Читать книгу The Golden Lord - Miranda Jarrett - Страница 8

Bamfleigh, Sussex

June, 1803

J enny Dell was exceptionally good at doing things silently and in the dark. She had to be, or else she never would have lived as long, and as grandly, as she already had.

Without so much as a candle to guide her, she now hurried across the dark chamber, her bare feet as quiet as a cat’s paws. While the innkeeper and his wife had been all kind welcome when she and her brother had first taken the house’s best rooms, Jenny knew that same welcome could turn as sour as vinegar wine if they realized she and Rob were leaving them now, in the middle of the night, and quite forgetting the nicety of settling their reckoning.

Jenny was sorry about that, for she’d liked this inn and the rooms that overlooked a pasture filled with sweet-smelling pink clover. But Rob had had his reasons, even if he hadn’t explained them to her just yet. Once he did, he’d be sure to remind her that there was always another inn or grand house waiting over the next hillside, filled with more folk eager for the amusing company of two genteel young persons like Jenny and Rob, and willing to share their own good fortune in return. And where, truly, was the harm in that?

Swiftly, Jenny pulled her three gowns from the clothespress and folded them into her little traveling trunk. Though limited by their travels, her wardrobe was always of the latest fashion, costly Indian muslins with silk ribbons, fine Holland chemises, the softest Kashmir shawl. Rob didn’t believe in skimping when it came to clothes. “Quality knows quality,” he’d say, and indeed Jenny did find it easier to play a lady when dressed like one. Rob was clever about such matters, just as their father had been before him. She shouldn’t forget that, especially now.

Somewhere in the inn a clock chimed three times and Jenny quickened her pace. The last of the men in the taproom had staggered home and the rest of the inn might be sleeping, but Rob would soon be waiting for her on the high road with the chaise. She closed and locked the trunk, and threaded a twisted bedsheet through the leather handles with well-practiced efficiency. Cautiously she pushed the window open—here, as at most country inns, the best rooms came with the most privacy—and tossed the bundle of her traveling cloak, stockings and shoes onto the grass below. Next went the trunk, lowered carefully down to the ground to avoid making too loud a noise when it landed.

She took two deep breaths to steady her racing heart, then clambered out the window, swinging down off the sill to drop into the grass. She untied the sheet from the trunk’s handles, gathered up the bundle of clothes and shoes, and ran barefoot across the sweet-smelling clover, her long, dark braid flopping over her shoulder and the trunk thumping awkwardly against her leg. The road wasn’t far, and even on this night with only a sliver of a moon, she easily spotted the hired chaise waiting in the shadows.

“Did anyone see you, pet?” asked Rob as he took her trunk and pulled it up into the chaise.

“Nary a soul,” she said breathlessly, climbing up onto the seat next to her brother. “Everyone was safely abed. Now will you tell me why we had to flee tonight, and so sudden?”

“Because we had no choice,” he said, no real answer at all. “Because we had to.”

Jenny frowned impatiently. Most everything they did was because they had to, wasn’t it? Their existence was precarious enough without Rob keeping the details from her like this.

“Here I thought we were doing so well with Sir Wallace,” she said. “The way he sought your opinion on those fusty old books in his library, I was sure we’d be snug there for at least a fortnight, and leave with a bit of gold in our pockets for your trouble, too.”

“We were.” Rob pulled the horse away from the tall weeds he’d been grazing and snapped the reins across the animal’s back to hurry him along. “I’d expected us to be invited as guests to Wallace Manor this very day.”

“I know,” said Jenny. “You’ve warned me before that we were perilously short of funds.”

“Well, yes.” Rob sighed, both for the shortness of their funds and the peril attached. “But there were certain, ah, complications that made it better for us to move along tonight.”

“Mrs. Hewitt?” guessed Jenny, pulling on her stockings and shoes as the chaise began moving faster. “Was she your complication?”

