Читать книгу The Trouble With Misbehaving - Victoria Hanlen - Страница 13

Chapter 6

In less than an hour, Beau made his apologies to his brother and sister-in-law and descended the front steps of Grancliffe Hall. A gleaming midnight purple carriage awaited. In front of it stood four sleek black coach horses with purple plumes and silver-mounted harnesses. Two drivers dressed in black, silver and purple livery attended them. This was how C.C. traveled? Good Lord, royalty couldn’t boast finer cattle or equipage.

Force of habit had him counting items as footmen loaded trunks and valises onto a heavier, more utilitarian carriage behind.

Grudgingly, Beau found himself impressed. He’d not seen any woman pull herself together in barely an hour, much less with two carriages, eight horses, four drivers, eleven valises, seven hatboxes, nine trunks of varying sizes, three female servants and two footmen. Yet everything had been loaded in a matter of minutes with exacting precision.

If he could get past the way she’d pressured him into this journey, he might even admire her single-minded determination. Not only had she compelled him to do her bidding, she’d gotten all of her people, horses and possessions on the road faster than any commander he knew—and she’d managed to change clothes.

She now wore a severe yet handsome chin-to-toe purple traveling ensemble. Three bold feathers sprouted upward giving balance to a purple hat that clung jauntily to the side of her head. Everything matched…everything. “Let me guess,” he said. “Your favorite color is purple?”

One side of her lips quivered. “You are most observant, Captain.”

Yes, indeed. Miss Collins had an impressive logistical capability. Clearly she could manage without a man. Yet her kisses in the pleasure garden were not the stuff of a coldhearted spinster. The teasing, erratic woman in the library was very different from the hard-nosed negotiator in the long gallery.

He’d witnessed her scene with Falgate, listened to the warnings about her instability and knew he needed to get to the bottom of it. She’d offered him a lot of money to do something he’d sworn never to do again. If she was as unstable as they said, her ship may be a lunatic’s dream and her family in North Carolina now ghosts calling to her from their graves.

In any event, he considered himself a fairly good judge of character. He should have her sorted out by the time they reached London.

A footman helped C.C. into the carriage along with her lady’s maid. Beau followed and sat in the seat across from them. Last aboard were the three little dogs.

The first dog handed in wiggled and squirmed out of the footman’s arms and bounded onto Beau’s lap, wagging her tail furiously. “Oh, hallo! Whose pretty little girl are you?” he cooed to the toy poodle.

“Her name is Jossette,” C.C. said.

The dog put her paws on his chest. Her little tongue flicked out to beg for a kiss.

“Are you a coquette, Jossette?” He sank his fingers into the dog’s soft fur and gave her a scratch.

C.C. smiled. “You seem to have found a friend.”

“French women always like me.” Beau gave C.C. a roguish grin and raised the little poodle to let her lick his face. “Yes, I can tell you and I will be good friends.” He placed the dog on his lap, and allowed her to get comfortable.

Expecting the other two dogs to be as friendly, the second dog handed in surprised him by growling the moment he saw him.

C.C. picked up the cantankerous little beast and settled him on her lap.

The third dog scrambled onto the maid’s knee, refused to sit and watched Beau with bright, beady little eyes.

When Beau moved his hat on the seat next to him, C.C.’s little hound began barking.

“Hush, Plutarch.” C.C. gave the dog a scratch. “Don’t mind him, Captain, he’s a little blind in his left eye. Probably mistook your hat for a strange animal.”

Plutarch? Interesting. Quite a bluestocking name for a little yapper. The dog continued to growl while Beau looked him over. “How old is he?”

“Ten.”

“I haven’t seen an animal like him since Canton. An ancient breed, I was told. The Chinese are loath to let those dogs leave their country.”

She cast him a sideways glance. “Very good, Captain. No one seems to know what to make of him. Are you acquainted with Canton?”

