Читать книгу Historical Romance March 2017 Book 1-4 - Louise Allen - Страница 19

Chapter Nine

‘Marguerite is not in this house and I have no idea where she is if she is not at the hotel. I have not seen her since the concert, you have my word on it. Now will you kindly get out of my bedchamber, Lord Cannock?’

For the first time Lucian focused on the furious woman in front of him and realised that Sara was wearing nothing but a flimsy muslin nightgown which, as she was standing with her back to the window, might as well not have been there. His body reacted with an inconvenient inevitability, despite the anxiety that consumed him.

‘Your word?’ He put the slightest doubt into the question and it was enough to keep her gaze, fixed and furious, on his face and not any lower.

‘Do you not believe that a woman can have honour to pledge? You would like to search the house, perhaps? Look under my bed? Check the roof? The bread bin? Please, go ahead.’

‘I believe you. I apologise.’ He should have known better, should have trusted her. The stinging contempt in Sara’s voice was enough to extinguish a forest fire, let alone a brief flare of lust. He was duly grateful. Lucian dug the note out of his pocket and held it out. ‘I will go downstairs and wait. I would value your assistance with this.’ He was reduced to begging, but Marguerite was more important than his pride, especially with Sara. With her he did not seem to have any protection for his feelings or his emotions and certainly not for his weaknesses.

‘No, wait.’ To his amazement Sara pulled on her robe, jerked the sash tight and curled up in the armchair, with a wave of her hand towards the chaise at the foot of the bed. ‘Sit down while I read this.’

He deserved to have the chaise thrown at his head, he was very well aware. Lucian sat, marvelling at the infinite unpredictability of women, and tried not to tear his hair as he watched Sara’s face as she read, then re-read the note, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She was beautiful even with her hair tousled and her face shiny with sleep.

‘Where was the note?’ Sara asked.

‘In the sitting room. I woke up thirsty, realised I had left the water carafe on the table last night and found the note was propped up against it. Normally I would have slept another hour and a half, perhaps two. It was simply luck that I had forgotten to take the carafe into my room.’

‘So, her Gregory is alive and has come for her and they have run away to marry,’ Sara summarised as she looked up from the note. ‘But why did you come here? I would have expected you to be giving chase.’

‘Because if I were her I would go to ground here, in Sandbay, until her wretched brother had gone galloping off in pursuit to the Border and then I would follow at a safe distance.’

‘That would take strong nerves and a degree of cunning.’

‘Which is why I thought they might be here,’ he confessed. She was the most intelligent woman he knew, one of the most intelligent people, come to that, and she had the nerve to take risks and to think around corners.

Sara regarded him through narrowed eyes and then gave a gasp of laughter. ‘Thank you for the compliment, if that was what it was. They are not here, but Gregory cannot have been in Sandbay long and finding his lodgings might give us a clue.’

‘How do you know how long he has been here?’ he demanded, his suspicions resurfacing.

‘Marguerite’s mood at the concert. Looking back, I can see she was happy, truly happy, not putting a brave face on things as I thought at the time. She must have seen him that day, I think. Oh, what an idiot I am—of course, the man in the library.’ She jumped to her feet and began to pace, her skirts swishing around her, untied ribbons fluttering.

‘One of my customers was upset yesterday because a man with a severely scarred face was in the circulating library. When I went in later and spoke to Mr Makepeace he said that Marguerite had been tearful the day before when she saw this person—and yet she did not mention it to either of us, did she?’ When Lucian shook his head, she nodded. ‘I thought so and it would have been very natural for her to speak of it. She was weeping because it was Gregory and he had been injured, not in revulsion at the sight of a maimed stranger as Mr Makepeace thought, or simply because of heightened sensibilities.

‘I went into the reading room myself, through curiosity, I have to admit, but could only see him against the light, which was no doubt intentional. From where he was sitting he could have heard anyone come in and, if you had entered and he recognised your voice, he would have been able to hide behind his newspaper. I think only one side of his face was injured—my customer referred to him as a Janus—and that also explains something odd that James Makepeace said. “So tragic, under the circumstances.” You told me Gregory was very handsome and James would have thought the disfigurement even worse if it marred such a face. He was wearing an eyepatch.’ She came to a halt in front of him, her face alight with triumph at having worked it all out.