“Yes, and a powerfully difficult one, too.” Rob scowled. “All the time she’d been saying she was a lonely widow and coaxing me along, she’d neglected to tell me she’d another beau, a great, strapping grenadier who appeared out of the wainscoting. And I must say, Jen, he did not like my competition.”

“Did he call you out?” asked Jenny anxiously. She knew Rob always carried a pistol, a beautiful French-made gun that he’d won gaming, though he kept it hidden because he knew she didn’t approve. “You did not fight a duel, did you?”

“What, over Mrs. Hewitt?” asked Rob indignantly. “Faith, Jen, grant me more wit and judgment than that!”

Jenny shook her head, wiping the dirt from her fingers with her handkerchief. Although the name stitched on the linen was Corinthia, instead of her own—left from a highly profitable sojourn in Bath last winter when they’d posed as the Honorable Peter Beckham and his sister Miss Corinthia Beckham—she’d liked the Bruxelles lace edging too much to toss it away, even if it meant she’d kept the handkerchief far longer than she’d kept the name.

“So that is why we’re leaving now,” she said with a certain resignation, tucking the handkerchief back into her bodice. “So that you won’t have to defend your honor and Mrs. Hewitt’s virtue.”

None of this was, of course, anything new. Although Rob was twenty-five and clever as could be, he still had not one whit of sense regarding women, and if he continued to follow after their father, he never would. With his bright blue eyes and curling black hair, her handsome brother attracted the fair sex like flies to honeycomb. In that first glow of fliration he could always find some special feature or comely grace in every female he met, whether old, young or in-between. He was the most charming of rascals, for he honestly loved each new woman in turn, almost as much as they loved him.

Now Rob sniffed, wounded. “I’d always thought, Jenny, that you preferred to have me as a live coward, instead of an honorable corpse.”

“I do,” said Jenny quickly, patting her brother’s arm to reassure herself as much as him. “But I’d also rather you kept your breeches buttoned in the process. Now I’ll just have to pray that she didn’t pox you as a parting gift.”

“What could I do, Jen?” he asked forlornly. “The dear little widow played me false. If only she’d been true! You know I would have been as happy as the cows in that sweet clover near the inn if I could but spend the rest of my days with her in Bamfleigh.”

“You would not,” said Jenny matter-of-factly. “You’re just the way Father was. You like variety too much ever to be faithful. You’ll never stop your roaming.”

“For the right lady, I would,” he said confidently. “And you will, too, Jen, though with a gentleman, of course. You’re too young now, but I’ll wager five guineas that the first time you fall in love, you’ll be as moon-struck as every other Dell since Noah trundled down from the ark.”

“I’m nineteen, Rob, more than old enough to fall in love if I pleased,” she said wearily. This wasn’t a new conversation between them, either, nor was it one that Jenny particularly wished to revisit. “It’s more a matter of being sensible than too young. Just because I’m a Dell doesn’t mean I must be a ninny about men.”

Rob answered only with an incoherent grunt, and they fell into an uneasy silence that seemed to match the rocking haste of the chaise through the night. With a sigh, Jenny drew her shawl over her shoulders and propped her feet on the curved top of her trunk, letting both time and distance speed by in a leafy blur.

Rob would never understand her, or that she could want something different from life than he did himself. How could he know that the pastoral existence near the clover field that he’d described in jest was far more appealing to her than the charms of any mere lover could be? Her own snug cottage, a hearth that was hers without any fudging or dissembling: that would be her paradise. All her life she and Rob had spent roaming, first with her father and then by themselves, and wistfully she tried to imagine living in one place long enough to be able to call it home.

“I only hope, Jen,” said her brother at last, as if the conversation had been continuing all along, “that when you do fall in love, you have the decency to do it with some rich old codger who’ll put us both in his will.”

Jenny grumbled. “Oh, yes, so we’ll all three live happily ever after.”

