“Can I beg a little hot water so I can shave?” he asked, and the old lady happily provided it.
He worked before a small, cracked mirror on the kitchen wall, giving thanks that his beard was not particularly heavy or coarse, for he was unused to this task. Jerome always did it, even when Cyn was with the army.
Jerome was the only indulgence Cyn had allowed Rothgar to provide when he joined his regiment. In six years of soldiering Cyn had made his own way. He’d won his promotions rather than buying them. Rothgar had seriously proposed buying him a regiment, but Cyn had refused, and proved to himself and his brother that he could stand alone.
Until now.
He grimaced at himself in the mirror, still disgusted that the lung-fever had won.
He remembered the struggle to keep going, feeling sicker and sicker by the day, but denying it. After that, the memories grew hazy: the rough care of his men; the rough-and-ready military hospital in Halifax; a hellhole on the ship where he’d decided he’d rather be dead . . .
And then suddenly, dream-like, he’d been at Rothgar Abbey in the care of his family—Rothgar, Brand, Bryght, and, most concerned of all, his twin sister, Elfled. Weak, and wondering if he were going to die, he’d taken comfort in his home and family, in tastes, sounds, and faces from his childhood.
As he’d recovered, however, he’d chafed at his siblings’ cossetting. Lord, he didn’t know what they considered good health, but it seemed to be a state too perfect for a mere mortal to achieve. There’d been talk of him selling out and taking up another profession.
Not bloody likely.
His hand tightened and he nicked his chin. He bit back a curse and grabbed a handkerchief to dab at the blood. He finished the job without further mishap, however, and hoped that augured well for the whole adventure. When he turned, pressing the cloth to the bloody spot, he found Charles had come into the kitchen. He caught her looking at him. She colored, looked down, then boldly looked up again.
“Hand shaky this morning?” she mocked.
“My valet always shaves me. I don’t suppose you have this problem yet. Be grateful. It’s the deuce of a bore. I sometimes long for the days of beards.”
With wicked intent, he tossed the blood-spotted cloth aside and went to his trunk to take out a clean shirt. With his back to the girl, he casually stripped off his old one.
He stretched, turning slightly to watch her out of the corner of his eye. Her color was betraying her again, and she knew it. She concentrated on cutting slices from a cottage loaf. Either she wasn’t very good at it, or her mind wasn’t entirely on the task, for the slices were coming out as scraps and wedges.
He discovered he could observe her in the mirror and made a pretense—still bare from the waist up—of studying the small nick on his chin. He saw her glance up cautiously, then look at him through her lashes. He stretched again, knowing this had gone beyond teasing. He was showing off like a peacock spreading its tail.
Now she was frankly looking. He could bring out the big guns. He had a scar across his chest which it seemed no woman could ignore. It came from a minor wound, a long shallow saber cut, but it looked dramatic. With Nana in the room, however, this was not the moment to try its effectiveness on his damsel.
He pulled on his clean shirt and turned. Charles was intent on buttering the slices she had cut.
“Good of you to help your womenfolk,” Cyn said approvingly as he fastened fresh ruffles at his wrists. “Many young men would think it beneath them.”
Her busy hands faltered, but then resumed the work. “Many young men are asses.”
Her hands, he realized, were just angular enough to pass as those of a youth, but only just. She was wise to wear gloves when adventuring.
“How true.” He looked for some reaction to him and saw none. He shook his head. She was the most guarded young woman he’d ever met. “I’ll just use the necessary.”
By the time he returned Verity was in the kitchen too, with her babe in her arms. Nana was frying eggs and bacon at the stove. He suspected Charles would normally be helping the old lady. She certainly didn’t look too happy with a passive role. Being a lazy male took a certain amount of practice.
Cyn strolled over to admire the baby. He had some experience after his visit to his older sister, Hilda, and her new pride and joy. He realized with surprise that this babe was almost as young. “He must be only a couple of months old.”
“Nine weeks,” Verity said, running a protective hand over the babe’s soft blond fuzz.
