by Tuft, Karen
“I did not watch you sleep, just to be clear, but I am also not blind,” he replied. He twirled his hand in the direction of her face. “I recognize a disguise when I see one.”
Lavinia rubbed two fingers across her cheeks and looked at her fingertips. They were as gray and pasty as the dress she wore. “As you say. I used them to disguise my face a bit,” she said. “I was to meet up with friends, but I was traveling alone until then. It was a means to help me feel safer on my own.”
“You have no maid or lady’s companion, then,” he said.
Since that was clearly the case, his next deduction would be that she wasn’t a lady, and he would be correct. Lavinia’s roots were decidedly common. But being born and raised in a traveling theater troupe, she’d paid attention to the way people had spoken in the various parts of the country they’d visited and had trained herself as best she could to speak as a lady, as she was doing now, in addition to mastering several regional dialects. She was a good mimic, her father had always said.
“One of the people I was to meet serves as my maid when needed, although she is a friend rather than a servant. We are on our way north. I was to meet them here, at the White Horse, but I suspect they mistakenly went to an establishment called the White Hart instead.” Blast the Earl of Cosgrove and all men like him! She would be safely on her way north to Primrose Farm with Hannah, Delia, and Artie right now if Cosgrove had not persisted in being such a nuisance.
There was nothing Lavinia could do tonight to locate them, however; she would have to begin her search in the morning. And if that failed, she would catch up to them at the next post-stage.
“I assume your—er—attire is part of the disguise as well?” Mr. Jennings asked, grimacing as he looked her up and down.
She tugged her cloak closer. “Yes.”
“That was where you went wrong, Miss Fernley. I suspect it was your so-called disguise that drew the attention of the gentlemen downstairs instead of avoiding it. It’s”—his hand was waving at her again—“too much. Almost theatrical.”
Theatrical? That was the worst thing Mr. Jennings could possibly have said since looking theatrical was the last thing Lavinia wanted. She had been so concerned she’d be recognized she hadn’t stopped to consider the possibility that she may have overdone it.
Would she have realized it anyway? Even her regular clothes were more like costumes than anything else. She was always playing a part, always on stage, no matter where she was: Ruby Chadwick, delightfully attired in sprigged muslin as she strolled through Hyde Park; Ruby Chadwick, a vision in gold satin at Lady Cowper’s soiree; The Darling of Drury Lane, smartly dressed in a pale-blue day dress, shopping on Bond Street . . .
“Ahem.”
Lavinia started. “Sorry.”
“Drifting off to sleep again or woolgathering?” Mr. Jennings asked. “I must be frank, Miss Fernley. Having a woman in disguise running to me for assistance is unsettling. It also suggests a certain willingness on your part to deceive others. It makes one suspicious.”
“I have not lied to you, Mr. Jennings,” she replied, hearing her voice rise despite the hour and knowing the guests in neighboring rooms would be trying to sleep. But she was exhausted and worried about the others, and dealing with Lord Cosgrove had frayed her nerves. “My name is indeed Lavinia Fernley, sir. I was on my way to meet my friends so we could journey north to a small farm I inherited from a family member. Since I was traveling alone until then, I wished to avoid drawing attention to myself, although it appears, at least according to you, that my overly enthusiastic disguise accomplished the exact opposite, nearly resulting in my being recognized and requiring me to act quickly.” Lavinia stood, picked up her bag, and strode to the door. “I apologize for my intrusion upon your privacy and thank you for your assistance downstairs and for the food,” she said in a lofty tone. “Now, I shall bid you adieu and good night.” She reached for the doorknob.
Behind her, she heard a slow clap. She turned.
“Brava, Miss Fernley,” Mr. Jennings said. “That was quite a performance, I must say, however unnecessary. You are not the little gray goose your appearance would lead one to believe, that it certain. Now, please sit down. I’m tired; you’re obviously tired, from what I saw when I returned to the room; and I’m satisfied that you aren’t going to rob me blind during the night.”
Lavinia dropped her bag with a thud.
“Sit, Miss Fernley,” he said, gesturing at the empty chair.
She sat.
“That’s better,” Mr. Jennings said. “Tomorrow after breakfast, we will ask our host if there are any establishments nearby called the White Hart. Does that meet with your approval?”
“Yes.” Lavinia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and relaxed for the first time all day. “Thank you.”
“Unfortunately, we do not know if your gentleman acquaintance and his friends have taken rooms here at the inn for the night, so we shall have to act the happily married couple for now. As such, we should get used to calling each other by our Christian names. You may call me Lucas.”
“I am Lavinia, of course,” she said.
“Now that that has been taken care of, it is time for us to retire—you to the bed, me to the floor by the fire. I, for one, am exhausted.”
“You don’t need to do that—” She stopped short when he gave her a speaking glance.
“What are you suggesting?” he asked in a low voice.
