Читать книгу Prejudice in Regency Society: An Impulsive Debutante / A Question of Impropriety - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Lottie watched Tristan walk away from her. She half- raised a hand to beg him to stay or at least to take her with him, but he never glanced back. She gazed about the coaching yard where several drovers discussed cattle in heavy Scots accents. The smell of manure and sweat seeped into the carriage. Lottie put her handkerchief over her nose and hoped the inn would be better than its yard. ‘This is a fine mess you have landed yourself in, Lottie Charlton. What happens to you now? Why did you let him go like that?’

‘You will have to get out, miss.’ The large coachman with the broken nose opened the carriage door. ‘Orders is orders. It ain’t my business to contradict Lord Thorngrafton. He says to me, leave when you get to Gretna Green.’

Lottie blinked. ‘Excuse me? Why? Mr Dyvelston is getting a room. Surely you may wait a few moments. I wish to stay in the carriage, away from the gaze of ordinary bystanders. It wouldn’t be proper for me to wait in the yard on my own.’

‘I am only a coachman. I know nothing about the ways of gentlefolk.’

‘Your master will understand if you wait. You must wait.’ Lottie tried to give her words all the imperiousness of her mother, but she heard the undercurrent of desperation.

‘I need to leave.’ The coachman’s countenance took on a mulish expression. ‘My…master said that I needed to be in London with all speed once I had brought you to Gretna Green. He didn’t say nothing about waiting until that there gentleman procured a room. He told me, go once you get to Gretna Green.’

‘Can’t you wait until Mr Dyvelston returns? Please? For my sake?’ Lottie pressed her handkerchief more firmly to her mouth and willed Tristan to return. Her whole body tensed as she peered out of the carriage door into the crowded yard: drovers, farmhands and the odd woman, but no broad shoulders encased in a fine frock coat. Her insides shook at being cast amongst those people. ‘I beg you to reconsider.’

The big man shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be proper, like. I have me orders. I like my job, miss. I won’t jeopardise it for no one.’

‘Why not? Mr Dyvelston charged you to look after me. I am sure he did. You cannot intend to leave me here with those ruffians.’ Lottie bit her lip, aware that the words had come out more harshly than she had intended. But he had to understand that she had been cosseted and looked after. She was of gentle birth.

‘No, he didn’t, like.’ The coachman lifted a bag from the back and set it down on the muddy cobblestones. ‘This is all there is, miss. I am sure he will return in a few moments. If you please, miss. I am on my way to London to wait for Lord Thorngrafton’s instructions. It is a week’s journey in good weather and I’d like to get on my way.’

‘But you have been driving through the night. Surely you will need time to rest. Mr Dyvelston will return in a few moments.’ Lottie clasped her hands together. ‘I beg you. Have mercy.’

‘That is true and you should be safe in that time. I want to be well into England afore I do that. If you please, miss….’

Lottie looked at the single bag. Her mother had said that she would send her things on. It appeared that Tristan had not bothered to pack a trunk or even a bag. She reached down and picked the satchel up. The yard blurred for a moment, but she stiffened her back. Regained her composure. She would be fine. Tristan would return before she knew it. She held out her hand and the coachman helped her from the carriage. ‘Thank you. It is very kind of you.’

She reached into her reticule and drew out a halfpenny. ‘This is for you.’

‘It’s all right, miss, Lord Thorngrafton pays me well, so he does. Best of luck.’ The coachman twisted his hat. ‘Begging your pardon, but this here is from Lord Thorngrafton… in case you change your mind. In case…’

Lottie regarded the bank note with a sinking heart. Lord Thorngrafton must believe that Tristan was planning to abandon her. ‘Don’t you trust Mr Dyvelston?’

‘I trust him all right, but…just the same. Best to be prepared, miss.’

‘I couldn’t, really.’ Lottie turned her face into her handkerchief.

‘Take it, miss, for my sake. Lord Thorngrafton has a right temper if his will is crossed.’