“Don’t scoff, Jen,” said Rob easily, sorry proof that he’d been considering this all along. “It’s as easy to fall in love with a rich sweetheart as a poor one.”

“And don’t you scoff, either, Rob,” said Jenny sharply. She would flirt, and smile, and flatter, and beguile, yes, but she would not seduce, and though she’d yet even to attempt the last with any man, when she finally did, she wanted it to be because she loved him and not because her brother had told her he was rich. “I’ll play whatever role you wish, short of that. Didn’t we agree ages ago that I’d never be the bait for one of your codger schemes, not when I must—”

“Hush,” said Rob sharply, lowering his voice. He turned to look over his shoulder, his hair blowing back across his forehead. “Do you hear another horse behind us?”

“What, on the road at this hour?” She turned around, as well, holding on to the back of the seat as she peered into the night.

“It’s that infernal idiot grenadier, I know it, still looking for his satisfaction and my head.” He slapped the reins again, urging the horse into a faster pace. “Blast the man for being such a prideful idiot!”

“We must be close to the crossroads to London,” said Jenny, her heart racing as the chaise’s tall wheels rocked precariously over the rutted road. “Couldn’t we turn south, the way he wouldn’t expect us to go?”

“The devil knows what he’s expecting,” said Rob grimly. “But I don’t want him getting at you, too.”

“He’ll have to catch us first!”

“Which, given that he’s on horseback and we’re stuck in this ancient rattletrap with a hired nag, is entirely possible. Now, see that stand of trees beyond the next hill? I’m going to slow, and as soon as we’ve ducked below the hill, you’re going to jump out into the grass. You can hide in the trees and wait there, and I’ll come back and fetch you as soon as I’ve lost him.”

“I will not!” cried Jenny indignantly. “I’m staying with you, Rob, and I’m not about to go leaping like a frog from a running chaise!”

“And I say you will,” ordered Rob, concentrating on controlling the horse. “For your own good. You’d be a hindrance, pet. This idiot believes I have defiled his woman, and I don’t want to give him even the remotest chance to wreak his vengeance on you.”

Alas, Jenny understood. Most likely Rob could wriggle his way free more readily without her there in the middle. He’d done it before, and those other times, too, she’d been left or sent to wait elsewhere while he did it. She didn’t want to be a hindrance, nor, to be honest, did she wish to be defiled by an idiot grenadier, either.

“But what if he hurts you?” she protested. “What if you’re left bleeding somewhere? However will I find you again?”

“Because I always find you first, little sister.” He still smiled fondly. “Now come along, you’re only going to have the one chance. How different can it be from jumping out a window?”

“You’re a bully, Rob Dell,” she said, cautiously leaning over the side to gauge the drop to the ground.

“Only if you’re a coward, Jenny Dell,” he answered. “Which I know for a fact you’re not, being my sister.”

“What you should know, Rob, is that I’ll challenge you to a duel myself when this is done.” They were just cresting the hill, the chaise slowing as Rob had promised. She rose unsteadily in the swaying coach, slung her skirts over one arm, and bent just long enough to kiss Rob on the cheek. “God be with you, you ninny, and mind you keep yourself clear of that man’s pistols.”

Then, before she could be afraid, she jumped.

The ground came up harder than she’d expected, the waving grass not nearly as soft as it had looked in the moonlight. She stumbled forward and rolled twice from the force of her landing, then sat upright, gasping, to wave at her brother. Looking over his shoulder, he waved back, reassured, then snapped the reins. The chaise rattled off, over the next hill, and Jenny was alone.

And better she should stay that way, too, she told herself firmly, and not be found by the side of the road by the idiot grenadier. She scrambled to her feet and began to run back up the hill toward the safety of the copse of trees. Their branches were low and gnarled, making her duck and dodge into the shadows, as perfect a hiding place as Rob could ever have picked. Overhead a tawny owl hooted crossly at being disturbed, and with a grin Jenny looked up, trying to spot him through the leaves as she hurried deeper into the brush and trees.