“Nothing!” Good heavens, he couldn’t think she was insinuating some sort of romantic liaison with him! They’d barely reached a truce for the night—not to mention she hadn’t kept all her admirers at arm’s length for years for nothing. “What I mean is that I have inconvenienced you enough already. You may have the bed, and I’ll sleep in the chair. It is really quite comfortable—”
“Miss Fern—er—Lavinia,” he said. “I spent most of the past seven years fighting the French in Spain; the floor will be a luxury compared to what I am used to. As a gentleman, I will not sleep a wink if you are not ensconced in pillows and blankets and goose down and happily dreaming of your friends and your idyllic farm up north. Now, if you will excuse me, I intend to take a late stroll through the courtyard while you do whatever it is ladies do when they prepare to retire for the night. I will take the room key and let myself in when I return.”
Lavinia was too tired to argue, and Lucas Jennings seemed an honorable gentleman—at least so far. One could never entirely let down one’s guard.
“Thank you, Lucas,” she said.
He picked up his hat and the room key. “Sweet dreams, wife.” He left, and Lavinia heard the key turn in the lock and the sound of his boots fade as he walked down the corridor.
She let out a huge sigh and tugged off her cap. It was time to remove her disguise.
Chapter 4
Lucas returned to the room and unlocked the door precisely twenty minutes after taking himself off to wander the stable yard. Lavinia Fernley had been exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting up earlier. He suspected that she wouldn’t dillydally about preparing herself for bed.
He’d been correct in his assessment. By the dim light of the single lit candle she’d left for him, he could see her burrowed under the blankets, a huddled lump of a person with only the top of her head poking out. His curiosity about her appearance—why he was curious, he had no idea—would have to wait until morning to be satisfied.
He turned away from the bed and noticed, much to his surprise, that she had folded a blanket and laid it on the floor next to the fireplace, along with one of the pillows, for him to use.
He quickly stripped out of his coat and waistcoat and tugged off his boots and neckcloth. The rest of his clothing would remain on for propriety’s sake. His good friend Anthony had merely been caught kissing a woman and had found himself thoroughly entangled in the parson’s trap. Now, here Lucas was spending the entire night alone with a strange female who had announced to all and sundry that he was
her husband. If he wasn’t exceedingly careful, he could find himself similarly stuck. Anthony had been fortunate; he’d at least seen Amelia and had known he cared for her before being compelled to offer for her hand. Things had turned out remarkably well for them, considering the circumstances.
Lucas lay down on the blanket, setting his coat next to him in case he needed it for warmth come morning, and blew out the candle. He wasn’t willing to bet that he would have the same good fortune, based on what he’d deduced about Miss Fernley so far. Her appearance, with her large cap, greasy face, and baggy sack of a dress, hadn’t offered much information. When she’d been in his arms, she had at least felt surprisingly normal, but that was the only positive he’d been able to discern thus far.
There was also more to the situation than she had told him. She was to meet up with friends, she’d said, traveling to a property she apparently owned. And yet she’d felt the need to travel in disguise. It had more to do with hiding her identity than merely keeping safe, Lucas was certain. Why would she feel the need to do that?
He bent one knee and braced his foot against the floor, then stared upward at the ceiling, not that he could see anything. Only a little starlight was making its way through the window, and there was no moon. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He could hear the evenness of Miss Fernley’s breathing and knew she had fallen asleep already, but then, she was in a soft bed, wasn’t she? The floor was hard under his back. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t endured before—he’d slept on the ground more times than he could count, but he’d obviously readjusted to the comfort of a bed since his return from Spain. He plumped the pillow beneath his head and shifted his position to get more comfortable.
The fire in the grate had been banked, the coals barely sharing their low red light and providing only the merest bit of heat along one side of his body. Blast it all. He’d meant to burn Isobel’s letter, but he’d forgotten. He sat up and removed the letter from the pocket of his coat and tossed it in the grate, then watched as it gradually caught fire, flared briefly, and turned to ash before lying down again.
Isobel had called him “her brother and friend.” The words still rankled. Of course, Lucas knew he was her brother. Brother-in-law, to be precise. And they had been friends growing up. The closest of friends.
But Lucas, in his youthful foolishness, had thought it more than friendship. When he’d gone off to Cambridge, he had thought there’d been an understanding between the two of them. Not many weeks after, he’d received a letter from his mother informing him of Isobel’s betrothal to his eldest brother, Thomas.
They had celebrated a Christmas wedding. Lucas had attended the nuptials and had enlisted in the army the following day.
Miss Fernley let out a sigh and shifted on the bed.
Lucas shook his head at the irony of it all. He was returning home to his family, which now included the girl he’d loved his entire life but who was off-limits to him, and on the way, he’d gotten himself—through no fault of his own—“shackled” to a female of unknown origin, dubious motives, and questionable appearance. He finally managed to drift off to sleep, the image of Isobel’s face his last waking thought.
Lucas awoke abruptly at dawn, as had been his habit in Spain, and it had not changed since his return. Miss Fernley—he really must remember to refer to her as Lavinia while they were here at the inn—was still asleep. It was just as well; he had several things he wished to take care of this morning before he must contend further with her.
He rose from the floor and donned his clothing, then built up the fire in the grate before taking himself to the stable yard, where he could wash and see to his basic morning needs.