Her throat closed. She had wronged Lord Thorngrafton last November. He had thought about her comfort and had not been sure of his cousin. He had sought to protect her. She fingered the note and placed it in her reticule. ‘You must thank Lord Thorngrafton for me. I will thank him myself when I can.’

‘As you wish, miss. God speed.’ The coachman touched his hat and went back to his place.

He snapped the reins and the carriage started to move. It made its way through the jumble of carts and horses, rolling away from her. A single tear ran down her cheek, but she pushed it away with impatient fingers.

Lottie stood there, her head held high and her fingers clutching her satchel and reticule in the centre of the yard, aware that people were looking at her and her much creased clothes. Aware that she had rapidly become an object of interest and curiosity. Lottie tightened her grip. She refused to stand there, being gaped at like some spectacle in a diorama or other cheap entertainment. She had to act.

She walked towards the inn and peeked into the public room, hoping to discover the familiar shape of Tristan’s shoulders or his top hat floating above the crowd. The entire room appeared full of farmers, day labourers and drovers. High-pitched female laughter came from a dimly lit corner where Lottie could just make out a flurry of petticoats and entangled limbs. She stared for a heartbeat at the brazenness of it. The stench was worse than the yard. Lottie gave a soft cry and buried her face more firmly in the handkerchief.

‘Is there something you want, dearie?’ an old crone asked, leering at her with a one-toothed smile. ‘Sell your ear bobs, or your pretty hair? I pay top price for golden curls like yours.’

‘Not my hair. Not my ear bobs.’ Lottie blanched and rapidly made her way back into the coaching yard. She heard the crone’s laughter chasing her as she went.

Lottie paused by the stable entrance and tried to get her breath as she scanned the yard for any sign of Tristan. But it remained stubbornly free of her future husband. She closed her eyes and wished. Opened them. Nothing. The sun beat down on her bonnet and her shift stuck to her back. Maybe Lord Thorngrafton’s surmise was correct and Tristan did not intend to come back for her. He had only taken her here to abandon her to her fate. He would then claim she had run away and he’d be free to live his dissolute life.

Abandoned at the altar to a life of sin.

Cousin Frances had taken great pleasure in describing several Minerva Press novels where this was a main feature. The villain lures the heroine with blandishments, only to abandon her after he has had his wicked way with her, forcing her into a Life of Degradation…if it were not for the hero.

Lottie gave a tremulous smile. She had to think logically. Tristan had not had his wicked way with her, beyond the kiss they had shared on the terrace. If he had been planning to abandon her, he would have done so then, instead of taking her here. She had to be logical, and not give way to panic.

A sob built in her throat and she muffled it with the handkerchief. She refused to give way to wailing here despite the longing in her breast. She scrubbed her eyes with the now-crumpled handkerchief, replaced it in her reticule and took a fresh one as she made a slow circuit of the yard. When she returned to the stables, there was still no sign of Tristan. It was as if he had vanished.

Had something happened? Had some evil befallen him? An ice-cold hand went around her heart.

She counted to thirty and then thirty once more. Looked again hard at the door Tristan had disappeared through. Tristan failed to appear.

She bit her lips and attempted to think clearly as a pain pounded against her eyeballs. Something had happened to Tristan. She had to find where he had gone and determine if he did intend to marry her. She would search for him, all day and night if she had to, and, if he remained lost, she would return to Newcastle, much chastened, hoping for charity. She would use Lord Thorngrafton’s money to purchase her train fare back to Newcastle. The first thing she would do when she did arrive home would be to raid her savings and send the money back to Lord Thorngrafton. It would be the polite thing to do, and she would not mention the scoundrel-like behaviour of his cousin.

Henry and her mother might not be pleased to see her, but they would not turn her from their door. She was certain of that. She was part of their family, in spite of everything.

She cringed, thinking of the words Henry would use, and how Mama would cry and how Lucy would look and sigh. Behind her skirts, everyone would whisper that she had deserved it, that pride came before a fall.

Emma Stanton had had it lucky, looking after her mother. Lottie caught her lip between her teeth. She wished she had never made fun of her last Christmas. Social success was such a transitory thing. Maybe Emma would be kind and send a list of books for her to read in her exile.