But she didn’t see the owl, and she didn’t see the low-slung branch, either, as she crashed her forehead into the rough bark.

And then saw nothing more.

This was the time of day that Brant liked the best. The new morning had scarcely begun and the old night was just fading away while the stars and moon stubbornly remained in the sky, the dawn no more than a glow on the horizon. The birds had already begun to chatter and soon the field workers would start trudging across the meadows, but for now Brant felt as if he had the world completely to himself, or at least the large green corner of it that belonged to Claremont Hall. With his dogs for company, he rode along the borders of his lands every morning at this time, regardless of whether the summer sun was going to shine warmly on his back or winter clouds threatened snow and wind sharp beneath the brim of his hat.

Although riding his property like this would strike most of his fellow peers as unnecessary at best, and at worst, laughably medieval—the ducal lord of the manor!—Brant had worked too hard to rescue Claremont Hall from his father’s creditors to take his own possession of the estate lightly. As often as he might go up to London, he always came back here. He loved this place, and he took great satisfaction in seeing the improvements he’d been able to make in it. Besides, at this hour, all things appeared wonderfully possible to him, especially on a perfect early summer morning like this one.

“Here, Jetty, Gus, here!” he called as his two black retrievers bounded ahead of him. “How many more rabbits can there be left to chase?”

But the dogs didn’t return as they usually did, instead racing off into a copse of trees not far from the road. Brant whistled for them, and when they still didn’t appear, he sighed and swung down from his horse, looping the reins around a branch.

“Must be a righteous big rabbit,” he grumbled. More likely the pair had stumbled upon something deliciously, foully fragrant only to dogs, and were busily rolling in it. He pushed aside the branches, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the faint gray light as he searched for the two dogs. But this time when he whistled, it was with surprise.

The dogs had discovered something, true enough. Jetty and Gus were sitting on either side of the too-still body of a woman, lying facedown in the old leaves. Hurrying to her side, Brant prayed it wasn’t a girl that he knew, a serving girl from the Hall or the daughter of one of his tenants. He believed in taking responsibility for whatever happened on his land, even tragedies such as this.

But as soon as he knelt beside her, he could see from the fine muslin of her gown and the soft wool of her cloak that she was a lady, no farmer’s daughter, and that the small, pale hand that lay curled on the dried leaves had never seen hard work. Yet lady or not, there was no question that trouble had found her: the skirts of that white muslin gown were grass-stained and streaked with dirt, her once-neat hair a tangle down her back. Worst of all was the raw, ugly bruise on her temple, swelling just below the neat curve of her brow.

Gently, Brant smoothed her hair away from the bruise and touched his fingers to the side of her throat, searching for a heartbeat. At least the girl still lived; he hadn’t been sure. He’d little knowledge of practical physicking, and he wasn’t certain what his next step should be to assist her. His experience with pretty young women—and he now could see that, beneath the dirt and bruises, this one was very pretty indeed—was generally of a far more lively sort.

Jetty whimpered, prodding at the woman’s arm with his nose.

“Stop that, Jetty,” ordered Brant softly. “She’s suffered enough without you adding to it.”

But the dog’s wet nose had already roused her, and with a groan she shifted, flopping onto her side. Her eyes fluttered open and she grimaced with pain, pressing her hands to her temple.

“You’ll be all right, miss,” said Brant. “You have my word on it. Can you tell me what pains you?”

Gingerly she touched the bruise. “Only my head.”

“You’re certain?” he asked cautiously. When he’d first seen her lying in the leaves, he’d been sure she’d been abused and abandoned by some man.

“It’s my head. I should know.” She squinted up at him from beneath her hands. “You’re not the dreaded idiot grenadier, are you?”

“I don’t believe so, no.” The poor girl had been struck on the head and was entitled to speak nonsense. “Do you think you can try to sit upright? That must be the first step toward moving you to a more comfortable place.”

