they think me dead, no one will search for me.”

Tanner disliked hearing her speak of being “on her way.”

“Where will you go?” he asked. “Scotland is a big place.”

She searched his face for a moment before turning her gaze away. “It is best for me not to say.”

He frowned, unused to anyone refusing an answer to his question. Her mistrust wounded him when she so clearly needed a friend.

She turned back to him, her voice low and desperate. “I need some of your money.”

He stared at her.

Nothing would be easier for him than to hand over the entire contents of his purse. He could get more money for himself later, on the mere strength of his name. Even in this remote place someone would extend the Marquess of Tannerton credit, enough to arrange for a post-chaise to carry him back to London. He could return to his townhouse in a matter of days.

He usually solved his difficulties by handing over money and letting someone else take care of it. Ironically, one of the rare times he’d taken it upon himself to solve a problem, three people died.

Perhaps he ought to leave her here in Cemaes.

Suddenly some of the colour drained from her face and her breathing accelerated. “Forgive my foolish request,” she whispered. “You have done more than enough for me. I do not need your money.”

She spun away from him and started to walk away.

He seized her arm. “Wait.”

His conscience could not let her go, even with his purse in her hand. He knew he could help her. His name and influence—and his money as well—could save her from the hangman’s noose or transportation or whatever fate might befall her if she was caught again.

“I have another proposal.” He spoke in a low voice. “Come to London with me. Let me use my influence to help you. Whoever has caused you this trouble is not likely to have friends as highly connected as my friends, nor as much money as I possess. I am certain I can settle this matter for you. My power and influence are considerable.”

She stepped away from him. “No!” She took a deep breath. “No,” she said more quietly. “I thank you, but—but—you are mistaken. My trouble is—” She clamped her mouth shut on whatever it was she had been about to say.

He kept his gaze steady. “No matter what your trouble is, I assure you, I can help.”

She shook her head. “You cannot know—” Again she stopped herself from speaking. “It is safer for me to run. No one will look for me, because they will think me dead. They will forget me, and I may start my life anew.”

She gazed at him with such intensity Tanner felt the impact resonate deep inside him. He moved towards her. What made her think he could forget her? What made her think he could let her be dead to him now when he’d refused to let her die in the sea?

“Surely you cannot travel alone,” he tried.

“Of course I can.” She glanced away, and he could sense her mind at work again. “I might be a governess travelling to a new place of employment. Who would question that?”

He did not like this idea. Some men would consider an unescorted governess fair game. “Someone would ask who employed you, for one thing. They would ask where you were bound.”

“Then I would fashion answers.”

She was slipping away. He remembered that horrible moment when he’d woken up on shore and thought she had slipped from his grasp. He did not want to let go of her now any more than he had wanted to then. True, he might easily return to his comforts, the diversions of London, the hunting parties he and Pomroy planned to attend, but how could he be content now if he thought her adrift, alone?

He glanced away, his mind whirling, as he’d fancied hers had done. All he could think to do was delay.

He gripped her arm, holding on to her like he had done in the sea. “I’ll give you the money.” He made her look into his face. “There is no obligation to pay it back. It is a trifling amount to me, I assure you, but listen to me. I am afraid our taciturn Mr Davies is at the inn this very moment loosening his tongue with a large tankard of ale.” He glanced in the direction of the inn. “He will tell everyone we are husband and wife—that is what he and his wife concluded about us and I did not correct their impression. Did you?”

She shook her head. “I did not.”

He went on, “Davies will tell them we are from the shipwreck, a husband and wife from the shipwreck. If we act as strangers now, we will increase suspicion about you, not reduce it.”

She considered this. “Yes, that would be true.”

His spirits rose. He held on to her still. He took a breath. “In this town we must also be husband and wife.”

“Husband and wife?” She stared at him, a worry line forming between her brows.

Acting as husband and wife meant sharing a room. Tanner longed to hold her again, longed to again wake with her in his arms, to know he had kept her safe.

He looked into her face, suffused with reluctance, and realised she might not be as thrilled at the prospect of sharing a bed with him as he was with her.

“I will not take advantage of you,” he said in as earnest a tone as he could muster, although his body pulsed with desire for her.

She glanced away, and again turned her eyes back to him, eyes as blue as the sky behind her. “Very well. Tonight we are husband and wife.”

He heard the unspoken end to her sentence. Tomorrow they would part. Still, his spirits soared. He would have this brief time with her and maybe wherever they were bound on the morrow would reassure him she’d be safe.

He offered her his arm. “Shall we prepare? We must concoct a story for ourselves, must we not? Names. We need to have names, and, to own the truth, I do not think Brown is a good choice.”

“Why?” she asked.

“It is the sort of name a gentleman gives to an innkeeper when he does not wish his identity known.” He winked.

She gave a light laugh. “Is that so?

“It is.” He smiled. “Select another name.”

“Smith?” A corner of her mouth lifted.

He rolled his eyes, playing along with her jest. “You are not good at this, are you?” He put his mind to the task, but the only names he could think of were ones too connected to him. Adam. Vick. Tanner. “I am hopeless as well.”