But somewhere deep inside her, a little voice told her that Tristan would look after her. She had to trust him. He had no reason to abandon her like this.

‘Where is the market?’ she asked an elderly lady with a well-lived-in face. ‘I wish to find a constable. I have lost someone. He needs to be returned to me.’

The lady appeared surprised to be addressed. ‘Lost someone? A man? Mother Hetts is good at finding men for pretty doves.’

‘Yes, my fiancé appears to have gone missing.’ Lottie was unable to prevent the slight catch in her throat. She swallowed hard before she continued in a steadier voice, ‘It is imperative I find him. I am worried that something might have happened to him. It is unlike him to leave me for so long and in a place like this.’

‘Men are like that, pet. They come. They go. You will find another soon.’ The woman’s eyes roamed over Lottie’s dress. ‘Particularly in them there togs.’

‘I don’t want another. I want to find my fiancé, Tristan Dyvelston. I thought the parish constable might be able to help.’

‘His box is that way. But you won’t be catching him in his box today, mind. Market day, me pet.’ The old woman’s eyes grew crafty. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. It might be best to check. Make sure you take the third turn on your right. It will take you straight there. Otherwise it is a long ways around and there are bad folks about.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’ Lottie pressed the woman’s hand. ‘I really appreciate your kindness. I am sure I will find him now.’

‘I hope you do, pet. There are them that don’t.’ The woman smiled, a cruel smile. ‘You can always come back and finds me. I will offer you a good home. You come back here and tell that there landlord Mother Hetts will give you a place to rest your pretty golden head.’

Lottie stepped over a pile of muck and turned her back on the woman and crowded yard, hurrying away from that evil place as quickly as she could. She would not think about ‘them that don’t’ and ‘a good home’. She could do this. She was capable. It would be no worse than going for a walk in Haydon Bridge. She would find the constable and explain. He could discover Tristan’s whereabouts while she waited. She would be safe.

The market-day crowd jostled her, but she kept on walking, relieved to be taking action instead of standing there panicking. She released her breath and tried to ignore the stares, acutely aware that her paisley dress was more fit for carriages than walking. Several women wrapped in woollen shawls and carrying baskets stared at her and put their heads together, whispering and pointing.

A carriage with a young girl and her mother in it swept past, splashing mud on the hem of her gown. Lottie gave a small cry and jumped back. Then she stooped and tried to wipe it off as men stopped and stared. A man said something unintelligble, but Lottie shook her head. She glanced back over her shoulder towards the inn, but it had been swallowed up by the crowd. She couldn’t go back and she had no guarantee that Tristan would even be looking for her. Once she found a constable, things could be put right. All this unpleasantness would be a bad dream.

Several of the market goers jostled her. Lottie continued on, holding her reticule close, trying not to think about the beggars and thieves. She saw the opening, more of an alleyway than a street. She hesitated, then chided herself for being a ninny. The elderly woman had been quite specific with her directions. She plunged into the narrow street. It was imperative that she find the constable as quickly as possible.

‘Going my way, my pretty dove?’ a gin-soaked voice asked. ‘See here, Fred, a fresh dolly bird has flown into our nest.’

‘Ain’t never been paid to do this before.’ The innkeeper looked skeptical, but he pocketed the coins that Tristan pushed forwards on the bar.

‘As long as it is done tomorrow morning, I don’t mind.’ Tristan pressed his hands against the bar and leant forward so that he was close to the unshaven jowls of the innkeeper. ‘I always pay my debts, keep my promises and never forget a favour or an injury.’

‘You had that look about you.’ Sweat broke out on the innkeeper’s face. ‘I will do what you ask. And your lady friend, she is your wife, isn’t she? I run a decent establishment.’

Tristan glanced around at the bar where a motley group of farm labourers, card sharps and ladies of the night were arranged. Blue smoke hung in the air. In one corner, a woman warbled a forlorn song. ‘Your opinion and mine may differ as to decent.’

‘Are you saying that I cheat my customers?’ The man wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘I ought to have you thrown out of here.’