“I spent a few years in the South China Sea with the Royal Navy.” Was it possible she didn’t know that about him? She seemed to know everything else. He couldn’t resist asking. “How does a Chinese Lion Dog end up named after a Greek philosopher?”

She regarded him for a moment before quietly answering, “At the time I was reading Plutarch’s Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores.”

Now that put a different light on things. So she was a bluestocking. If she read Latin well enough to understand Greek philosophers, it indicated a certain studiousness and level of education he would not have expected.

Maybe it was because his first impression persisted of her as a lovely, ardent shopgirl. He gazed at her soft lips and idly scratched Jossette’s ears. The memory of how C.C.’s mouth felt under his made him long for another taste.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Latin? I used to be quite good at Latin. Let me see if I can remember how to translate.” He took a moment to get the words straight in his mind. “Which are Worse: Diseases of the Soul or of the Body? Did you come to any conclusion on such a weighty subject?”

C.C. pursed her lips as she studied his face. “Yes. I learned…we are an imperfect lot and sometimes good friends are the best cure. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she seemed to withdraw into herself.

Her evasiveness nettled him. He gazed at her lips again. Good Lord, stop. Playing lackey to a beautiful, wealthy woman—one suspected of missing a few spokes in her paddlewheel—didn’t sit well. He was used to giving the orders and having his questions answered.

If she read the book ten years ago, that was about the time of her scandal and deep depression. “Sooo, did these good friends help with the melancholy?”

C.C.’s head jerked up. With a quick twitch of her eyes she shot a wary glance toward her maid and then back to him.

Ah, she didn’t want to talk in front of her maid. “And how about your friend—Sarah, was it? Could she also read Plutarch?”

She gave him a steady, questioning stare as she slowly scratched Plutarch’s ears. “Sarah did not read Latin. If she had, she might have avoided—” C.C.’s shoulders sagged and her gaze turned inward. A sheen of moisture added bleakness to her eyes. “She didn’t deserve what Falgate did.” Her words came out a whisper, and she quickly glanced out the window, as if something caught her attention.

Clearly, she grieved for Sarah. Thomas had said they were good friends and that Falgate had been implicated in Sarah’s death. It seemed a stretch to imagine C.C. had led the viscount on, but perhaps she saw an opportunity when he pursued her into the library, and exacted a measure of revenge.

“And what is this one?” Beau leaned toward dog number three on the maid’s knee and extended his hand for the dog to sniff.

The cur shot forward and bit him.

“Blast!” Beau yanked his hand away.

“Fosco! Down!” both C.C. and the maid chided together.

While the maid grabbed the snarling little bugger and held him tighter in her lap, C.C. continued her scold. “Fosco, you bad, bad boy! We do not bite our guests! I’m very sorry, Captain.” Her gaze dropped to the hand he was rubbing. “Oh, dear. Did he break the skin?” She set Plutarch on the seat next to her and scooted forward. May I see where he bit you?” She extended an ungloved hand over the legroom between the seats.

Beau eyed the dogs. He doubted either fur ball could jump that far for another bite. Still, he took his time before he laid his hand in her palm.

She closed her fingers around his.

He hissed in air through his teeth, as if it pained him.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Captain.” Concern filled her voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Her hands were warm and soft, and her touch so gentle. No wonder her little hounds quieted right down when she ran her fingers through their fur. She slowly turned his hand over.

He made another little hissing sound.

Her gaze shot to his, and this time he allowed himself to fall into her beautiful, dark eyes.

“Did he bite you here?” She pointed to a slight redness on the top of his hand—the scrape caused by his trunk latch.

The dog had only nipped his finger, but Beau liked how her soft fingers smoothed over his skin. The sensation of her gentle prodding sent a tingle up his arm. His pulse jumped as well. He was enjoying this too much to give her any reason to stop.

“The top of your hand is a little red. It doesn’t look like he broke the skin,” she said, turning his hand gently in both of hers. “I’m so sorry for his bad behavior.”

