Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 2: Sparhawk's Lady / The Earl's Intended Wife / Lord Calthorpe's Promise / The Society Catch - Louise Allen, Miranda Jarrett - Страница 11

“Oh, aye, sir, that be Mr. Stanhope’s house,” said the scullery maid, swinging the market basket before her as she smiled winningly up at Jeremiah. “Or leastways it be where he lives for now. Grand prospects, sir, that be what Mr. Stanhope has, on account o’ him bein’ heir to a great title. The Earl o’ Byfield, that’s what he’ll be.”

“Too grand he’ll be for the likes of us, eh, lass?” said Jeremiah as he returned the girl’s smile. He’d waited all morning for someone to come from the house, and finally luck had sent him this guileless little red-haired girl, fresh from the country. “But tell me: does he have a lady staying with him now?”

“Eh, sir, when don’t Mr. Stanhope have a lady there, that be the more proper question!” The girl giggled and glanced nervously over her shoulder, hoping that neither the cook nor the butler would catch her talking to the stranger. Of course she’d been warned against dawdling with men on the street, but this one wasn’t some randy, pigtailed jack-tar from the fleet. No, this one was a gentleman, and handsome, too, with his green eyes and shoulders as wide as a house. Where could be the harm? “As Mrs. Warren’s always sayin’, sir, Mr. Stanhope likes his ladies, an’ the ladies like him.”

“Then you’d best look after yourself, sweetheart, once he finds what a little beauty he’s harboring under his own roof.” The girl blushed and giggled more just the way Jeremiah knew she would, the same way women always did. Or almost always: it certainly hadn’t been as easy with Lady Byfield. “But I’ve a reason for asking about this particular lady. I’m asking for a friend whose sister’s run off with a gentleman, and I’m afraid it may be your Mr. Stanhope.”

“Oh, lud!” The girl’s eyes widened, delighted as she was to be party to a possible scandal. “Now Mrs. Warren did say there was a new lady come yesterday, an’ grumblin’ she was because Mr. Stanhope ordered her t’ take the trays up t’ her special herself. Mrs. Warren don’t gossip overmuch, an’ course she wouldn’t tell me the lady’s name, but she did say this one be prettier than most, with silver hair an’ blue eyes turned up like a fairy’s, even if she do be vexin’ the master with her chatterin’.”

The girl leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mrs. Warren says the master had t’ take away her clothes t’ keep her quiet an’ lock her up in the room under the eaves! Can you fancy that, sir? Takin’ away a lady’s clothes on account o’ her speakin’ out!”

Indeed, he could fancy it, and a good deal more graphically than this little country girl would ever guess. Of course the woman was Caro. With upturned blue eyes and too much chatter, it couldn’t be anyone else.

For a moment doubt flickered through his conscience. Desire had said the battles between Lady Byfield and George Stanhope were well-known. What if they really were lovers? He’d judged it so himself at first, and he’d seen stranger relationships between men and women, particularly when one of them was married to another. What if he went blundering in to save a lady who didn’t want saving?

Then he remembered how she’d wept with such genuine emotion when she’d spoken of her husband, and how roughly George Stanhope had treated her beside her carriage. No, that hadn’t been lovers’ play. Jeremiah’s frown deepened when he thought of what the man would do to her when he had her under his own roof.

“How the devil can he expect to get away with that?” he demanded, as much to himself as to the girl. “This is supposed to be a civilized country, isn’t it? A man can’t haul off and make some woman his prize just because he wants her!”

The girl looked at him pityingly, the ruffles on her cap fluttering in the breeze. “I didn’t think you was an Englishman, sir, on account of how you talk. Do you be Irish, then?”

“Nay, lass, American, and where I come from a lady’s safe from rascals like your Mr. Stanhope.”

“American! La, no wonder you don’t understand our ways!” She spoke firmly, almost lecturing him, as if he were some half-wit savage—the opinion most English held of Americans.

“In England we all know our place,” she explained. “Them that’s our betters can do things different than me or you. Because Mr. Stanhope’s bound to be an earl, he can do what he pleases with his new sweetheart, an’ none will judge him the worse for it. There be no law against what they do with themselves, leastways for gentry like him. Can you fancy a constable knockin’ on his door wit’ a warrant for hidin’ a lady’s gown? That constable’d be lookin’ for work for certain if’n he tried that!”