‘But you won’t. I paid in advance and far more than that room is worth.’

The innkeeper licked his lips. ‘That you did, that you did, and I don’t say nothing to a paying customer.’

‘It is how I want it.’

A moment of unease about the deception he was playing on Lottie passed over Tristan, but he pushed it away. He was doing what was right. One short sharp shock for Lottie Charlton and their married life would be far happier. It was easier if she learnt lessons now, before it was too late.

Tristan went back to the yard, filled his lungs with clean air and swore. Loud and long. No blonde in a paisley silk afternoon dress, straw bonnet with a satchel by her side. No woman of quality waited there.

Tristan pressed his lips together. He had expected her to be there—spitting fury with her eyes perhaps to be left in the yard on her own, but to be there. He tried to think clearly. Robinson would have obeyed him. He would not have taken her with him. Tristan swore again, wishing he had told Robinson to stop and explain once he had left the yard. A mistake, but one he could not undo.

He had been gone longer than he anticipated, but not that long. She had gone. He had been mistaken.

A hard tight knot came into his throat. He had counted on her being different. He did not think she would have abandoned him so easily, not after the stand she had made at the hotel. He gave one more sweeping glance of the yard. Next time he would remember about the perfidy of women.

‘Lost something, pet?’ an elderly woman crooned to him. ‘A trinket? A pretty little dove? I know where you can find another. Mother Hetts knows everything about little doves, she does.’

‘There was a woman here. A blonde woman, well dressed. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

‘Can’t remembering having seen anyone of that description.’ The woman gave a shrug of her thin shoulder and her watery eyes turned crafty. ‘Then my memory ain’t what it used to be. Lots of folks searching for things today. Always asking Mother Hetts if she’s seen this or that. Can’t be expected to remember. It’s market day.’

The old woman gave a cackle, reminding him of a demented hen. The crackle went straight through him. He swung back and advanced towards the woman, whose crackling abruptly ceased.

‘You know something. Where did she go?’ Tristan advanced towards, his hands flexing at his sides, longing for something to hit. ‘Would a coin help to recover that memory of yours?’

‘May do? May not?’ The old woman rocked back and forth. ‘It is amazing what silver coin can do for my memory.’

Tristan reached into his pocket and fished out a shilling, holding it beyond the reach of the woman. ‘The truth. Quickly.’

‘I sent her to the parish constable…if she can find him. Mother Hetts looks after the little doves, she does,’ the woman said, holding her basket in front of her face. ‘She was looking for someone who was missing. Right concerned she was. Nearly in tears. Poor little dove. Are you lost?’

Tristan tossed her the coin. She caught it with expert claws, tested it as Tristan’s insides twisted. He had not considered the possibility that Lottie might wonder about his whereabouts and worry. He had to find her and quickly. There was no telling what trouble she might encounter.

‘Bless and keep you, sir. You are a real gentleman. If you don’t find her, I can always get you another pretty dove.’

Tristan pushed past a cart and horse blocking the entrance to the yard, and went out into the street. His blood pounded in his head.

She had to be there. She could not have gone far. That old crone would not spend for ever in the yard. He must have missed Lottie by a matter of moments.

Only farm labourers, cattle drovers and a few women wrapped in shawls and carrying baskets lined the streets. There was no sign of Lottie’s brightly coloured straw bonnet anywhere.

He fought against the sudden stab of concern.

Lottie had gone looking for him. He would find her more than likely with the parish constable. He would keep her safe. Then they would marry. All would be well.

A woman’s scream rent the air. Tristan raced towards it.

‘Let me go.’ Lottie twisted away from the evil-smelling man and screamed again. Her sleeve tore slightly as she elbowed the man hard in the stomach. His hands loosened as he doubled over in pain.

‘Why did you have to do that? I didn’t mean no harm, did I, Den?’ the rough unshaven man said to his companion.

‘No, Fred, you didn’t,’ the companion said, sticking his hands in his pockets and giving a low whistle.

