Jo Beverley - [Malloren 01]

by My Lady Notorious

  More likely the latter, thought Chastity, for the gown was shredding under the arms and badly faded in many places. It was certainly large, though. Huge, in fact. Cut up, it probably could make a passable gown for a slim lady. She, who had never considered such things, became intrigued by the possibilities of secondhand clothing.

  After all, it seemed very likely that she would have an impoverished future.

  She expected to be asked for her advice, but Cyn ignored her. She remembered then that he thought her a youth. He didn’t seem to need help anyway. He rejected various items of evening wear, and some shoddy garments which Mrs. Crupley obviously thought all the go, and chose two ugly gowns of excellent quality.

  One was a brown Brunswick traveling dress with beige braid; the other was an open sacque of Prussian blue figured cloth to be worn over a quilted gray petticoat and a stomacher of blue and black braiding. He added a dark blue hooded cloak, and a plain straw villager hat.

  Mrs. Crupley clearly didn’t think much of his choices, and pitied the poor lady who would be forced to wear such dull stuff, but she made one last attempt. “Look lovely with new ribbons, this will,” she crooned, stroking the flat hat. “Yellow or bright green, I’d think. Have to have at least sixpence for this, I will.” She glanced at Cyn slyly. “A guinea and a half for all this, I’d say.”

  He ruthlessly beat her down to eighteen shillings and sixpence, and had her throw in a shabby black wig and a huge cloth muff as well. Chastity was amazed to see the woman look content when she took the money.

  When they were out in the alley she said, “Eighteen and six for all that! You diddled the poor old dear.”

  He laughed. “I paid her more than she hoped for. She’d have been suspicious if we paid much over the odds. People poor enough to buy castoffs watch every penny.” He flicked her an indulgent glance and dumped one of the large, newspaper-wrapped bundles in her arms. “You don’t know you’re born, do you, young Charles?”

  Chastity snarled at him, but he was already off at a brisk pace back the way they had come. Chastity quickly followed and had to admire his command of geography. She would have been hard put to find her way back to the Crown unaided.

  Suddenly he stopped in front of one of the shops that had fascinated her, a tiny haberdashery crammed with goods—threads, ribbons, caps, and ready-made ladies’ undergarments. She followed him into the intimate establishment.

  Showing a shocking expertise in such matters, and no embarrassment that Chastity could see, Cyn purchased a nightgown, a lace-trimmed chemise, two pairs of cotton stockings, and garters threaded with pink ribbon.

  Eyes twinkling, he held the garters up before Chastity. “What do you think, Charles? Will these please my sister?”

  Chastity knew she was blushing. “As long as they keep her stockings up,” she said, “I suppose they’ll please her well enough. What else are such things for?”

  Cyn winked at the girl behind the counter. “These bashful young lads.” The girl giggled. Chastity gnashed her teeth.

  Cyn looked around the shop where sample garments were hung on display. His smile widened. “I see you even have silk stockings. Let me see a pair of those, my dear.”

  The young woman climbed a small stepladder to reach down a box, and opened it to reveal stockings in a range of colors, some even striped. “They are of the finest make, sir,” the girl said, all rosy under his attentions. “See the quality of the embroidery.”

  Cyn held up a pair admiringly, a very racy pair of pink silk with fancy red stripes. “Oh, I don’t think one should be cheese-paring about such matters,” he said lovingly, and grinned at Chastity.

  She glared at him.

  “Goodness,” Cyn said to the shop-girl, “I’ve offended the lad. He must not approve of fancy stockings. Tell me, my dear, what do you think of the matter?”

  The girl, thought Chastity in disgust, was incapable of thoughts that were other than lustful. And how any man could so shamelessly flaunt intimate apparel in front of strangers . . .

  “Oh, sir!” gushed the shop-girl. “I do think them ever so wonderful.”

  Cyn admired the stockings again. “I’ll take this pair. And five yards of wide yellow ribbon, if you please.”

  Chastity choked. Cyn looked at her and back to the shop-girl. “I don’t think he cares for the yellow. A young man of Puritan tendencies. Perhaps you’d better make it that striped fawn.”

  When they left the store he laughed.

  Chastity glared at him. “You, sir, have no decency!”

  “True. Do you not approve of striped silk stockings? They make the most of a well-turned ankle.”

  “It is not a matter I give any thought to,” Chastity said frostily. She stalked ahead in what she hoped was the right direction.

  He caught up, laughter in his voice. “You give no thought to ladies’ ankles? ’Struth, but you’re a strange young man.”

  Chastity decided it would be wiser not to pick up that gauntlet. Anyway, she had to let him lead again, for she was lost.

  Despite the brisk pace he set, very little escaped Lord Cynric Malloren. As they approached the Crown he entered another shop, one advertising soap and beauty agents. This was a different type of establishment altogether, and one with which Chastity was familiar. Walgrave Towers had been ordering its soap and unguents from Travis & Mount for years. What the deuce did Cyn Malloren want here?

  Again without embarrassment he purchased a pot of rouge, a box of pale powder, and, after sniffing at a number of samples, a small vial of perfume. From the ecstatic look on the face of Mr. Mount, Chastity knew it was expensive.