She giggled again, her red-knuckled fingers over her mouth, and Jeremiah forced himself to smile in return. As foolish as the little creature was, what she said was all too true, and it echoed Desire’s warnings, too. No matter how convinced he was that Lady Byfield was being held against her will, he’d never be able to find an English judge to agree with him against George Stanhope. If he wanted to free her, he’d have to do it himself.

“Don’t judge me bold for askin’, sir,” the girl was saying, swaying her hips suggestively beneath her apron as she looked up at him from under her stubby lashes, “but do all American men be so tall an’ comely?”

“Nay, lass, not at all,” he answered, his face impassive. “In Rhode Island I’m rated a poor fifth-rate runtling, not worth the trouble to feed or keep. Why else do you think I’ve been sent here?”

The girl gasped, speechless at the possibilities. Jeremiah chucked her beneath the chin and patted her cheek. “Good day to you now, darling. The lady I’m seeking is dark haired, not fair, but I still thank you for your help.”

He lifted his hat and turned away, but she moved quickly, blocking his path with her basket.

“Sir, oh sir!” she said, smiling as coquettishly as she could. “My name’s Betsy White, sir, an’ tonight’s my turn t’ step out t’ visit my sister. She lives in Tower Street, does my sister, the last house near the pump, an’ she don’t mind if I have friends.”

“Miss Betsy, then.” This time he was able to dodge the girl and her basket. “Your sister in Tower Street, this very night. You can be sure I won’t forget it, lass.”

He wouldn’t, either. He didn’t want anyone in Stanhope’s house who might recognize him tonight when he came back for Lady Byfield.

With another war imminent, many of the ships in the channel fleet had returned to Portsmouth for a final victualing and refitting before once again settling into the necessary tedium of blockading the French coast. Ships in port meant sailors in town, and the streets of the town were crowded with crews celebrating one last, boisterous shore leave.

Jeremiah was thankful for the sailors’ excesses. Although the citizens of Portsmouth were generally tolerant of rollicking strangers, tonight decent folk would prefer their own company and keep to their houses. Even on this quiet street, no one would notice another man who kept to the shadows, albeit one who glanced repeatedly at the bright three-quarter moon for solace against the darkness around him.

He waited in the park across the street from Stanhope’s house, watching until the last curtains were drawn and the lights put out for the night. To his surprise, Stanhope left in a carriage with several companions, all laughing and dressed for evening amusements. Though he knew he should be relieved that Stanhope had left Caro, Jeremiah was more disappointed. He’d anticipated thrashing Stanhope in his own house. Touching the pistols in his belt for reassurance, he crossed the street and rapped on the front door with his knuckles.

A sleepy-eyed footman finally opened the door a crack, his nightcap askew as he peered at Jeremiah. “Shove off before you wake your betters, Jack,” he ordered, seeing the rough, anonymous sailor’s clothing Jeremiah had chosen, “else I’ll call the watch on you. We’ve no use for your sort in this neighborhood.”

But as he began to shut the door, Jeremiah braced his shoulder against the heavy oak and thrust the barrel of one of the pistols through the opening and against the footman’s ribs. The man made a garbled, gasping sound as he stared at the pistol, his hands fluttering off the doorjamb as he backed away. “Spare me, sir, oh sir, please don’t kill me, not even the master’s plate’s worth my life!”

“Nay, I’d wager it don’t even come close,” growled Jeremiah as he forced his way into the house and shoved the door shut. A night-light hung overhead, the light from the floating wick tinted pale blue by the lantern’s glass, the footman’s round face beneath it ghastly pale. “Look at how you’re all aquiver, you yellow-bellied little coward!”

“Please, sir, I beg your mercy! The master don’t keep no hard money in the house, but I swear on my mother’s honor that the pitchers there on that table are sterling, and—”

“Don’t want ‘em,” said Jeremiah. “Where’s the lady Stanhope brought here yesterday?”

The man’s mouth turned down. “At the top of the last stairs, in Addy’s old room. The door’s locked, but the key’s hanging on the peg opposite for Mrs. Warren.”

“The devil take you if you play me false!”

“I swear it’s true! But the master’s orders—”

“Do you think I give a damn about that bastard’s orders?” Jeremiah jerked his head toward the adjoining room. “In there with you, and be quick about it.”

“Oh, no, sir, I won’t let you kill me like that!” Clutching his nightcap, the man turned to run, and with a muttered oath, Jeremiah tapped him on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol. The footman slumped to the floor, his eyes still wide but now unseeing.