‘I doubt the truth of that statement.’ Lottie kept her nose in the air; her stomach was in knots as she struggled to breathe. She wished her corset was not so tight, then she would have been able to run, but as it was, she could not draw sufficient air.

If she walked quickly, perhaps she would come to the constable’s box…if it even existed, if the woman had been correct in her directions, something Lottie was beginning to have her doubts about. She should have never gone down this alleyway. She should have never trusted that old woman. She should have stayed in the coaching yard until nightfall and then demanded the constable be brought to her. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

Her slippers resounded on the cobble stones. Only a few more steps and she’d be back in the open. She’d be safe. One more step. Lottie resisted the temptation to turn around and see where the men were. The back of her neck pricked, but she forced her feet to move. They had to let her go.

‘Playing hard to get, me little golden-haired beauty? Thinking yourself all prettified in those togs? Above the likes of me and me pals? Way aye, I have the measure of you.’

Rough hands grabbed her waist again, dragged her back into the alleyway, away from the light, and back into the dark. The scent of alcohol wafted over her. Lottie gagged and kicked backwards. But the man had lifted her off the ground and her slippers only encountered thin air.

‘Not this time.’ He wiped a dirty paw down her face. ‘You won’t get away so lightly, but I likes it when they plays rough, I do.’

‘Let me go, you—you monster!’

‘We will go somewheres quiet. You, me and Den. I knows a good game we can play.’

‘Unhand me this instant or I will call the constable.’ Lottie fought against the hands, saw her handkerchief, reticule and satchel fall to the ground and with them all her money. She gave a little cry of despair. But the arms continued to hold her tight. She kicked backwards and screamed.

‘And what is the constable going to do about it, my pretty?’ His companion laughed. ‘See here, Fred, see if you can wake him from his box. Or is he snoring his head off?’

Lottie’s throat went dry as she prayed for a miracle. She should never have gone off out of the yard. She should have stayed and waited. She whispered a prayer.

‘The lady is with me and not with you.’ Tristan’s voice cut through the man’s banter. ‘Release her. Or I won’t be held be responsible for what happens.’

Lottie froze as hope bubbled up inside her. Tristan. He was here. He had not abandoned her. He had found her. She turned her head towards the sound, hoping against hope that it had not been her imagination. He stood at the entrance to the alley, large and solid, formidable, his lips turned down in a furious expression.

‘Tristan! I am here! Thank God you are all right. I thought something must have happened to you.’ Lottie struggled against the imprisoning hands. ‘Help me.’

‘I said let the lady go.’ Tristan advanced forwards. ‘I am in no mood to repeat myself. No mood at all.’

‘Why should I?’ The man stood there, hands imprisoning her. ‘I caught her first. Prove she’s yours.’

‘In the interests of your long-term health…release her.’ Tristan’s voice was calm and cold as if he were passing the time of the day. ‘A friendly warning, if you like.’

‘How so?’ the man’s companion asked. He advanced towards Tristan, brandishing his fists. ‘Fred found her, plying her trade. You best be about your business, you jumped-up Englishman. I’m a professional boxer, like. My punch is harder than a sledgehammer. Den Casey, Sledgehammer of the North, they calls me. Won five straight.’

A loud thwack resounded in the street as Tristan’s fist connected with the man’s jaw. The man tumbled backwards, lay on the ground. ‘Remind me not to bet on any of your fights, then.’

‘Den down?’ Lottie’s captor looked at his prone companion and back at Tristan. ‘The Hammer is on the ground. Dead to the world. Felled with one punch. I ain’t never seen the like.’

‘Who is next?’ Tristan straightened his stock. ‘I want the lady released. Unharmed. Immediately.’

‘It were only a bit of sport, your worship. We did not mean no harm.’

The hands were withdrawn so suddenly that Lottie stumbled forwards and encountered Tristan’s hard body.

She gasped slightly at the sudden contact, but her feet refused to move as her entire body trembled. Safe. She longed to lay her head against his broad chest. Her knees refused to support her. She clung onto his arm and pushed all thoughts about what might have happened to her had Tristan not come by when he did out of her head.