‘He will have trouble disguising that eyepatch, it will make him easier to track down.’ At last something positive.

‘I can discover where he was lodging—but only if you promise me that you are not going to harm him,’ Sara offered.

A moment’s thought brought him to the same conclusion that her reasoning had. ‘I have no need to negotiate on that.’ Lucian ignored the way her brows drew together in a frown. He rather suspected that Sara Harcourt would rarely approve of anything he said that related to his sister. ‘He would have registered with the circulating library if he wanted to use it and I imagine Makepeace knows the town well enough to spot a false address. I will ask him. Where does he live? Over the library?’

For a moment he thought she would defy him, then Sara got to her feet. ‘Let me change and I will come with you, otherwise you will simply go and find a directory and look it up, you stubborn man.’ She tugged the bell pull and when the maid appeared, her face a picture of barely suppressed amazement and speculation, told her to go and wake the cook. ‘Coffee for both of us as soon as possible, then ask her to fry bacon and make sandwiches.’ As the maid scurried out she shrugged and made shooing gestures towards the door. ‘If you have to give chase, you may as well do it with a packet of sandwiches in your pocket. Now, let me change.’

* * *

Cook, it transpired, had been awakened by the noise and was already making up the range and he had hardly finished a scalding cup of coffee when he heard Sara coming down the stairs. Or, rather, he assumed it was her, but the person who walked into the drawing room and took the second cup from the tray was almost unrecognisable.

The slim figure was dressed in a full-skirted, fitted coat of some dull dark blue brocade, high at the neck and split to the waist front and back. Trousers of the same colour tucked into soft leather boots could be glimpsed beneath the skirts and a tight black turban completely covered the hair.

‘I thought it best to dress for travelling,’ Sara said calmly as he tried not to choke on the coffee, his throat closing with a mixture of outrage and desire. ‘This what my mother and I wore to ride in India and we still use it at home in the country. We have to check here first, of course, but if Gregory and Marguerite have fled and you are determined to follow and stop them, she is going to need a female chaperon if we are to contain the scandal. It will obviously be a hard, fast journey.’

Over my dead body, clashed with, That makes some sense. ‘I hardly think that if you are seen dressed like that—’ Lucian began, working out why he actually felt pleasure at the thought of Sara’s company. Which was inexplicable. This was a crisis, a nightmare and most definitely not a pleasure outing.

‘I have a small portmanteau. I assure you, if I am seen with your sister by anyone likely to recognise us I will be dressed with the utmost propriety, but I refuse to go haring about the countryside in stays and trailing skirts.’

A plump woman looked into the room. ‘Shall I begin breakfast now, my lady?’

‘No, thank you, Cook, we have no time. Make bacon sandwiches, pack a flask of cold tea, anything else that you think will be useful and we’ll be back soon.’

‘Anything else that will fit in a curricle,’ Lucian interjected. It seemed he was doomed to have Sara’s company if they did not find the eloping couple in some Sandbay lodging house, but he was damned if he was going in pursuit encumbered with a load of luggage.

The clock struck six and he reined in his impatience. If Farnsworth and Marguerite were on the road, then they had the Lord knew how long a start and fretting over half an hour was not going to help.

‘James lives next door to the library, luckily.’ Sara swung a cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood.

* * *

It took ten minutes to reach the librarian’s door which opened, after determined knocking, to reveal a flustered manservant and the admission that Mr Makepeace was in, but most certainly not At Home.

Lucian set his foot against the door and leaned until they were both in the hallway. ‘Kindly give him my card and say that if he cannot join us in five minutes then I will join him.’

In the event Makepeace came down in his robe, his nightcap askew on his head, his face a picture of confusion when he saw Lucian’s companion. He blinked in bemused recognition. ‘Lady Sara? What—’

‘No time to explain, James.’ She was already pushing the man towards the door. Lucian found he could admire an organised and forceful woman, just as long as it was some other poor devil she was forcefully organising. ‘Get your keys to the library, please. We need to consult the register for the address of the man with the scarred face.’

‘But I can tell you that. He’s at Mrs Thompson’s lodging house in Dolphin Lane...’

‘What name is he using?’ Lucian demanded.

‘Er... Mr George...no, Gregory Tate...’

‘Thank you, James.’ Sara was already running back down the steps. ‘This way, we can cut through the alleyway. I’ll watch the back while you go to the door.’