She nodded, and he slipped his arm beneath her back to help raise her. She was a little bit of a thing, more fragile than he’d first realized, and once again he thought of how fortunate she was not to have been more badly hurt, whatever misfortune had befallen her. As soon as he could take her back to the Hall, he’d call the surgeon to come make sure she was as well as she claimed. He always wanted to help those too weak or flawed to protect themselves, especially if the rest of the world had abandoned them—exactly as this girl seemed to have been.

She gasped as he lifted her upright, her eyes closed and her hand still pressed to her temple. With his help, she sat there, not moving. Then to his surprise, she opened her eyes and smiled. With her face so close to his, the effect was dazzling, if dizzying.

The dawn was beginning to reach even into these shadows, and he could now see the details of her features: round cheeks and a dimpled little chin, a surprisingly strong nose softened by freckles, pale eyes that turned up merrily at the corners. She was too elfin to be considered beautiful, but too appealing for him not to smile back.

“There,” she said, her voice thick, almost sleepy. “I did it, didn’t I?”

“You did, indeed,” he agreed, shifting so that her beguiling little mouth wasn’t as temptingly close to his. He’d never been the kind of man who took advantage of such opportunities with women, and he wasn’t about to begin with now, while her wits were so addled. “Rest a moment, and then we’ll try standing.”

“Very well,” she said, reaching out to ruffle Jetty’s ears. “I like your dogs.”

“They like you, too,” he said. Without a shred of shame, Jetty was making blissful growly noises, his eyes unfocused and his tongue lolling from his mouth in canine ecstasy. “That one, there, is Jetty, and the other is Gus, shortened from the far-too-grand Augustus. They were the ones who found you here, you know.”

“Then I thank them for their trouble,” she said, wobbling to her feet. “And I thank you, sir. You see I’m mending already.”

“Don’t be too hasty, now,” he cautioned, doubting she’d be standing at all without his support. “No need to go running off just yet. Can you recall your name, or how you came to be here? I’m not going to send you on your way until you can tell me both. Besides, you likely have family or friends worrying about you.”

Her face lost its sunniness and she looked away. “I— I do not know my name. I suppose it must be my poor foolish head again, but I—I don’t know it. Perhaps if you told me your name, I—I could recall my own.”

“Forgive me,” said Brant gravely. “I should have introduced myself to you before. I am the Duke of Strachen, and you are standing upon my land, not far from Claremont Hall.”

“Oh, my,” she whispered, not listening to him as, instead, she pressed her palm over her bruise. “Perhaps I should not have stood so soon, not when…when—ah, how my sorry head does ache!”

She swayed back against his arm and he caught her just as her eyes closed and she went limp against him. She was as light in his arms as he’d guessed she’d be. But he still didn’t want to subject her to the long walk home and her head jostling against his shoulder with each step, nor could he imagine a comfortable way to carry her on the horse for the same reason. Gallant knights in old romances might carry their ladies fair on a charger like that, but in modern reality, it simply didn’t work.

With concern he looked down at Jetty and Gus, thumping their tails on the ground as they gazed up at him. If he was to be a modern-day gallant knight, then this was what he had for faithful squires. Lucky him.

“Home,” he ordered, hoping that at least for this once, they’d decide to obey. “Home!”

And for once the pair did do as he’d asked, racing off across the open field toward Claremont Hall. They were that loyal to him, or perhaps, like him, already that besotted with the nameless girl. But when the dogs returned to the Hall without him, the men in the stables would be sure to come looking, and he counted on the dogs leading them back here. Until they did, he’d simply have to wait.

Carefully he sat on the ground beneath the trees, cradling the girl in his arms. She looked pale to him, and her breathing had grown so shallow and faint that she once again seemed lifeless.

He’d given his word to her that she’d be all right. It was a promise he now could only hope to keep.