“That’s why I must not leave. Willy said he’d take me home himself, as soon as his foot is healed, and explain to Papa. And I’m almost sure, well nearly positive, that he’ll stay to ask Papa’s permission if ...”
“If you have a few more days to work on him! Well, if anyone can bring him up to scratch, you can. In the meantime, don’t let on that Cheyne is right. Maybe he’s only guessing. And Felicia dear, please do stop smiling at the blacksmith.”
* * * *
The village of South Entwood was hardly big enough to merit a name of its own. Beside the church and the smithy were Patchin’s Dry Goods and Mr. Beck’s Emporium. Beyond was a cluster of labourer’s cottages, and the more substantial houses of the vicar, the doctor, Mr. Beck, and the Misses Pelham—Miss Millicent, who gave music instruction to the neighbourhood children, and Miss Serephina, who did fine sewing. The two prim ladies ran the parish charities and held genteel at-home teas.
Miss Riddley glided past all of them in the churchyard, with just the proper degree of courtesy. A nod, a small bow. Nothing unfriendly, but nothing to encourage familiarity. She was a solemn stranger in her black veil, intent on her devotions, the little maid two steps back. It was a magnificent performance, till Lyndell nearly botched it by almost marching right up front to the Markham family pew.
* * * *
The marquis was on his hands and knees, but not in prayer. He was searching the innkeeper’s apartments. The results seemed to please him or, if not please him, then at least satisfy him, to judge by the smile he later gave Willy, pulling up a chair near his cousin’s bed.
“You know, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, and I’ve been thinking about Miss Fullerton. Perhaps it’s not such a bad idea after all ... so I thought, while you are laid up, I might just go on north and get the job done, and fetch you on the way home. I’ll leave you Farrow, of course. With that ministering angel who has adopted you, you should do quite well. What do you think?”
Willy was twisting the bedclothes into knots, getting red in the face and stuttering. “But I ... She won’t ... You can’t ...” His cousin finally took pity on him and burst into laughter, waiting for Willy’s sheepish grin in return. “How did you know?”
“You gave it away yourselves, you clunch. The moment you saw the girl you told her you fell. Fell? I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why you’d tell clunkers to a perfect stranger.” He brushed some dust off his fawn trousers. “I hadn’t, at that moment, precisely recalled Miss Fullerton’s first name. Then she was so attentive, and you appeared quite taken with her.”
“Well, I’ve known her forever. Our fathers are good friends, I told you.”
“Forgive me for being a bit slow ... I had other things on my mind. Where was I? Oh yes. It wasn’t in your usual style, cooing over a lass—and a maid at that,” said the marquis, ignoring his cousin and pursuing his own train of thought, “which brought to mind the last female I’d heard you mention. Did I say mention? I mean proclaim, and jump to her defense at the slightest insult. That was what our absurd duel was about, wasn’t it?”
Willy coloured up. “But I couldn’t let you talk like that, not when Fel—Miss Fullerton is such a sweet, innocent —”
The marquis held up his hand. “Enough! Belatedly, I must admit, I did recall your description of Miss Fullerton as a perfect china doll, all guinea-gold curls and blue eyes.”
“Wasn’t I right? Isn’t she the most beautiful, pre—”
“Quite. But more obviously, the chit was no maid at all. Have you noticed how she dresses Miss Riddley?”
“I try not to.”
“See? Well, to tie it all up, I inspected her room.” When Willy started to bluster about indignities and taking liberties, Cheyne told him, “Don’t be a gudgeon. I had to know what she was about, didn’t I? You, most loyal cousin, were keeping mum. No, I realise you were sworn, or some such. At any rate, the lady travels light: one bandbox with the initials FF on it, two fashionable muslin gowns, some lacy things I did not examine so you can stop scowling at me, a string of very expensive pearls, and a fur-lined cape. A pleasure to travel with, I’d say, without all the trunks and cases women usually tote around. Handy thing to have in a wife ...”
“A wife? Wes, you’re not ... no, gammon, you’re teasing again, aren’t you?” At his cousin’s expectant, encouraging smile, he went on: “You don’t mind if I ... That is, Wes, you were ...”
Cheyne laughed. “No, Willy, as long as your intentions are honourable I don’t mind. I’m relieved, in fact, and I wish you all the best.”