Swiftly Jeremiah dragged him into the drawing room and bound him to a straight-back chair with the line he’d brought in his pocket, tying a rag around the man’s mouth as a gag before he turned the chair to the wall, far away from any windows or door. He was sure he could count on at least a quarter hour before the footman was missed, maybe more, plenty of time to find Caro.

But back in the hall he stared up the long, dark—too dark—stairway, the old fears returning, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t lift. He’d counted on the footman bringing some sort of candlestick to the door, not realizing the man would rely on the night-light alone. His heart pounding and his palm damp around the pistol’s butt, he tried to swallow back his growing dread. He could turn around and walk away alone in the bright moonlight, or he could climb up into the darkness to search for Caro. He could sail for Jamaica tomorrow, the way his sister hoped, and never look back.

A coward’s comfort, or his friends and a woman who needed his help.

Another chance to fail, or another chance to prove himself.

No choice at all for a Sparhawk.

He swore beneath his breath as he headed up the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps quiet. Footsteps, hell. He’d wake the whole house with the pounding of his heart. One landing, then another, the light from the lantern below fainter with each turning. His fingers gripped the pistol more tightly. Three flights, the footman had said. He was almost there. He could just make out the single closed door ahead, a gray stripe of moonlight along the bottom.

Almost there, and still the demons hadn’t claimed him.

“Lady Byfield?”

Lying awake, curled on the narrow bed, Caro held her breath and listened, her ears straining to hear again what she feared she’d only imagined.

“Are you in there? Lady Byfield, ma’am?”

She flew off the bed and ran to the locked door. “Captain Sparhawk! Whatever are you doing here?”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

She heard the key scrape in the lock and then he was there, a pistol in his hand and a wild expression in his eyes. Each time she saw him she was startled again by his size, how much larger and stronger he was than herself, and unconsciously she drew back. He was, she supposed, her savior, but she hadn’t counted on being saved quite this way, and she’d certainly no intention of throwing herself into his arms the way the heroines did in operas and plays.

“Has Stanhope hurt you, lass?” He was breathing hard, his face shiny with sweat, and she wondered what he’d had to do to reach her. She had no experience with men as purely physical as this one, but she’d guess that Captain Sparhawk could leave a whole trail of bodies behind him. “Has he used you ill?”

“Oh no, not like that!” She was glad that in the gray moonlight through the window he couldn’t see how she blushed. He might not have meant ‘like that’ at all; it was only her thoughts that ran that way. “That is, I am well enough.”

He rubbed his sleeve across his forehead, his gaze sweeping around the tiny room. “Damnation, didn’t he even give you a candlestick?”

She shook her head. “George probably believed I’d try to burn his house down.”

“Then let’s shove off before that damned footman I had to cosh wakes. Come on, lass, hurry!”

“Have you lost your wits?” She stared at him indignantly. “I can’t possibly go with you! Can you imagine what George would think?”

“I can’t, and I don’t care.”

“Well, perhaps you just should. Do you think George has forgotten that you were the highwayman who robbed him the other night? He’s already filed a complaint against you, and I shouldn’t wonder if they’re printing broadsides with your description even now. Of course this footman you so elegantly—what was the word?—coshed will say it was the same man who came here and kidnapped me, and you’ll find yourself at the hangman’s tree so fast you’ll wonder how it happened.”

Now it was his turn to stare at her. “That’s the greatest pack of claptrap I’ve ever heard! You were the one who forced me into that nonsense about being a highwayman, and it was Stanhope, not me, who kidnapped You in the first place! No court in the world could make any of that stick!”

“Not in the world, no,” she admitted, “but here in Hampshire George has enough friends that he probably could bring it to pass. I really wouldn’t want you hung on my account.”

“And neither, ma’am, would I.” He held his hand out to her, more a command than an invitation. “So let’s clear off while we can.”

Still she hesitated. True, she’d sought the man’s help for Frederick’s sake, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be indebted to him for her own, as well. “I’ve made great progress with that Mrs. Warren, you know. I think she’d be willing to let me escape some morning if I paid her enough. George isn’t the only one who can bribe servants.”

Jeremiah swore. “Will you come, or do I have to carry you?”

“That won’t be necessary.” She lifted her chin and swept past him, the coverlet dragging behind her like a train.

“Damnation, I forgot you hadn’t any clothes!”

She let the coverlet slip a bit, and grinned over her bare shoulder. “George has them somewhere, and I don’t think he’d return them now if we asked.”

“We’ll deal with it later,” he said. “Now hurry!”

