Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Galen, Shana

  Nash halted, feeling an unexpected surge of jealousy that Rowden should be speaking to his Miss Howard. The idea was unreasonable. She was not his Miss Howard. She was not his anything. He barely knew her. And yet, it annoyed him that Rowden also knew her. He stood at the top of the stairs, trying to decide whether he should go down or not, when their words began to penetrate.

  “If you don’t wish to pay me, I will do it for free,” Miss Howard said.

  What the devil?

  “It’s not that I mind paying you, Miss Howard. I think your efforts will be wasted.”

  Precisely what efforts was she wasting on Rowden?

  “They are my efforts, Mr. Payne, and I believe Mr. Pope would benefit from them.”

  Nash simply could not keep quiet a moment longer. “How exactly would I benefit?” he asked, starting down the stairs. “And what are you offering?” He held the banister tightly as depth perception was not his strong suit these days.

  “There you are, Mr. Pope!” she said, sounding genuinely happy to see him. Nash halted in the middle of the staircase. He could not remember the last time anyone had been happy to see him. No, he probably could remember. It had been during the war, and his fellow soldiers had been happy to see him. But this was the first time in years anyone had been happy to see him and not because he would kill someone for them. “Mr. Payne said you were indisposed, but I knew you would see me.”

  “It seems I have little choice, being that you are in my house.”

  “It’s a beautiful house,” she said as he reached the foyer and solid ground. “Or at least it was. I heard you were doing repairs, and I was so glad. I wanted to help in some way, but I couldn’t think how I might help. I can’t hammer or plaster or anything like that. And then I thought I might be able to help with the interior—”

  “Miss Howard, get to the point,” Mr. Payne said.

  Nash was actually annoyed she had been cut off. He rather liked listening to her speak.

  “The point? Oh, my proposal! Yes, then I remembered that I know Ecriture Nocturne. I met Monsieur Barbier in Paris, and I learned it from him. When I came home, I modified it and taught it to my sister. And now she is able to read and write a little.”

  Nash heard the rustling of paper, and then the scent and warmth of Miss Howard as she came near. She took his hand and placed a paper in it. “This is a letter my sister wrote to me.”

  He tried to hand the paper back. “I cannot see it.”

  “But you don’t read it with your eyes,” she said, pushing the paper back toward him. “You read it with your hands—well, your fingertips.”

  Nash stared at her, seeing only an amorphous form. She was slim and tall. That was about all he could determine with his one good eye.

  “Miss Howard,” Rowden said, “It’s been a long day. Perhaps you could come back another time.”

  “Oh, of course. If you think that best.” She sounded so disappointed, as though her whole world had crumbled.

  “Wait,” Nash said.

  Miss Howard gasped. She actually gasped in excitement.

  “Explain how I read this”—he shook the paper—“with my fingertips.”

  “Come here, and I will show you.” She took his free hand in one of hers, her hand warm and slim and strong in his, and tugged him in the direction of the parlor. He did not like the parlor. It held unpleasant memories, but he went anyway because, well—how could he refuse? She led him so confidently.

  “Here we are.” She had guided him to a chair, and he felt for the arms then sat. She took his hand and placed it on top of the paper. He thought she would release him, but instead, she stood close beside him and took one of his fingers and tried to drag it across the paper. “Mr. Pope, you have to relax your hand and allow me to guide you,” she said. He did as she said, if only because she stood so close to him. He could feel the heat of her body, and he caught the scent of her as she leaned close. She still smelled of pine and cinnamon as well as fresh air. He leaned closer to her, trying to catch more of her scent.

  “Do you feel that?” she asked.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t feel anything. But he thought he could reach out and wrap a hand about her waist, pull her to his lap, and then he might feel something of interest. And then he realized she was speaking of his fingers. She was dragging his pointer finger over the rough edges of a piece of paper.

  “It’s the paper,” he said.

  “It’s writing,” she said.

  Confused, he tried to concentrate on what his finger was touching. It was difficult with her hand on his, but focus was a discipline he had mastered, and gradually he was aware that his finger was touching a pattern of bumps in the paper.