‘I…I…’ Her throat closed and she found it difficult to speak. She swallowed and tried again, her voice barely audible. ‘I should have stayed at the inn. I went looking for you. I was worried that something might have happened and that was why you didn’t come back. I wanted to get help.’

‘Are you unhurt?’ His arm went about her waist, supporting her. Lottie gave into temptation and rested her head against his shoulder, felt his strength. She closed her eyes and breathed in his crisp, masculine scent. She was safe. He put her away from him and looked her up and down. ‘Have they harmed you?’

‘My…my reticule has vanished.’ Lottie straightened her bonnet and shook out the folds of her gown. She glanced at the rip in her sleeve, winced, but it could be mended. ‘My bag.’

‘Give the lady back her reticule. And her bag,’ Tristan said in the same deadly quiet voice to the man who was standing over his fallen companion, staring at them with fearful eyes.

‘Look what you done to our Den. There ought to be a law.’

‘There is and you are on the wrong side of it.’

‘What you mean? The wrong side?’

‘I have no little doubt the constable will be interested to learn of your whereabouts.’ Tristan held out his hand. ‘The bags. Now. And I might allow you to go.’

There was a shuffling of feet and her satchel was held out. Lottie curled her fingers around it, hugging it to her body. She opened it and saw everything her mother’s maid had packed remained there.

‘And the reticule.’

Much shuffling of feet and the reticule appeared. Lottie gave a small cry of joy.

‘Is everything there, Lottie? Check it.’

Lottie opened it with trembling fingers and gave a little cry of delight. Lord Thorngrafton’s money was there. ‘It is all there. They took nothing.’

‘You see, like I said, your worship, it’s all a big misunderstanding. We was just taking her…’

‘You were not just taking her anywhere. Next time, when a lady protests, you leave her alone. Do you understand me?’

‘We didn’t mean no harm like, your worship.’ The thickset man held up his hands and backed slowly away from Tristan. ‘We didn’t know the lady was with you, like. It was just a bit o’sport. She seemed up for it, like.’

‘I was not! I never!’ Lottie balled her fists. She glanced up into Tristan’s face, but all she saw was cold fury. At her? At the men? She tried to breathe. ‘I would never. I was trying to get to the parish constable’s box.’

‘There ain’t no constable’s box around here.’

‘I asked…the woman said…’ Lottie paused. Tristan had to believe her. ‘I thought something had happened to you. I wanted to make sure you were safe.’

His dark eyes stared at her for a long moment, searching her face, looking for something. The stern planes of his face did not change as he raised a single eyebrow. ‘The lady says you were mistaken.’

‘Maybe.’ The man flushed and ran a finger around the neck of his shirt. ‘Could have been. It were Den that—’

‘Definitely mistaken.’ Tristan’s voice could cut through granite. ‘You owe the lady an apology. The lady is my fiancée and deserves your respect. It is only the fact that it’s my wedding day that puts me in a good mood.’

‘I am…am sorry, your worship.’ The man stumbled backwards, fell over his prone friend and scrambled to stand up again, touching his cap as he did so. ‘I don’t mean no harm like. I, that is we, had no idea. Many happy returns on your marriage.’

‘Off you go.’ Tristan gestured towards the prone figure of Den. ‘Take your friend, he is cluttering up the pavement.’

‘Right you are, your worship.’ The man hoisted his friend on to his shoulder, and began to walk away, complaining loudly as he went that he did not mean any harm and how he was always hard done by.

Lottie’s body began to shake. She wanted to sink down to the ground and weep. Tristan’s arms came around her and held her against his body until the shaking passed.

‘You are safe now, Lottie,’ he said, his breath ruffling her bonnet. ‘I am here.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘And we are going to be married in a few moments.’

This was not supposed to be what her wedding day was like. She had had it all planned right down to the white silk dress, fashionable bonnet and veil and orange blossoms. Instead she had ended up brawling in an alleyway like a fishwife. She had been taken for a lady of the night.

Lottie moved backwards and Tristan’s hold loosened. She wrapped her arms about her waist and attempted to control the shivers that now racked her body. She did not want to think about what had nearly happened to her. She took a deep breath and regained a small measure of control.