“A bit young for traveling.”
The hand faltered. “It was necessary.”
Cyn found he couldn’t badger gentle Verity. Instead, he badgered Charles by going to assist Nana, handing her the warm plates and then carrying them, filled, over to the table. After a moment, Charles came to help. She filled the teapot from the boiling kettle, and found pots of marmalade and jam, and a jug of milk set on the cool windowsill. Her actions had the ease of familiarity, but he didn’t mention it.
As soon as everyone was eating, Cyn spoke. “Well? Are you ready to tell me your story?”
After a moment of silent communication with her sister, Charles said, “We’ll tell you what you need to know.” She fixed him with a stony look. “I suppose you think Verity’s child was conceived on the wrong side of the blanket.”
It was the obvious explanation. “He isn’t?”
“No. He’s fully legitimate, born two years after a Hanover Square wedding, the true son of his father.”
Cyn didn’t rise to the challenging tone. “That must be a great comfort to everyone.”
“His father is dead.”
Cyn surveyed Verity, who wore no mourning and was anxious to reach her betrothed. He raised his brows.
“Lud,” said Verity, “I don’t know why you two find it so difficult to tell a straight story.” She faced Cyn. “My husband died nearly two months ago. My brother-in-law is my child’s guardian. When he arrived to take responsibility for us, I realized I do not trust him, and so I am seeking the man who will protect us both.”
A number of questions leaped to mind. Cyn asked the most puzzling one. “You described this protector as your betrothed. How can you have a betrothed husband so soon after your widowing?”
Verity’s color rose. “Nathanial and I were pledged to each other, though my father did not sanction it. There has been no impropriety, but our pledge still holds.”
Charles broke in. “So you see, it is merely a matter of transporting Verity and William safely to Maidenhead.”
Cyn doubted that. “And the matter of the guardianship?”
“Once Verity and Nathaniel are married, they will petition to have Nathaniel made the child’s guardian.”
Cyn sensed a great deal more to this than he was being told. “And what if the court decides that this precipitous flight and marriage shows that both Verity and Nathaniel are unsuited to the care of an infant?”
Verity paled and held her child closer. “They wouldn’t!”
“They could. I’m pointing out that it might be wiser to return home and send word to your Nathaniel to come and help you in a more conventional manner.”
The sisters glanced at each other; Cyn could feel the anxiety flowing through the room. It was Charles who spoke. “Verity wouldn’t be allowed to marry Nathaniel, and she thinks Henry V—” She broke off, then continued, “She thinks her husband’s brother will kill the child.”
Cyn saw from Verity’s eyes that Charles spoke the truth. “Why?”
“Because then he will inherit everything.”
Cyn let the silence settle as he considered. Greed could be a powerful force, and he supposed it must be galling to an ambitious man to have one small and recent life stand between him and everything.
On the other hand, he gathered some women were a little strange after having given birth.
He addressed Verity. “How did your husband die?”
She looked down. “His heart gave out
.”
“What was his name?”
“Don’t answer that!” broke in Charles. She turned on Cyn. “What right have you to cross-examine her? We’ve told you the essentials. Help us or not as you choose.”
Cyn made his decision without difficulty. “Of course I’ll help you.” He hardly expected it to be much of a task. It must be little over a hundred miles. An easy three-day journey. “I guarantee to deliver you all safe to Maidenhead. I would like to know, however, what pursuit we should expect. Is Guardian Henry even now scouring the roads?”
“Yes.”
“But hasn’t thought to look here?”
Charles glared at his audible disbelief. “He came three days ago. We convinced him we knew nothing because it was true. Verity had to make her way here on foot. She arrived after he’d left.”
Cyn looked at the young mother with new respect. Seeing her soft gentleness he would never have imagined her capable of such a grueling journey, babe in arms, in November. He began to doubt his complacency. Verity, at least, clearly believed the danger was real. He saw now the touch of desperation with which she held her baby close.