If he was to free himself from his temporary wife and begin his journey home, he determined as he splashed cold water from the stable pump on his face, he must first reunite her with her friends. A gentleman would do no less. And that meant finding a nearby inn with the name White Hart.
* * *
Lavinia awakened with a start. It took only the briefest of moments for her mind to clear and for her to remember that she wasn’t in the small house she had rented and shared with Hannah, Delia, and Artie. She was in a hostelry, after accosting a stranger and unwittingly pulling him into her plans.
He was not currently in the room, although he had taken the time—and the courtesy—to rekindle the fire before taking his leave.
She had heard him return last night. She’d barely settled herself in the bed when she’d heard the key turn in the lock. She’d pretended to be sound asleep—she was good at that, having played death scenes on stage numerous times. And feigning death in front of a large audience was infinitely more difficult than feigning sleep. Thankfully, the muffled noises she’d heard him making had told her he’d been settling down for the night and had no intention of disturbing her.
Perhaps he really was an honorable gentleman, although she’d never met one before, and he’d seen her only in disguise thus far, so she wasn’t entirely convinced. She was reminded again how impulsive her actions from the night before had been—and how fortunate she was, considering he may have proven to be as bad and untrustworthy as every other man of her acquaintance had been. Excepting poor Artie, of course.
The soft light coming through the window told her it was still fairly early in the morning. She bounded out of bed and quickly washed and donned her gray dress, then sat at the small dressing table next to the bed and unpinned her hair.
It felt good to pull out the pins and loosen the braids after having her head assaulted by them all night long. She ran her fingers through her hair, separating the woven stands that reached nearly to her waist.
Too late she heard the key turn in the lock. She jumped quickly to her feet, pulling her hair over one shoulder in a vain attempt to twist it up and hide it.
The door opened, and Lucas Jennings stepped inside.
Lavinia knew the exact moment her appearance hit him—not the ugly gray dress and drab cosmetics this time but her own features, most particularly her hair. Her dratted, garishly red, unavoidably obvious hair. He inhaled sharply and took a step back, his eyes wide with shock.
Lavinia boldly returned his gaze while he stared at her, his mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for water. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now you understand why the face paint and cap were necessary,” she said.
“I—” he stammered.
“Precisely,” she said, sitting again and picking up her brush. “If you think you are the first man to react in such a foolish manner, you would be wildly inaccurate.”
She vigorously brushed and braided her hair, pinning it on her head and replacing the cap, ignoring him and allowing him time to return to his senses. When she was done, she tossed her brush in her bag and closed it. “Have you learned anything about an inn called the White Hart nearby?” she asked. She had to crane her neck in order to look up and see his face. Gracious, but the man was tall.
“About that,” he said after clearing his voice. “I did make a few inquiries this morning. Apparently there is a pub called the White Hart a mile or so from here, not to mention an inn called the White Hart farther north on the way out of Barnet. Popular name hereabout, it would seem. I’ve arranged for us to have breakfast in a private dining room downstairs, after which we will assume your friends went to the inn, and I shall take you to them.”
“I don’t require—”
“But I insist, Miss Fernley,” he said, holding up a hand to silence her. “After the unique circumstances that threw us together last evening, I feel honor bound to see you safely to your friends. A gentleman would do no less, nor would your nearest male relative allow you to continue on your way unescorted—even an honorary male relative such as I.” He grinned briefly.
His words and humor squeezed Lavinia’s heart. Her father had been the only real family she’d ever known, not that he’d been a good father—quite the contrary—and he’d been gone for over three years now at any rate. She could bar
ely remember her mother. “I have imposed on you too much already, Mr. Jennings.”
“Nonetheless, I will see you reunited with your friends.” He picked up his saddlebag and slung it over his shoulder, then paused. “I do understand now why you chose to travel incognito last night; the cap alone is a definite necessity if you wish to remain anonymous. Your hair is . . . er, vivid and clearly recognizable. I am glad you chose to forego the face paint this morning, however. You are exceedingly lovely without it.” He opened the door for her and then picked up her bag. “After you, Mrs. Jennings,” he said.
Ruby Chadwick would have flirted and teased away his comment, but Lavinia, as herself, could not. “Thank you,” she said as she passed him on her way through the door, and then they continued on along the corridor and down the stairs of the inn to the private dining room he’d arranged for them.
She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake in choosing not to wear the cosmetics today. She was counting heavily on the fact that they would soon leave London behind them and that Mr. Jennings was correct in saying her disguise had drawn attention to her rather than maintain her anonymity.
She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake in trusting Mr. Jennings’s words. She had only his honorable behavior of the night before to go on, and if there was anything Lavinia had learned in her twenty-four years, it was that men in general were not to be trusted and eventually showed their true colors.
Chapter 5
Lucas was still reeling from the vision he’d seen when he’d returned to his room. He’d literally rocked back on his heels at the sight of Lavinia and her exquisite face and glorious, fiery hair tumbling over her shoulders. His pulse still raced, even though they’d finished breakfast and were now on their way to Barnet and the White Hart Inn in search of her friends.
Miss Lavinia Fernley was no on-the-shelf spinster. Quite the contrary. And she was even more of a mystery now than she’d seemed last night.