She skipped along ahead of him, her bare feet silent on the stairs. With her hair loose and tousled around her shoulders, she looked like what she was, a woman roused from her bed, and in spite of everything else, Jeremiah couldn’t forget it as he followed close behind.

Close enough that he could smell her fragrance, close enough that he could see the soft curves of her body through the coverlet—God help him, was she naked beneath it?—close enough to remind him all too well of how sweet she’d been to kiss.…

Blast, did she mean to be so teasing, or was it just another of her unending games? She’d made it clear enough that she loved her husband, and Jeremiah would respect that, not wishing to poach on another man’s well-staked territory. He never had before. But still Caro seemed determined to play the coquette with him, even now, when he should have been concentrating on getting her safely from this house. Any other woman would have been terrified, clinging to him from sheer gratitude, but she was treating the whole business like a lark. Telling him he’d be dancing on a rope’s end for kidnapping her! His sister was right: the sooner he disentangled himself from Lady Byfield’s affairs, the better.

And then at the bottom of the steps to the street, she turned up and smiled at him, a smile so breathtakingly art less in the moonlight that he nearly forgot all his intentions and kissed her. “You did it, Captain Sparhawk, didn’t you? Rescued me from the dragon’s lair like some poor fair damsel?”

“Not quite. The dragon could still wake and eat you up.” He grabbed her by her elbow and hustled her across the street to the little park. She seemed shorter somehow, and then he remembered her bare feet. “Oh, hell, you can’t walk, can you?”

“Of course I can walk. I’m a countess, not a ninny. I’ve told you before I rather like doing without shoes.” She looked around the trees, her curiosity as frank as a child’s. “How far is your carriage?”

“There isn’t any damned carriage.” His frustration growing, he uncocked the pistol and shoved it back into his belt. “Hired carriages are easy to trace. I’d thought we’d walk down near the waterfront and hire a chaise there to take you to your friends.”

“Then I suppose we should begin walking, shouldn’t we?” She hiked the coverlet higher over her shoulders and began striding resolutely off in the wrong direction. He caught her by the arm and turned her around, and she laughed merrily at her own mistake.

“Hush now, lass,” he said uneasily. “Won’t do to call attention to ourselves.”

She clapped her hand over her mouth, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Forgive me, Captain. I forgot that strolling along Queen’s Court in my shift at midnight isn’t enough to get me—even me—noticed.”

“We’ll find you some clothes soon enough.” Damnation, why had she had to tell him that? She was as good as naked beside him, and he felt his own body responding with alarming interest. “Now tell me the names of your friends here in town I could take you to.”

Her head bowed, she didn’t answer at first. “There aren’t any.”

“All right then, in the countryside,” he said, exasperated by her pickiness. “I forget you fashionable gentry don’t believe in living in towns.”

“No, that’s not it.” Her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear it. “I meant that I don’t have any friends. Before Frederick married me, none of his friends’ wives would receive me, and afterward Frederick decided we wouldn’t receive them. So you see we’ve always kept to ourselves at Blackstone House, and that’s always been enough. Until now, anyway.”

“Then there must be a someone else. An aunt or uncle, or some business acquaintance of your husband’s?”

“Only George on Frederick’s side.” She smiled bitterly. Once she would have turned to Mr. Perkins, but now she didn’t trust George not to have poisoned the lawyer against her, too, just as he had her own servants. She’d always suspected how little they’d respected her, no matter how much she’d tried to be fair and kind, and now she had the unhappy proof.

Her eyes were troubled, her manner uncharacteristically hesitant, as she glanced up toward Jeremiah. “Your sister Desire lives near Portsmouth. Could I possibly stay with her?”

Jeremiah sighed, unsure of how to answer without wounding her more, but that sigh was answer enough for Caro.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly with forced cheerfulness, now trying to spare him. “Whatever am I saying, inviting myself into her house like that?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking, Caro,” he said. “My sister’s not much for any guests these days, not with her husband just gone off with the fleet and her third child due within the month.”

Caro’s face softened. “Oh, a baby!” she murmured. “How fortunate your sister must be to have a family like that! I’ve always wanted—no, I shouldn’t go wishing for more, not after all the good things life’s given me. Of course your sister couldn’t take in a stray like me at such a time. Please wish her well when you see her again.”

But this time her attempts to be the grand, gracious Lady Byfield failed miserably. Her words might be brave, but the forlorn slump of her shoulders told a different story that didn’t escape Jeremiah.