  “Is it a code?” he asked after a moment.

  “In a way, yes. Monsieur Barbier created a type of writing where each set of dots on the paper corresponds to a letter. So this one”—she dragged his hand over a pattern—“is for D and this for E and this for A and this for R.” Methodically, she placed his hand on each pattern and allowed him to feel it before moving to the next.

  “This is a letter?” he asked.

  “Yes. This is the salutation. You just read Dear.” She sounded so very excited that it was difficult not to allow himself to become excited as well. But he’d also had years of training to tamp down any sort of emotion—excitement chief among them. He remained impassive.

  “Who is the letter to?”

  “Ah! Let’s keep reading. This is a P and this is...” She trailed off.

  “E?” he asked. “No, R.”

  “Yes! That is amazing. You learn very quickly.”

  “What’s this?” he asked impatiently.

  “That’s a U.”

  “Pru? Dear Pru?” Could that be right?

  “It’s addressed to me,” she said. “My Christian name is Prudence, but my family call me Pru.”

  Prudence. Nash felt like laughing at the irony. This woman was anything but prudent. “Then this is a letter from your family?”

  “It’s from my sister, yes.” She was still holding his hand in hers, and she seemed to be absently stroking his fingers as she spoke. He did not pull away. In fact, he held very still, hoping she would not notice and cease. How long had it been since someone had held his hand? How long since he had been touched or caressed like this? Her hand on his was like a drink of cold water to a man who has been wandering in the desert.

  “She is blind?” he asked, his voice a bit hoarse.

  “Yes. She became sick with fever about ten years ago in Constantinople. She was burning hot for days, and it seemed nothing we could do would cool her down. We would put a cool cloth on her forehead, and a minute later it would be hot to the touch. She finally recovered, but the doctor said the high fever damaged her eyes.”

  “Where is she now?” he asked. His heart had started to pound. He was afraid he knew the answer. She was in an asylum. Miss Howard had said her parents were missionaries. Certainly, they would not take a blind girl to the Far East if they would not take their daughter who could see. And what else was there to do with a someone who could not see? They were useless.

  “She is married and lives in London,” Miss Howard said, shocking Nash to the core. “In fact, in this letter she says she has been approached by a wealthy family to teach their young son Ecriture Nocturne.”

  “Ecriture Nocturne? Night writing?”

  “Yes. Oh, you speak French?”

  “Among other languages, yes. This is something being taught?”

  “Well, Monsieur Barbier did not specifically intend it to be used by the blind. He was hoping the military or diplomatic corps might find it of use. I believe he has petitioned them repeatedly, but he does realize the usefulness it might have for the blind. He was happy to meet with me and my parents and show it to us when we were in Paris a few years ago. And then I came home and taught Anne. It took her about six months to learn it, but I can see you would learn much more quickly. Now she writes to me, and I write to h
er using this method. It takes longer than it might to write in the usual way, but with practice it becomes quite second nature. Are you interested in learning?” She paused but not quite long enough for him to answer.

  “Oh, say you are. Mr. Payne said it would be a waste of time, but I think it will be useful for you. As I said, I wanted to find a way to help here at Wentmore, and I’m not very good with a hammer and I did not want to take cleaning work away from someone who needs the money desperately. But then my own boots do have holes and I could use a new pair. But that’s neither here nor there.” She went on, and Nash almost forgot to listen to her actual words. The sound of her voice was pleasant enough. It was low and soothing and comforting. She had a pleasant, happy tone that made him feel all was right with the world, even when he knew that was far from true.

  “And then I was sewing in Mrs. Northgate’s boudoir and I had the most wonderful idea. Of course, I wish I had not had it with a needle in my hand as I stabbed my finger, and it still hurts.”

  Nash heard a frustrated sigh from behind and realized Rowden must be standing in the doorway, listening impatiently to her chatter on.