Beau gazed about her face as she continued to gently rub her thumb over his hand. “Fosco would need sharper teeth to get through my tough hide.” He could see when it registered in her mind that the dog hadn’t really done any damage.

A nostril flared. “You are a scoundrel, Captain.” She dropped his hand, sat back rigidly against the seat, plopped Plutarch back on her lap and gazed out the window.

She obviously knew he’d taken advantage of the situation, but Beau was just getting warmed up. He glared at the cantankerous little mongrel on the maid’s lap.

The dog growled back.

“I say, he rather looks like a Lion Dog mix. How did that happen?”

C.C. gazed coolly at Beau. “He’s Plutarch’s moment of indiscretion with Lady Whiting’s saucy terrier.” Turning Plutarch around, she smoothed the fur out of his large black eyes and whispered, “You were a bad, bad boy, weren’t you? Lady Whiting no longer receives us because of you.”

“A clandestine mating? It is said dogs often resemble their owners.”

Her eyes widened, and made another twitch toward the maid.

He’d not intended to hint at her visit to his bed at Grancliffe, but sometimes his tongue worked things out on its own, surprising even him.

C.C.’s lips thinned. “My dogs are not like me!”

“I beg to differ.” He pointed to each dog in turn. “Kiss. Growl. Bite.”

A rush of pink colored her cheeks. “Really, Captain,” she huffed. “That is absurd!”

“Will we be taking the train back to London?” Beau asked cheerily, enjoying irritating her. She’d made him plenty uncomfortable with their bargain, and he was going to feel even worse if he found out she truly was a nutter.

“No, Captain,” she snipped. “Dogs aren’t welcome with passengers on the train, and I can’t bear the thought of them being caged in some stuffy cargo car.”

Ferrying her mongrels back and forth had to cost a small fortune. Obviously, money didn’t concern her, or she cared a great deal for her dogs. “Will you be bringing your lap warmers to North Carolina?”

She didn’t answer immediately while she fished around in her reticule. Withdrawing a small hand mirror, she tweaked one or two hair coils around her face and checked the stability of her hat. “I’ll miss them terribly, but I’m afraid it would be too arduous for them. We’ll drop everyone off in London to stay at Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse, Amelia’s…I mean, Lady Grancliffe’s mother.”

“And you don’t think it will be too arduous for you?” He frowned as he gazed about her exquisite carriage, beautiful traveling ensemble, and flawless coiffure. “War is being waged where we’re headed. Do you have any concept of what that means: the dangers you’ll face—the lack of conveniences? Things are not like they are here.”

Mirror still poised in the air, she shrugged and said simply, “I know.”

Well, he doubted she had any idea what she’d be up against, but far be it from him to tell her. He dragged a hand through his hair. “So, what’s on the itinerary?”

“If all goes well, we should be in London by tomorrow evening.”

Tomorrow evening. Beau settled back into the plush squabs and gazed about the carriage. It was so new he could smell the conditioning oils in the seat and door leather. Flecks of silver sparkled in the dark purple upholstery lining the ceiling and walls. Silver fringe adorned the windows. It was magnificent if one liked purple, violet or lavender.

The springs were so well balanced they floated over bumps in the road. At least the trip back to London should be more comfortable than the train. He might even take a nap. Hopefully the compensations of traveling with a wealthy woman would outweigh the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his gut.

Not more than a quarter hour later they passed the entrance to Rockford lands. He’d done quite well forgetting unwanted memories, but some remained as sharp and vibrant as if they’d happened yesterday.

Beau’s lips turn down in disgust. Never had there been a more besotted young fool. At fifteen he’d fancied himself a man in love and had been as randy as a rabbit. That summer Lady Rockford, four years his senior and married to a man twice her age, had made several very specific and beguiling overtures. Her invitation started with a picnic and ended in the master’s chambers.