“I have an idea,” she said. “How about the name Lir? Lir is the god of the sea in Irish mythology.”

He peered at her. “You know Irish mythology?”

“I lived in Ireland.” She cast her eyes down. “I read about it in a book there.”

“How do you spell it? Like Shakespeare’s King Lear?” he asked. “Because I know how to spell that Lear. The Irish always use—well—Irish spellings.”

She gave him a look that mocked the one he’d given her. “You know Shakespeare?”

He laughed.

Her eyes twinkled. “We can spell it like King Lear.”

He smiled back at her, his heart gladdened at her mirth. Their first night together had been full of terror. This one ought to be peaceful and happy. He vowed he would make it so.

“I shall be Adam Lear, then. Adam is my given name.” He waited for her to tell him her given name—hoped she would say it, so he might have that small piece of her to keep for himself.

She said nothing.

He took a deep, disappointed breath. “I believe I need an occupation as well.”

Marlena enjoyed their short walk to the inn, and their creation of a story to tell about themselves. The Marquess of Tannerton became Mr Adam Lear, stable manager for Viscount Cavanley, Adrian Pomroy’s father, although they agreed it would be best to avoid mentioning Pomroy if at all possible.

Pomroy was another name from Marlena’s past, from that one London Season. She had not thought of Pomroy in her four years of exile in Ireland or really even three years before that, not since her Season. She remembered him as a most ramshackle young man. She and Eliza thought Pomroy was a relentless flirt, devoid of even one serious bone in his body. They’d laughed at his antics behind their fans, but neither she nor Eliza mooned over him the way they mooned over his good friend, Tanner. Even though they had been very green girls then, they knew an attachment to Pomroy would be a foolish one.

It was unfortunate that Marlena’s judgement of character had not been that astute when it came to Corland, but then, her husband had disguised his true nature. Pomroy had been as clear as glass.

As Marlena walked at Tanner’s side, she almost again felt like that carefree girl who’d enjoyed every moment of her Season. Tanner made her laugh again, something she’d not done since Eliza took ill. Marlena feared she was much too glad she would be spending another night with Tanner.

Imagine it, Eliza! she said silently. I will be married to the Marquess of Tannerton. Very briefly, however. In name only, and a false name at that.

She remembered then how warm his skin had felt, how firm his hand on her body. Her skin flushed with the memory.

She spied Mr Davies’s horse drinking water from a trough at the inn, and the truth of her situation hit her once more. She was the Vanishing Viscountess, trying desperately to vanish once more. She was not the wife of the Marquess of Tannerton nor plain Mrs Lear. She was not even Miss Brown. She was a fugitive, and if Tanner was caught aiding her, he would face the same punishment as she faced, the hangman’s noose.

She and Eliza had not known that fact when Marlena had fled to Ireland with her friend and became her children’s governess. Once in Ireland, they had read a newspaper that described the penalty for aiding the Vanishing Viscountess, but Eliza had refused to allow Marlena to leave.

Tanner squeezed her hand as they walked in the door of the inn. “How are you faring, Mrs Lear?”

“A bit nervous, Mr Lear,” she replied. At the moment, more nervous for him than for her. She stood to earn life from this masquerade. He risked death.

“We shall do very nicely,” he said.

She pulled him back, “Tanner,” she whispered.

He gave her a warning look. “It is Adam.”

She bit her lip. She must not make such a mistake again. “Do not act like the marquess.”

He gave her a puzzled look.

“Do not order people about,” she explained.

He tilted his head, appearing very boyish. “Do I order people about?”

She nodded.

The innkeeper approached them. “Good day to you! Are you the lady and gentleman from the shipwreck?”

Mr Davies had indeed been talking of them.

“We are,” said Tanner, his affability a bit strained. “And we are in need of a room for the night.”

“If we may,” added Marlena.

“If we may,” repeated Tanner.

The innkeeper smiled. “We will make you comfortable, never fear. If you are hungry, we are serving dinner in the taproom. We have some nice pollack frying. You must let it be our gift to you for your ordeal.”

Marlena was touched by this kindness.

“We thank you,” said Tanner. He laughed. “I confess, a tall tankard of ale would be very welcome.”

The innkeeper walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Ale it is. For you, m’lady—?”

“Lear.” She cleared her throat. “Mrs Lear. I should like a glass of cider, if you have it.”

“We do indeed,” said the innkeeper.

Soon they were seated, drinks set in front of them. Marlena glimpsed Mr Davies, who gave them a sidelong look before slipping off his chair and walking to the door.

A woman wearing a bright white apron and cap walked over. “I am Mrs Gwynne. Welcome to our inn. My husband said you had arrived. From the shipwreck, are you?”

“We are.” Tanner extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gwynne.”

“You poor lambs.” She clasped his hand.

“Have you heard of any other survivors?” Marlena asked.

The woman clasped Marlena’s hand next. “Not a one, but if you made it, others may have as well, God willing. Now, what can we do for you? Besides giving you a nice room and some food, that is. What do you need?”

Tanner rubbed his chin, even darker with beard than it had been that morning. Marlena suppressed a sudden urge to touch it.