“It’s a bit early for congratulations, Wes. Want to see her father, do it all in form, you know.”
If the marquis was amazed at Willy’s new respect for the conventions he hid it well, thinking only what strange effects love had on its victims.
“There’s one more thing, Wes,” Willy was saying. “I know that you know about Felicia, and she thinks that you know, but could you pretend not to know? You see, Felicia thinks it’s the most romantic thing ever, right out of a Minerva Press novel, to be secret lovers.” Cheyne cleared his throat; Willy stammered. “No, not that kind of lovers. You know what I mean, Wes.”
“Say no more, cuz, the lady shall be allowed her flights of fancy.” Actually, it suited the marquis perfectly to have the heiress continue masquerading as a maid. She’d be safer from recognition and possible scandal that way. Compared to what else was going on at the inn, her charade was mere child’s play. Which reminded him ...
“Will, have you ever taken a good look at the landlady?” he asked nonchalantly.
“No, thank the gods. What a fright!”
“But does she remind you of anyone?”
“Only m’sister’s dragon of a governess, why?”
“Just a notion I had. Would she seem familiar, do you think, if she had glorious reddish hair with golden touches, and brilliant green eyes?”
Willy was hooting. “Don’t tell me you’re developing a tendre for Miss Riddley, that stick! The only lady I know anywhere near your description is Miss Markham, a real Incomparable, and anyone less like your dowdy innkeeper I’ve never seen. You know, I think the Markhams used to come from this area. Maybe Riddley’s from the wrong side of the blanket, and that’s why you see a similarity. Didn’t know you were acquainted with Miss Markham though.”
“I’m not. It was just a foolish idea, as I said.”
* * * *
However far-fetched, Cheyne’s search of those rooms had given him the notion. The clothespress had yielded two sturdy, serviceable gowns—Miss Riddley was wearing a third—and a handful of others in muslin, silk, sarcenet, and crepe. Frocks designed, if he knew anything after two months of footing the bills for opera dancers and actresses, by the finest London dressmakers. Most of the fashionable gowns were in shades of green or a peach-rose, colours to compliment coppery hair and green eyes to perfection. There were no boys’ clothes here, but Jasper’s closet could have held enough. A valise was crammed full of old account books, whatever that meant. In the bedroom where he had accosted the red-haired imp Dell were Miss Austen’s novels, no book of sermons, and Miss Riddley’s spectacles.
There were two possibilities, as Cheyne saw it. The first was that the proper Miss Riddley shared the room with Delilah. But there had been only one woman in the bed with him; no mistaking that. The other possibility was that my lady innkeeper shared a great deal more with the madcap Dell.
Chapter Eighteen
When Lyndell was a child, Reverend Smallwood always seemed to direct his sermons at her. Of course he knew all her sins; he lived there right next to God’s house, didn’t he? The day he raged against pride in his deep voice, he stared right at Lyndell. That very morning in the churchyard, she’d boasted to Cynthia Highte about her new bonnet, when Cynthia had none. And the week Reverend Smallwood shook his fist on high declaring Thou shall not covet thy neighbour’s property, well, that was the week she and Allen Bromley had raided the squire’s peach orcha
rd.
The Reverend Smallwood had long since passed on to his final calling, most likely berating the angels for rumpled wings, and a Mr. Teppler had taken his place. The new vicar hadn’t the white hair, or the thunder in his voice, and he could not be addressing Miss Riddley when he spoke of the temptations of the flesh. She almost looked around to see if Molly was there, trembling in the back row. She doubted it. When the preacher’s monotone droned on about wanton lust, Lyndell let her mind wander. After all, she’d only been sorely tempted twice in her whole life, both by the marquis, and that was finished. He’d shown Miss Riddley the correct deference that evening at dinner, without any sensual overtones. He could act the part of a gentleman, if presented with a proper lady, which Lyndell was determined to be. Dell Riddley was retired. And Lyndell would swear she had done more this week at the inn to discourage illicit fornication than all the Reverend Teppler’s speeches on the Serpent in the Garden. The Devil in Disguise meant nothing to Lyndell. As for the wolf in sheep’s clothing that Teppler was mumbling about, Lyndell pictured a laughing-eyed rogue in buckskin breeches. She’d already been warned, thank you.