At the time, Beau considered Lady R. the most comely of young women. He’d felt deep sympathy for her story that Lord Rockford only married her to keep up appearances. She’d been left to ‘rot’ at his elegant country home for a year while he attended the House of Lords in London.

She and Beau were twined together in the huge four-poster bed when Lord Rockford arrived home.

On seeing them, the incensed lord put all his weight into beating him. “You filthy little bastard. You’re no better than your mother. I’ll have you in jail for your efforts!”

Then he began shouting obscenities at Lady R., grabbed and slapped her.

“You hypocrite!” she screamed. “You claimed you loved me, but you have two mistresses in London! I’ve had you investigated. You keep them in fine style while you leave me on this desolate old farm. If you forsake me for another…two others, then I shall do the same!”

“The devil you will!” Rockford roared.

Belatedly, Beau realized he’d been the instrument to exact revenge on her husband.

Lord Rockford marched over, grabbed him by the hair, dragged him to the bedroom door and threw him from the room, naked as a newborn.

The next day, on a break from his studies at Grancliffe Hall, Beau happened to gaze out the window to see Lord Rockford stomping down the front steps. Shortly thereafter, he was summoned to the library. On the corner of his father’s desk sat Beau’s neatly folded clothes. The very ones he’d shed in Lord Rockford’s bedroom.

His father glowered at him and wordlessly stabbed a finger toward the pile of clothes. Profound disapproval wrinkled his face. Something flickered in his eyes that even then Beau recognized as the last straw. More disturbing still was the resignation on his face.

All summer Beau had been studying with Greek and Latin tutors to prepare him for Divinity studies. Several weeks later, he found himself a midshipman in the Royal Navy.

“Are you quite all right, Captain?” C.C. asked. “You look as though you’ve a touch of motion sickness.”

“I’d forgotten why it’s taken me so long to return to the family pile. It finally occurred to me—individuals continue to coerce me into leaving before I’d planned.”

Plutarch, the grouchy little cur, now sprawled on the seat between her and her maid. A small leather-bound journal lay in C.C.’s lap. Jewels sparkled on her purple fountain pen. She returned to jotting down words and numbers in purple ink.

Without looking up, she added, “We can stop, stretch our legs, and get some fresh air, if it would make you more comfortable.”

“I’ll be all right,” he growled. “I’ve suffered worse at sea.” He watched her long, slender fingers grasp the pen. Something didn’t look right.

“You’re a left-hander?”

Her writing arm jerked like a kid caught with her hand in the biscuit jar. Pink flared on her cheeks. She carefully capped her pen and slid it into her reticule. “My parents were not remiss in attempting to cure me of my disorder. I am proficient with both hands. Sitting as we are, it’s easier to write with my left.”

Cure her disorder? He’d heard some parents considered it such. Left-handedness, he’d been told, was inborn like blue-green eyes and blond hair. Clearly it still shamed her.

Beau shifted his gaze to the maid. C.C. had appeared concerned about discussing certain topics in front of her. Did she only keep information from this woman or was C.C. reserved with everyone? Like a ship’s captain, she certainly seemed to have command over her servants.

The memory of their expert loading of the carriages surfaced. Understanding finally struck. Somewhat a veteran of quick getaways himself, he realized their rapid departure couldn’t have been accomplished had C.C.’s attendants not already been packed and ready to go.

Dear God, the truth finally sank in. They’d all been waiting for her to corral him and strike a bargain. He’d been her objective all along. A chill crawled through him. While he’d been mesmerized by her beauty, seductive teasing and questions as to her sanity, she’d used more grit and audacity than a cold-eyed Caribbean pirate.

Their departure from Grancliffe Hall had been so rapid, he’d not had time to think or even ask questions. His stomach began to roll with tension. She’d said this was a mission to rescue her family. With the effective way in which she’d coerced an agreement from him, he doubted she’d reveal this voyage’s true purpose. Rich payoffs often included ulterior motives. And something about this journey didn’t smell right.