“All we have is what you see,” he told Mrs Gwynne. “Is there a shop where we might purchase necessities?”

She patted his arm. “There certainly is a shop; if you tell me what you want, I will purchase it for you.”

“That will not be necessary. I will visit the shop.” Tanner glanced at Marlena and back to Mrs Gwynne. “I have thought of something else you might do, however.”

“Say what it is, Mr Lear. I’ll see it done.”

His gaze rested softly on Marlena. “A bath for my wife.”

Marlena’s mouth parted. There was nothing she could more desire.

Mrs Gwynne smiled again. “I will tell the maids to start heating the water.”

She bustled away and soon they were brought a generous and tasty dinner of fish, potatoes and peas. After they ate, Mrs Gwynne showed them to their room, a chamber dominated by a large, comfortable-looking bed. There was also a fire in the fireplace and a nice window looking out at the back of the inn. The best part, however, was the large copper tub half-filled with water.

“There are towels next to the tub, and a cake of soap. The maids are still bringing the water, and one will assist you if you like.” Mrs Gwynne folded her arms over her considerable chest.

“Thank you,” Marlena rasped, her gaze slipping to Tanner.

“I’ll leave you now,” the older woman said. “Mr Lear, when you wish to go to the shop, either my husband or I can direct you.”

“I will be down very soon,” he said.

After the innkeeper’s wife left, Marlena walked over to the tub and dipped her fingers into the warm water.

“Am I sounding like a marquess?” Tanner asked.

She smiled at him. “You are doing very well.”

He blew out a breath and walked towards her. “That is good. I confess, I am uncertain how not to sound like a marquess, but if I am accomplishing it, I am content.” His eyes rested on her. “I should leave, so you can have your bath.”

She lifted her hand and touched him lightly on the arm. “Thank you for this, Lord Tannerton.”

“Adam,” he reminded her, his name sounding like a caress.

“Adam,” she whispered.

His eyes darkened and he seemed to breathe more deeply. He glanced away from her. “What ought I to purchase for you?”

She thought the bath more than enough. “A comb, perhaps? A brush? Hairpins?”

He smiled. “I shall pretend I am an old married man who often is sent to the shop for hairpins. Anything else?”

She ought not to ask him for another thing. “Gloves?”

“Gloves.” He nodded.

There was a knock on the door and he crossed the room to open it. It was the maid bringing more water.

She poured it into the tub. “I’ll bring more.” She curtsied and left.

“I will leave now, as well.” Tanner opened the door and turned back to her. “Save me the water.”

Marlena crossed the room to him. “Forgive me. I did not think. You must have the water first. I will wait.”

He reached up and touched her cheek. “You first, Mrs Lear.”

By the time she could breathe again, he was gone.

Arlan Rapp trudged down the Llanfwrog road to the blacksmith shop. A huge barrel-chested man, twice the Bow Street Runner’s size and weight, hammered an ingot against his anvil. The clang of the hammer only added to the pain throbbing in Rapp’s ears. He’d walked from one side of Llanfwrog to the other, but few villagers were even willing to admit to knowing of the shipwreck. He’d recognised plenty of them from when what was left of his boat washed up to shore. The villagers had grabbed crates and barrels. A few had been good enough to aid the survivors. He’d been whisked off to the inn, he and the others who had washed up with him.

He waited to speak until the smithy plunged the piece of metal into water. “Good day to you, smithy,” Rapp said.

The man looked up. “Do you require something?”

Rapp smiled, although his fatigue made him feel anything but cordial. “Only a bit of information.”

The blacksmith just stared at him.

Rapp cleared his throat. “I am from the packet ship that was wrecked last night.”

No understanding showed on the smithy’s face, but Rapp doubted anyone in Llanfwrog was ignorant of the previous night’s bounty.

He went on. “I am searching for survivors, specifically a woman who had been my companion.”

“I know nothing of it,” the man said.

“Perhaps you have heard talk,” he persisted. “Perhaps someone told you of survivors. I am most eager to learn her fate.”

The blacksmith shook his head. He took another piece of glowing metal from the fire.

“I would pay for information,” Rapp added, although he much preferred not to part with his still-damp money.

The smith placed the hot metal on the anvil and picked up his hammer. “Bodies wash ashore sometimes.”

That was a grisly thought, but if the Viscountess’s body washed up on shore, he could cease his search and go home to his wife.

“Where would bodies be taken?” Rapp asked, but the smithy’s hammer started again and its din drowned out his words. He gave up.

No sooner had he walked out of the blacksmith shop than a smudged-face boy tugged on his coat. “I can show you bodies, if you want to see ’em.”

Rapp squatted down to eye level with the little eavesdropper. “Can you now?”

The boy nodded energetically. “About ten or so.”

Rapp took a breath and stood, squaring his shoulders. “Excellent, my good fellow. Take me there now.” A few minutes of unpleasantness might mean he could be in London within a few days and still receive his reward.

“It’ll cost you tuppence,” the boy said.

Smart little cur, Rapp thought sourly. He fished the coin from his pocket and showed it to the boy. “Take me to the bodies and a tuppence you shall have.”