  “But Mrs. Northgate had a cloth at the ready, and I did not spill any blood on the ruffles I was sewing, which is fortunate because it took me almost a full day to learn how to sew them to her satisfaction.” She squeezed his hand to emphasize her struggle. “What was I saying? Oh, yes! My idea. I was still thinking about you and how I might help, and I realized I could teach you Ecriture Nocturne. And that’s when I left my sewing and came straight here. Well, not straight here. I stopped at the vicarage to fetch Anne’s letter because I thought it might be easier to show you what night writing is as opposed to trying to tell you.”

  “You were thinking about me?” Nash asked.

  “The mind does wander when one is sewing. I was thinking about Wentmore and new boots and you and the peacock. Have you seen him again? Well, you can’t see him, but has anyone reported seeing him? I looked for him on my way here but didn’t spot him. I suppose it has been too busy and loud. But I can already see the progress. Oh, I should put your hand down now,” she said, and placed it on the paper. Nash wished she would pick it up again. Instead, he traced his fingers over the raised points. He could not find the place where the letter began, where her name was written, but he liked to think his finger traced it.

  “Rowden,” Nash said, “have you been listening?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I think you should hire Miss Howard.”

  “He hire me?” Miss Howard squeaked. “But I thought I would teach you.”

  “I can’t be your employer and your pupil,” Nash said. There was no reason he could not pay her himself, but he would rather she not be beholden to him for a salary.

  “You’re sure about this?” Rowden asked.

  “Absolutely. Miss Howard needs new boots, and I would like to learn this night writing.”

  Rowden muttered something that sounded like a curse. “Very well, Miss Howard, shall you and I adjourn to the library and discuss terms?”

  “She starts tomorrow,” Nash said. “She can come at the same time as she did today. Does that suit, Miss Howard?”

  “Yes! I could come earlier, if you would rather.”

  “No.” Nash and Rowden said it at the same time. There was no point in having her here when the workmen were about, making him jumpy and nervous.

  “I see. I will just wait in the library then.”

  Nash heard her footsteps retreat. He turned and saw the shape of Rowden still in the doorway. “You’re sure about this?” Rowden asked.

  “Pay her whatever she asks.”

  “I’ll pay her what’s fair. Don’t expect me to play chaperone.”

  “I don’t need a chaperone.”

  Rowden made a dismissive sound. “Just remember she is under the vicar’s care. If you cause trouble, the whole village will be at your door. I’m trying to keep you out of the asylum, not hasten your departure.”

  “There’s no need for the warning.”

  “There’s every need,” Rowden said. “But I doubt you will heed it.”

  Seven

  “It’s a very bad idea,” Mrs. Northgate said as she pinned the fabric of Pru’s dress at the waist. “Hold still.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Holding still was difficult today. Pru was impatient to be done with her sewing and off to Wentmore. Of course, Mr. Payne had told her not to come until afternoon, when the workers were done, so she really need not be in a hurry. She had two hours at least before she would be expected at the great house.

  “I never thought Higginbotham had any sense,” Mrs. Northgate was saying. “I am not pleased to have been correct.” She gave Pru a narrow look, all the pricklier for the pins sticking out of her mouth. “You told the vicar you would be at Wentmore?”

  “Yes.”

  “With that madman?”

  “He is not a madman, but yes, I told Mr. Higginbotham I would be tutoring Mr. Pope.”

  Mrs. Northgate stepped back. “You mentioned you would be there alone?”

  “I won’t be alone,” Pru said. “Mr. Payne is there”—Mrs. Northgate waved her arms dismissively at the mention of Mr. Pope’s friend—“as is Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper. In fact, I met her yesterday and she was very kind.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Brown is a saint, to be sure. Step down and take it off.”

  Pru moved behind a privacy screen and struggled out of the dress.

  “Be careful!” Mrs. Northgate warned. Pru rolled her eyes. She was being careful. If not, she would have been out of the infernal dress already. When Pru emerged, back in her ugly pea-green dress, Mrs. Northgate dramatically raised a hand to her eyes. “I beg you not to wear that...thing in my presence again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Pru sat again, glancing surreptitiously at the clock on the mantel. She wondered if the hands were stuck. They had not moved.