The landlady was already up and beginning her day when Lucian knocked. She was indignant at the hour, then flustered by his card—he had dug out the ones with his real name—and finally agog at his questions.

‘He’s gone,’ he confirmed when he re-joined Sara. ‘She recommended Lambert’s Livery to him when he said he wanted to hire a post-chaise. I’ll go and rouse them out and get a curricle.’

‘You promise you’ll pick me up?’ Sara demanded, her hand tight on his arm.

He should say no and not involve her. He knew that. But Marguerite liked and trusted her and she seemed to understand his sister. She needed Sara, he told himself, and tried to ignore the little voice that murmured that so did he. Desired her, he corrected. Lusted after her, wanted her. I do not need this woman.

* * *

It took an hour to get back to her, sixty minutes while he forced himself to plan and stay coldly rational. The last time he had done this it was to find Marguerite at death’s door—now, Lucian told himself, he would find her safe. At the hotel he found an apologetic note from his sister tucked into his wallet. His very empty wallet. Cunning little hussy, he thought as he raided his emergency funds hidden in the false bottom of his writing desk. He stuffed all the ready money he had into his wallet and found a road book while his valet, Pitkin, stowed the bare necessities into a valise. He loaded his pistols, tucked the case with his rapiers under his arm then set out, Pitkin on his heels, to find the livery stables.

By ill chance it was not the one he had used before, so there was all the delay of establishing who he was, where he was staying, convincing the owner that, yes, he might want the curricle for as long as a week and he did want his best pair.

Lucian couldn’t fault the speed with which Sara whisked down the steps from her front door, tossed her valise in with his and swung up on to the seat beside him. He had left Pitkin to deal with the hotel and to hold their suite for a week and, with no groom up behind, the light vehicle rattled over the cobbles.

‘Which route do you think?’ she asked, settling the folds of her cloak around her. ‘If I was them I would take the Dorchester road, then Yeovil and Bristol.’ Lucian grunted his agreement as he reached the top of the hill and let the pair canter. ‘I was trying to work out how much of a start they have. What time did you retire last night?’

‘Midnight and I suppose I was asleep by one. I haven’t been keeping town hours here.’

‘And she would know that, so, if she crept out at two...I wonder how she got past the night porter. Did she take much baggage?’

‘Two valises. And the man dozes at the front desk. If she went down the back stairs quietly he wouldn’t see her.’

‘So, it was eight o’clock when you picked me up, say eight miles an hour...forty-eight miles. They could be halfway to Bristol by now.’

‘Farnsworth’s got the contents of my wallet to add to whatever he has been able to raise and Marguerite’s only had her pin money for a couple of days, so they are not going to be short of funds to change horses when they want.’ Beside him Sara was wriggling out of her cloak. ‘What are you doing?’ Lucian demanded as she stuffed it under the seat and sat up straight beside him again, arms folded.

‘It was too hot, I don’t need to hide now and I am your groom. You are eccentric and have an Indian one.’

‘Give me strength! I am not so eccentric as to have a female Indian groom.’

‘People see what they expect to see.’ She glanced downwards. ‘It is a tight coat.’

Lucian told himself that he was not going to study the effect on her curves and kept his gaze fixedly between his horses’ heads. ‘How are you going to explain your absence from Sandbay?’

‘I do not have to explain. Maude will tell Dot to open the shop, or close it if it is inconvenient for her. I am, after all, the daughter of a marquess. People expect me to do exactly what I want. The fact that I do not normally choose to flaunt my rank, or to put people out because of it, does not mean I can’t if I have to.’

It was easy to forget that this stubborn, independent, infuriating woman was of the same rank as his sister and that, however unconventional her upbringing had been, she was Lady Sara, part of his world. What would he have thought of her if he had met her in a crowded ballroom or at a fashionable concert? Beautiful, desirable, intelligent...

The pair jibbed and Lucian yanked his attention back to what he was doing. They were still not on the turnpike road and he dared not risk a cracked axle or a broken wheel.

‘The road book is in my valise, if you can reach it. I need to plan ahead for changes and to make certain we do not miss our road.’

‘I know it well as far as Dorchester.’ Sara turned on the seat, knelt up and leaned precariously over the back.