“Does he know about Maidenhead?” he asked.
Charles answered. “We don’t think so.”
Cyn turned to Verity. “So where will he think you’ve gone?”
She shrugged. “I hope he doesn’t have the slightest idea. He clearly thought I would come here. He might think I’d go to London. He can know nothing of my life before I married his brother.”
“What of your family?” asked Cyn. “Can they not help?”
Another revealing look passed between the sisters. Charles answered. “What would I be doing here in this cottage if we had a useful family?”
“In disgrace?” Cyn suggested. “Sent down from school perhaps?”
That hit a mark, though she concealed it well. “You have it, my lord. We do not want to seek help from our family because they would not allow Verity to marry Nathaniel.”
Cyn had a rule of survival which had served him well: act as if the worst was true. He rose and paced the small room. “The child’s guardian has the law on his side. He’ll doubtless have left word, even posters, at tollbooths and major inns. Even if he doesn’t know about Maidenhead, the toll roads will be closely watched. You wouldn’t get far on the stage.”
Charles said, “We had planned on a disguise.”
“Of what kind?”
Another uncomfortable glance between the sisters. “Verity is going to dress as a nursemaid,” said Charles. “We’re also going to darken her hair.”
“And you?”
“I don’t need a disguise.”
Cyn leaned forward on the table. “Horrible Henry is going to come back here to check again. When he finds you gone, he’ll know to look for you.”
She met his eyes. “We’ll be in Maidenhead by then.”
Now that Cyn could escort Verity, the obvious solution was for Charles to stay behind, but apart from the fact that the chit wouldn’t agree, Cyn didn’t want that. He had a lot of exploring of his damsel yet to do.
He paced again as he weighed the options. “So Horrible Henry is looking for a fair-haired lady with a child. As soon as he checks here, he’ll know he’s looking for said lady plus youthful escort.” He waited for the correction that never came.
He considered Charles. “What a shame you can’t act the part of a lady . . .” He ignored Verity’s twitching lips and a strangled sound from Nana, and pretended to study the girl. “No, I don’t think you could pull it off. I can’t see you simpering.”
Color flushed her face. “Thank the stars for that!”
“Well then, could you play the groom?”
With a spark of interest, Charles nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I know how to care for horses. Will you be the coachman, then?”
“No. I’ll ride into Shaftesbury and hope Hoskins is still at the Crown. He can drive us.”
“He’ll ask a lot of questions.”
“He certainly will,” said Cyn. “Especially when I tell him I’ll be in petticoats.” He gazed benignly at the three thunderstruck faces. “We’ll outfox any pursuers for sure, for I’m going to be the baby’s mother.”
“You’re going to play the woman?” Charles said in disbelief.
“Unless you insist on the honor.” Cyn fluttered his lush lashes. “But I think it wiser this way. I’m prettier than you, and I know how to simper.”
He loved the battle which raged across her features. A very natural pique at having her looks disparaged was chased by a flash of malicious amusement—doubtless at the thought of seeing him in a stomacher and petticoats.
In that he was quite correct. Chastity was bemused and frustrated by this damn male who had invaded her life, and seemed well on the way to taking over. She hoped he hated the lacing, and looked ridiculous in a gown.
As for being plain and unable to play the part of a lady, devil a bit he knew about it. Both the Earl of Walgrave’s daughters had been drilled and disciplined into perfect ladies, mistresses of all the feminine arts. How else could their father hope to strengthen his political web through their marriages?
Lord Cyn, she told herself crossly, was not prettier. Chastity had been declared a belle during her time in London. She’d had half the Town at her feet, including—in his cool way—Cyn’s brother, the Marquess of Rothgar, the matrimonial prize of the decade.
Abruptly the humor of the situation hit her, and she bit her lip against laughter. She as the handsome boy. He as the pretty lady. She wished she were alone with Verity and could let the laughter out. It was far too long since she’d laughed.