* * * *
The marquis, meanwhile, was also considering sheep. Mutton dressed up as lamb, to be specific, an age-old subterfuge. But why in this world, he wondered, would anyone take tender lamb—he smiled—and try to pass it off as stringy old mutton? He was determined to find out.
“I thought I would look in on the dog after luncheon, Miss Riddley. Would you accompany me in case he needs further attention?”
“That is not at all necessary, my lord. The boy Samuel is taking care. Ajax lets him do anything now.”
“Still, he’s only a lad, and you wouldn’t want all our efforts to be wasted?”
What could she say in the face of such civility—No, I don’t trust you in dark places? She went, taking the arm he offered to see her over the mud.
Ajax was in fine shape, chasing the sticks Sam’l threw up and down the stable length. The dog dropped the stick the moment Lyndell and Cheyne entered the building, standing stiff-legged a moment, then rushing toward them. He sniffed Lyndell’s skirts, gave a vague tailwag, and then practically drooled on the marquis, frisking about him, stirring up the stable dirt in excitement.
“Ungrateful cur,” Lyndell called him, laughing. The marquis only ordered, “Down, boy, you’re getting dirt on my Hessians,” but he too was smiling. Ajax calmed enough for them to be able to see that his neck was healing, his eyes were clear, and his coat was unmatted and shiny with brushing.
Cheyne looked at Sam’l and said, “You’ve done a fine job, boy. He’ll do. He might even make a good gun dog. What do you think?” Sam’l nodded his head vigorously. The marquis bent over the dog again, his back to the boy. “Maybe we can take him out tomorrow and get some rabbits for Mrs. Bennett’s pot. Would you like that?” When there was no answer, Lyndell was about to make the reply, until she saw the marquis frown at her. “Hm?” he asked again, still not facing Sam’l. When the low “yessir” finally came, Lyndell let her breath out, and the marquis stood up, holding his hand out to the boy. Sam’l rubbed his hand on his pants before offering it. “It’s agreed then,” Cheyne said, his grin matching the boy’s. “Now I think you ought to take him out in the sun for some exercise. Build up those muscles again.”
“But, my lord,” Lyndell asked, “what if the dog runs away? We can’t put a tie on him ...”
“Oh, I think he knows who his friends are now, don’t you, Sam’l?” The boy nodded happily and ran out, the dog at his heels.
Lyndell said, “That was very well done, my lord,” and turned to follow, but Cheyne said, “Wait,” quietly, half-plea, half-command. She waited. If she were a child playing with the sea, running or getting splashed by the waves, it was time to run. But she waited. Cheyne took the four steps separating them, looking into her eyes—the spectacles were back in her pocket—or her soul. He slowly reached up and removed the cap from her head and while she stood, almost entranced, he ever so softly used it to wipe at the powder on her face. It was much too late to run. He said nothing; his gaze was intent on her mouth.
Lyndell could no more have moved than she could fly, and Cheyne could have not kissed her as easily as he could not have breathed.
The kiss was joyous and natural, like coming home. Lyndell responded fully, putting her arms around his neck, touching his cheeks, his hair. So much for Reverend Teppler’s sermons.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed in her hair, “much too good for Riddley.”
“What do you mean? Jasper and I—”
“Come now, precious, Jasper’s sister wouldn’t have any reason to be in such a disguise, would she?”
Lyndell was coming out of her golden trance. She stepped back, out of his embrace. “You mean, you think ... Jasper? Oh, you—”
He was holding her hands. “Oh, no, you’ll not slap me again,” he said, laughing. So she kicked him. Her soft kid half-boots absorbed more of the blow than his Hessians, and that was fair too, because Lyndell was more furious at herself than at Cheyne. “Ow!” she shouted. Then, “Let go of me, you ... you brute!”
Sam’l rushed in, launching his small body at the marquis, flailing at him and gnarling. “Hold,” ordered Cheyne, letting go of Lyndell and pinning the boy’s arms to his sides. So Sam’l kicked him. The marquis’s brow was lowering and his mouth was forming into a thin line when Lyndell cried, “Don’t hurt him!”
Still holding the boy, Cheyne looked at her quizzically. “Just what kind of ogre do you think I am?”
Spy, seducer, cradle-robber—she didn’t get to begin. He shook Sam’l lightly and said, “No more of that, my boots have taken enough punishment. As it is, Farrow will have my hide. It was very brave, lad, coming to Miss Riddley’s defence against such a foe, and I admire you for that, but I swear I did not harm her. Did I, ma’am? Tell the boy.”