  “Mrs. Brown will not help you if that madman decides to shoot you. She could not do anything but bandage the Scot after he’d been injured.” Mrs. Northgate laid the dress on the table, adjusting it and eyeing the pins critically. “And there were two ladies with him as well. They were fortunate Pope did not shoot them.”

  Pru cocked her head. This was the first she had heard of any ladies at Wentmore. “Who were the ladies? Were they also Scottish?”

  “I couldn’t say, but one came into the village and she had a monstrous dog with her, and he terrorized the farmers for weeks.”

  “The ladies visited at Wentmore for weeks?”

  “Of course not! They left as soon as they saw the state of the great house. Poor Lord Beaufort.”

  “But you said the dog—”

  “The point is, Miss Howard, that Wentmore is not safe for a young lady such as yourself.”

  “It cannot be any more dangerous than Constantinople or Rome.” She would not mention Cairo as that had not ended well.

  “Your parents should have never taken you to such places.”

  “They were doing the Lord’s work,” Pru said. She sounded so much like her mother in that moment that she almost winced. “And that’s what Mr. Higginbotham said. I will be doing the Lord’s work at Wentmore.”

  Mrs. Northgate blew out a breath. “Do not say I did not warn you.” She peered at Pru. “I can see asking you to do any more sewing today is futile. Your mind is elsewhere.”

  “I was thinking about the peacocks,” Pru said, relieved Mrs. Northgate would not ask her to pick up the needle and thread. Though she enjoyed Mrs. Northgate’s company, Pru did not enjoy sewing. She should be in a hurry to finish her dress so she could wear it. Even though it was not done, Pru could tell it would be the most beautiful dress she had ever owned. Not because it was made of silk or covered with embroidery, because it was not. But because Mrs. Northgate had been right about the ruffles and flounces. Pru had worried those embellishments would make her look silly, but they really did flatter her. The ruffles at
her bosom gave it more fullness and the flounces on the hem balanced out her height and long legs. She looked a bit less like a...well, she looked down at her green dress. She looked less like a string bean.

  And Mrs. Northgate had been correct about the color as well. Pru could see the warm reddish brown made her skin look pinker and brought out the color of her eyes and hair. She didn’t look quite so drab and brown as usual, and though she would never be a beauty, she knew she would look well in the dress.

  “Peacocks?” Mrs. Northgate said. “Whyever would you think of peacocks?”

  “I suppose I hope to spot the one at Wentmore again. You said before you remember when the earl brought them to the great house. Tell me about it.”

  “I hardly think what you saw was one of the original peacocks. The earl must have brought them to the house twenty years ago.”

  “Oh, but it could be,” Pru said. “One of the missionaries we stayed with in Constantinople told me he had known one of the peacocks there for twenty-five years.”

  “He had known the peacock?”

  “Yes. The bird was quite tame, though not friendly. The man used to bring the bird a few pieces of bread, and the peacock would take the bread from the man’s hand. I even fed him myself, though the missionary did caution me not to try and touch the bird. They will peck if threatened. And they can fly. The peacock would roost in a tree near the house where we stayed, and its call was quite awful. The sound was like a baby crying or a cat yowling. Still, I miss that cry some mornings. It was so much more intriguing than a rooster’s crow. Do you know I named the peacock? I called him Ahmet.”

  “You are a strange girl,” Mrs. Northgate said, but her tone was one of fondness.

  “Won’t you tell me about the peacocks the earl brought?” Pru asked. “You said you remembered when they arrived.”

  Mrs. Northgate sat back in her chair, which caught Pru’s attention. The woman usually sat straight as an arrow. “I do remember it,” she said, her eyes fixed on the window just over Pru’s shoulder. Pru almost looked to see what was on the window ledge that had caught Mrs. Northgate’s attention. “He unveiled them at a garden party. Most of the village was invited, and we all attended. The earl and his family were at Wentmore for several months of each year. We saw the children in the village. They were polite, though the boys were a bit wild, I must say.”