Cyn saw the tremble of her lips and the twinkle in her eyes. He wished she would express her amusement. He suspected she would be beautiful when she laughed.
He set to persuading his kidnappers to allow him to ride into Shaftesbury to deal with his servants and buy some women’s clothing. Charles grudgingly went to obtain a mount—presumably from the nearby big house which was these ladies’ rightful home.
When she returned she brought two riding horses.
“You are accompanying me?” Cyn asked. “Do you think that wise?”
“I think it wise to keep an eye on you, my lord.”
“You surely will be recognized so close to home.”
She looked amused. “Why do you think that would be a problem? I am not the fugitive. Verity is.”
“Still,” said Cyn, “it might be best if no one realizes there is any connection between you and me. Let’s begin your metamorphosis to groom. Do you have any less elegant clothes?”
“No,” she said unhelpfully.
“Then let’s see what the coach has to offer.” He set off for the orchard at a brisk pace. At sight of the mutilated doors, he stopped. “Was that really necessary?”
“I thought there would be a hunt for it.” Chastity hated the tremor of nervousness in her voice.
He looked at her coolly. “You are a hellion, aren’t you? Was this supposed to be a hit at me? This is my brother’s coach, not mine. You won’t sit for a week if Rothgar finds out.” He considered the vehicle. “We’ll buy some paint, and you can cover the damage. A plain coach will cause no comment; a brutalized one will.”
Without waiting for her response, he climbed up and reached into the box under the seat. He pulled out a bundle and dropped it down. “Harry’s,” he said as he returned to earth. “The real groom. He’s a mite taller than you, but not much.” He undid the bundle and produced a rough shirt, a pair of patched breeches, and a neckerchief. “All quite clean too,” he remarked as he tossed them to her. “How fortunate. You’ll have to keep your own coat, hat, and boots. If you’re wise, you’ll rough ’em up a bit.”
“That will be a pleasure.” Chastity turned. “I’ll go back to Nana’s and change.”
Cyn leaned against the coach, arms folded. “Are you just naturally modest,” he asked, “or do you harbor nas
ty suspicions? I assure you, Charles, that my taste in bed-partners is . . . conventional.”
Chastity felt her color rise again and damned it. “I never thought otherwise,” she said, beating a retreat. “As you say, I’m just modest.”
His voice floated after her. “Are you sure you’ve been to school?”
Chastity marched into the cottage and slammed the door. “I wish I’d left that man by the roadside!”
Verity looked up from the box she was packing, a distinct twinkle in her eye. “I think he’s going to be an asset. No one will be looking for a brown-haired older lady, with her baby and wetnurse.”
“I could have played the mother.”
“You wouldn’t look old enough not to be me, and your hair is a problem. Wigs are so chancy. Many men still shave their heads and wear one, but not ladies.”
Chastity’s hand went to the silky fuzz where so recently there had been lustrous curls.
“Oh, Chastity,” said Verity, rising to come to her. “I’m sorry for mentioning it. And it will grow, dearest.”
“It’s already growing,” said Chastity, “but I can’t forget how it felt when Father shaved it off. And the things he said . . .” She shuddered, then shook off the memories. “But see. Father’s done me a favor. I look ridiculous as a woman, but I make a fine boy and no one suspects. Who would think a woman would cut her hair this short?”
“Father will come around—”
“No,” said Chastity sharply. “Don’t mention his name. He’s as good as cast me off, and I have renounced him.”
Verity sighed. “I’m sure he meant it for the best.”
“I’m not. I’m sure he wanted his own way, as always.”
“But he is our father, dearest . . .”
“Then why haven’t you rushed into his loving arms?”
Verity picked up a pair of stockings and rolled them. “I confess, I cannot feel as I should toward him after the way he treated you.”
Chastity hugged her, knowing how hard this unfilial behavior was for conventional Verity. It had taken a great deal for her own trust in the mighty Earl of Walgrave to be destroyed. “You are doing the right thing. Believe me, Father is not infallible, nor is he the Incorruptible he is called.”
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