Lyndell murmured, “No Sam’l, he did not hurt me.”
“And I never, ever would, I promise.” Sam’l nodded, believing him, and Lyndell knew she believed him too. He might ruin her reputation, he might even break her heart, if she let him, but no, he wouldn’t purposely hurt her.
Her reputation, Lyndell Markham’s, she would guard twice as zealously, and, as for her heart, she simply would not permit herself to fall head over heels in love with such a plausible rogue. She simply wouldn’t.
“Come, Sam’l, let’s go see if Mrs. Bennett needs help with supper.”
* * * *
Intelligent and witty, spirited and sensual, exquisite and exquisitely formed. That was how Lord Cheyne catalogued Miss Riddley, whoever she was. Everything a man wanted in a woman. He still hadn’t answered the questions of why a woman, perhaps connected to a noble house somewhat illegitimately, would need to be in disguise, or how involved she was in the other business, the one he’d been sent here about, however secondary it seemed now. The answers would come soon, he was confident, since, in his experience, a man had only to bed a woman to find her secrets. Have her warm and well contented, and she would babble on, if you let her. He hadn’t tested the theory recently, Molly suddenly being indisposed toward company, but he was sure of Miss Riddley. The marquis, of course, was forgetting one of his own theories: lose your heart and your head will follow. Not seeing the danger signals, he was dreaming plans for the evening, remembering that kiss, how readily she came into his arms. Gads, what a mistress she’d make.
Chapter Nineteen
“Sir Martin Blazer and Mrs. Blazer? Of course. Rooms Six and Eight. Enjoy your stay.”
It was Sunday evening and Lyndell was steadfastly entrenched in her nook under the stairs, in the cap and powder and spectacles. She was not going to be enticed into more indiscretions, not wine before dinner, not another shared meal, not tea after. Nothing. The Marquis of Cheyne was nothing to her, and would stay that way, behind the partly opened parlour door. Not many people chose to travel on Sunday, although Molly and Bennett were kept busy in the
common room. So Lyndell was reading Miss Austen by the light of the single oil lamp on the wall behind her.
“Sir Frauncis Hammerly ... and nephew.” The fop in yellow pantaloons and a striped waistcoat dripping fobs and chains was indeed Sir Frauncis, the middle-aged, pouch-faced dandy who’d once paid ponderous court to Lyndell’s fortune. His nephew was a weak-chinned young man with pomaded curls. Before Lyndell could think of a way to get rid of Hammerly, one of the worst gossips in London, Lord Cheyne casually stepped out of the parlour, leaned against the door frame, and asked if there was a problem. Lyndell stammered something about no available rooms.
“Good evening. Sir Frauncis. Poor Miss Riddley is embarrassed that the inn is nearly filled; the snow, I suppose. If I can help though, the single room next to mine is vacant, and your nephew can bunk in with my cousin Willy.”
There was an ornate eyeglass fixed to the top of Sir Frauncis’s walking stick, and he raised this now to one red-lined eye to peer first at the marquis, then at Lyndell.
“Servant, Cheyne. Miss Riddley, is it? No, no, wouldn’t dream of disturbing Richardson. We’ll just push on to Ipswich. ‘Ta.”
When the door was shut behind them, Lyndell gave the marquis a puzzled look of enquiry.
“The nephew, ma’am.”
“Oh? Oh. Oh my. I ... I see. Thank you, my lord.”
He bowed and returned to the parlour.
* * * *
At about ten o’clock Lyndell decided to retire to bed. She had been yawning over the book, and the only new customers to come in were for the tap room. She went to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Bennett to listen for the bell, and she stayed to share a cup of tea before going up.
The marquis followed about fifteen minutes later, according to his own preplanned course. He would wait another few minutes—give her enough time to get settled, not enough to fall asleep—then knock softly on her door. He intended to say he needed to ask where he could hunt the next morning, which was private land, etc. She wouldn’t believe his excuse, certainly, but he was willing to wager she would open the door. On the way to his own room the marquis noted that Molly must be back in business: a heavy-set man was entering her room at the end of the corridor. He knew the right one now. Cheyne shut his own door and considered whether he should remove his boots now ... or later.
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