‘Take care!’ Lucian jammed the reins into his whip hand, brought his left down to grab what he intended to be the waistband of her trousers and found himself cupping a deliciously rounded buttock. He let go and Sara squirmed back on to the seat, pink-cheeked and clutching Cary’s Great Roads.

‘I apologise, I was trying to—’

‘You have a case of pistols in your bag,’ she stated, ignoring his inadvertent fondling. ‘Tell me you are not going to call Gregory out.’

‘I am not setting out on a journey that could last for days without weapons.’

‘That is not what I asked. Lucian, this has gone too far, you are going to have to let them marry. It is obvious from what I saw of his injuries that Gregory could not possibly have returned to her, whether it was an accident or he was set-upon. And she loves him, she has carried his child.’

He knew it and he knew, too, why admitting the inevitable was so difficult. If Marguerite married Gregory Farnsworth now, then all his opposition, their elopement, her miscarriage and misery—and presumably whatever had ruined Gregory’s face—had been for nothing. If he had handled things differently from the beginning, then he would have spared his sister all that grief.

Which meant that he had failed in his most basic duty, to protect his family. At home there was a Long Gallery, filled with portraits, the earliest dating back to the reign of Henry VII. His father and grandfather had walked the line of them regularly with him, telling the stories, the history. Men of honour, all of them, building the fortunes of the family until they were placed in his hands to safeguard. It was not Marguerite who had lost her honour, it was he who had lost his. And he was damned if he was going to admit any of that to this woman who held male honour so cheaply.

‘Killing Farnsworth is not going to help matters now, I agree.’ But he could still beat the living daylights out of the man, he thought grimly. And Lady Sara was not going to stop that.

* * *

Travel with the Marquess of Cannock was rapid, uncomfortable, occasionally alarming but exceedingly efficient, Sara discovered. Ostlers ran to fetch horses when he stopped for a change and their choices were quality animals. Landlords bustled out with ale and offers of the house specials and stopped to listen sympathetically to the tale of his ward who had run off with an unsuitable chit of a girl and who needed to be rescued for his own good.

‘He isn’t quite clear in his thinking since his accident,’ Lucian would explain, neatly building Gregory’s injuries into the narrative. ‘He was easily imposed upon by the little hussy.’

They picked up the trail in Charminster, just north of Dorchester, where the eloping couple had made their first change of horses at four o’clock, then again at Yeovil.

Sara had decided she was his lordship’s valet, which meant she could keep her distance from the ostlers and grooms and, as she had predicted, it was her clothing that attracted the attention, not the feminine face beneath the turban.

* * *

It was almost four in the afternoon when they reached Bristol and saw the spire of St Mary Redcliffe church. Lucian reined in his tired pair in the yard of the Greyhound and climbed down.

‘How are we going to search?’ Sara joined him and looked around. ‘I have no idea how many posting inns there are in the city.’

‘We are not. We are going to eat something, because that packet of bacon sandwiches was a long time ago. And while we eat, the urchins of the city will search for us.’ He snapped his fingers at a hopeful-looking lad hanging around waiting for the chance to carry bags for a tip. ‘You see this?’ He held up two crowns and the boy’s eyes widened.

‘Cor, two troopers? Yes, guv’nor, I sees ’em.’

‘They’re yours if you and your mates can find out about a post-chaise that came through Bristol earlier today. It had a yellow body, four horses, two postilions. There were two passengers, a young lady and a man with a badly scarred face and an eyepatch. I want to know when they set out again, what road they took and if the carriage or number of horses has changed. Got that? I need the information within two hours. If you can do it in one, there’s another bull’s eye for you.’

‘Cove with a shutter on his ogle and a bloss in a yellow bounder with four tits. I got it, guv’nor.’ He took to his heels, whistling a shrill note, and a handful of urchins appeared as he ran out of the gate.

‘Two hours?’

‘They’ll have it in less than that,’ Lucian said confidently. ‘And now you and I are going to have a civilised meal.’

She looked down dubiously at her brocade coat. It was one thing pretending to be a valet in exotic dress, quite another eating with Lucian in one of Bristol’s smarter hostelries.

‘Don’t worry. This is a port city and you will not be the most exotic thing they have seen, not by a long chalk.’

Sara resisted the urge to put out her tongue at the broad back in its caped greatcoat as Lucian strode towards the entrance and discovered that she was amused and feeling quite in harmony with him. She doubted it would last.