‘Thank you for saving me,’ she said when she trusted her voice would not quaver. ‘Those men had evil intentions. I am sure of it. If you had not—’ Her voice broke and she could only look up at the hard planes of his face, hoping he’d understand what she meant.

‘You are safe with me now. Think no more about them.’

‘I made a mistake. I should never have listened to that old woman’s directions.’ Her voice held a pathetic quiver. She fumbled for her handkerchief, discovered she had lost it. With angry fingers, Lottie brushed away the tears. ‘None of this was supposed to happen.’

He inclined his head, but his dark gaze searched her face. ‘Did those men do anything to you?’

‘They pawed at my dress and my face, but I will live.’ She brushed a speck of dust from her sleeve, a small act, but one that did much to restore her confidence. She would not think about what might have been, but about the future. From now on, it would be the future she faced. And she would refuse to let Tristan leave her again like that. ‘It is most aggravating to be touched in that familiar manner. Most unexpected.’

‘The streets are unsafe for a woman dressed as you are. Gretna Green teems with drunks and ne’er-do-wells today. Far more than I thought possible for such a town.’ His face turned grave. ‘If you had stayed where I told you to, none of this would have happened. Why did you leave the yard? You were safe in the yard. You had no cause to go.’

‘The coach driver went off. I was left alone. I became frightened and tried to find you. I went into the inn, but there was no sign of you. A woman offered to buy my hair.’ A shudder went through Lottie at the memory. ‘I couldn’t stay there. I became worried, certain something had happened to you. I went to find the parish constable.’

‘It took longer than I anticipated to arrange the marriage and our accommodation. I had not thought to be gone so long.’ His fingers curled around hers. He brought them to his lips. Then let go. ‘I regret that.’

Lottie resisted the temptation to put her hand to her face and savour the touch. Was it an apology? She did not want to ask. All she knew was that he had not abandoned her. She hated her earlier thoughts.

‘If you had not come when you did…’ Another shiver convulsed through her.

‘Forget the unpleasantness ever happened. It is over, truly. I swear it and I keep my promises.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her with an intense expression. ‘Remember that. If I say I will return, I will return. I will protect you.’

‘Do you mean that?’ Lottie asked in shaking voice.

‘As best as I am able.’

‘That is good to know.’

‘And now if you remain willing, the blacksmith awaits.’

‘The blacksmith?’ Lottie tilted her head and tried to quell the sudden butterflies in her stomach. ‘We have no horses that need shoeing.’

‘We have a marriage that needs forging. It is where all the best marriages take place in Gretna Green, or so I am reliably informed.’

‘We are not marrying in a church?’ Lottie regarded her hands. ‘I had always imagined that I would be married in church.’

He shook his head. ‘We are marrying in Gretna Green, under Scottish law. Two witnesses are all the law requires. The blacksmith is waiting for us. All you have to say is that you don’t want to, Lottie, and I will personally put you on a coach back to your mother and Newcastle.’

‘No, I will marry you…even if it is a blacksmith’s shop.’ She drew a deep breath. Her wedding would bear no resemblance to the wedding of her dreams. A blacksmith’s anvil and a torn dress. But it was a better prospect than the future those men had planned for her. ‘Like you, Tristan Dyvelston, I keep my promises.’

He curled his fingers around her gloved hand, raised it to his lips. ‘Thank you for that.’

Lottie allowed her footsteps to match his. She was getting married. It might not be the wedding she dreamt of, but she was determined to be the right sort of wife. She would make him see that she could be helpful. It was the details that counted. She gave one last backward glance to the alleyway and turned her face to the sun. Her footsteps faltered. ‘Tristan, what sort of ring?’

‘The blacksmith will take care of it. He is used to weddings. He informs me that he has already performed two this morning.’

‘You mean it isn’t going to be a gold ring?’

‘Is a gold ring a requirement for a marriage in Scotland?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Is it ever a requirement?’

Lottie wet her lips and said goodbye to the last of her dreams. ‘I had only wanted to know.’