Gently he slipped his arm over her shoulders. “I’m not about to cast you off alone, Caro. First we’ll find you something more suitable to wear and a decent place to stay, then we’ll consider the rest one step at a time.”

“The poor damsel is most grateful,” she said with more wistfulness than she’d intended. “And I do intend to pay you back.”

“Oh, hush,” he scoffed gruffly. “I’ll hear none of that. My coin spends every bit as well as yours, and since I’ve brought you this far, you’ll be my guest.”

She smiled, thinking how different Captain Sparhawk’s offer of hospitality was from George’s. He didn’t resemble any other gentleman she’d ever known, but she liked him. She liked him very much. “I didn’t mean to pay you with guineas, though your offer is most generous. You’ve done me a great favor, and so, if you’ll let me, I’ll do one for you. Your friend Mr. Kerr—”

“Later, Caro,” said Jeremiah sharply, drawing her closer beneath his arm. “We’ve company.”

They had come to a neighborhood that Caro didn’t recognize, one with narrow streets and ancient, dilapidated buildings whose upper stories jutted crazily over their heads. The paving stones beneath her bare feet had been replaced by hard-packed dirt, and the stench wafting from the street made her long for shoes of any sort. Two sailors were weaving toward them, navy men with long pigtails down their backs and round, flat-rimmed hats with embroidered ribbon bands, and unsteady as they were on their feet, there was no mistaking the eager hunger in their eyes as they stared at Caro.

A lifetime ago, but she’d never forgotten that look in a man’s eyes. Greed and lust, a predator’s cold need, marking her, using her, ruining her beyond redemption. All she had, all she was, to be sold to the man with the deepest pockets.

“Tumbled the chit right out o’ her hammock, sheets an’ all, did you, mate?” asked the first seaman, fumbling in the bag around his neck for another coin as he leered at Caro. “Saints, but she’s finer than any o’ the drabs we seen in the fancy houses on Water Street. How much’ll you take for a turn wit’ her?”

“Not a farthing,” said Jeremiah with a quiet authority that startled Caro.

“Ah, mate, we’s only askin’ to share yer good fortune!”

“The lady’s with me,” said Jeremiah, his voice rumbling deeper. “And she’s not for sale.”

The man raised his hands and backed away, intimidated by the threat in Jeremiah’s voice. “Meanin’ no offense, gov’ner. She’s yours, an’ there it ends. No offense.”

But his companion had had his courage bolstered by more rum, and he lurched toward Caro to snatch the coverlet away. “Come on, lovey, let’s have some sport.”

The knife was in Jeremiah’s hand in an instant, the long blade flashing in the moonlight. The second sailor yowled and stumbled back, clutching his arm where blood was already darkening the slashed sleeve of his jacket.

“I told you,” said Jeremiah as he guided Caro past them, “the lady’s with me.”

“You would have killed him, wouldn’t you?” whispered Caro. The ease and violence with which he’d defended her stunned her. Frederick would never have dreamed of doing such a thing, even if he’d been able. “Just like that, you would have killed him.”

Jeremiah made a disgusted sound deep in his chest as he wiped the knife’s blade clean. “If I’d had to, aye. But that bit of English foolishness wasn’t worth the killing.”

She tried to smile. “But this bit of English foolishness was worth defending that way?”

He glanced at her sharply, surprised by the quaver in her voice. She looked small and waifish, her mouth pinched and her eyes still wide from what she’d just witnessed. Belatedly he realized that while dockyard arguments and drawn knives were nothing new to him, she’d be accustomed to more tender circumstances. He longed to take her in his arms and reassure her, to hold her until the fear left her eyes, but the memory of that well-loved husband stood uneasily between them, and instead all he did was slip the knife back in the sheath at his waist and clear his throat.

“There’s nothing foolish about you, lass,” he said gruffly, “except, maybe, the way you’ve rigged yourself out. But we’ll remedy that directly.”

He pounded on the door of a shop with men and women’s second-hand clothing hanging from a rod in the window until a sleepy old woman answered the door.

“Can’t ye read the sign, ye great bluff baboon?” she said. “We’re closed.”

“Not now, are you?” Jeremiah raised a guinea in his fingers to glitter in the moonlight, and at once the woman opened the door. “The lady needs a gown, and whatever else she pleases.”

“Ain’t ye the Lord Generous,” grumbled the woman, eyeing Caro critically. “What’s become o’ yer own clothes, girl?”

“She lost ‘em throwing dice with a crimp,” answered Jeremiah dryly. “Look quick about it, ma’am, we haven’t all night.”