  Once outside, she said, “Why are you wasting all this money if you truly want to help us?”

  “It’s not a waste. It’s important to be thorough in a deception, and we have ample funds I assure you. You must learn not to worry so, Charles.” He smiled at her in a beguiling way. “Perhaps you’re hungry. Surely even such an unnatural youth as you must have a sweet tooth?”

  What else could Chastity say but yes, and in truth she did love sweet things. Her heart gave a little leap when she saw where he was headed. Still, she had to protest. “We don’t have time or funds for pastries.”

  He was already within the establishment of Dunn and Carr, Confectioners and Pastry Cooks. Chastity decided that, all in all, the aroma of the bakery surpassed even that of the perfumier’s.

  They emerged in a little while with a damson pie and a bag of crisp biscuits. He juggled his parcels and took out two Shrewsbury biscuits. Walking backward down the street, he popped one into her mouth.

  Chastity took it. He reminded her of a schoolboy on a pleasure outing, and for a moment she felt his equal—the same sex, the same brash confidence, the same carefree approach to life. She grinned as she arranged her own parcels so she could hold the biscuit and enjoy it. It was delicious, still warm from the oven.

  He took a bite of his, still walking slowly backward. She took a bite of her own. He trapped her gaze and she found herself watching his lips as he bit again and chewed. He had beautiful lips, with a perfect bow-curve . . .

  The muscles of his throat moved as he swallowed. His tongue slid out. He slowly licked a trace of golden crumbs away from those lips, leaving the gloss of moisture behind.

  His eyelids lowered sleepily, sensuously, and he smiled.

  Chastity felt her heart thump, and she gaped.

  She realized they’d arrived at the inn and were standing there like statues, gazing at one another. She knew she should move but felt trapped in a web—a sticky, warm web. She had only taken one bite of her biscuit, but the sweet tingly taste lingered on her tongue.

  “Taste, texture, heat,” he said softly, seeming to dare her to take another bite. “Life offers such beautifully simple yet rich pleasures for our delight. Taste them with me, Charles . . .” He slowly put the last of his biscuit into his mouth.

  Chastity realized she had obediently taken another bite and was chewing in synchrony with him
. . . She almost choked. A dizzy heat reminded her sharply that they weren’t the same sex. Nor did they have the same approach to life.

  He was the enemy. He was a man. He was supposed, damn it, to be her prisoner!

  She swallowed the mouthful in a lump, looked helplessly at the remaining biscuit, and dropped it in the dirt. Then she marched into the inn.

  Cyn watched her go, dismayed but not daunted. For a moment he’d glimpsed the fire he knew was in her. She would be a wonderful woman to take to bed, but for some reason she feared men. Perhaps a lover had betrayed her.

  Skill and patience would bring her to hand; he had both, and three days in which to use them.

  As he followed her, he admitted that the game might be simpler if he put an end to this masquerade, but that would erect new barriers of propriety between them. The opportunities would be greater and more amusing as things were.

  As they prepared to leave, he contemplated making inquiries about an estate five miles out of Shaftesbury, set to the north of the road. He could have the family name in minutes. He desisted.

  Part of it was caution. If questions were ever asked, he didn’t want anyone remembering he had been interested in his damsel’s family.

  Part of it was quixotic. He wanted Charles to tell him the whole truth herself one day.

  Preferably in bed.

  Chastity, Cyn, and Hoskins arrived back at the cottage to find Verity in a fret, sure they had been caught, or at least seen, by Henry Vernham. Chastity set to soothing her sister, and Cyn took Hoskins down to the coach and horses.

  The four horses were doing well enough on grass and water, though the coachman muttered a bit about it. He was dumbfounded when he saw the damage to his coach.

  “Who the ’ell did this?” he asked, running a pained hand over the gouges.

  “I’m not sure,” Cyn lied. “If I explain what’s going on, it may help.”

  Hoskins listened, unappeased. “If that young ’ellion did this to me coach, I’ll take me whip to ’im.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll leave him to me.”

  The man shook his head. “And what’re you goin’ to tell the marquess? You can’t just up and disappear.”

  “Yes, I can. I’m not a child, Hoskins. If my orders were obeyed, my brother will think I’m off on an adventure. As I am.”

  “An adventure that stinks of trouble. Who is this young woman who needs to get to Maidenhead so urgent, and all underhand?”

  “I’m not sure,” Cyn admitted, “but she’s a lady and I feel chivalrous. Now listen carefully, Hoskins. I don’t know whether the pursuit will be serious or not, but I intend to take it seriously. I don’t want any careless words of yours spilling anything.”

  “I can keep me peace, Master Cynric, as well you know.”

  Cyn knew he was in Hoskins’ bad books when he called him Master Cynric. “I know you can,” he soothed. “Now, for the journey, I’m going to pass as a woman, the mother of Verity’s child. Verity will be the wetnurse. Charles will be the groom.”

  Cyn had expected an objection to him playing the woman, but the coachman’s mind was on other matters. “That rascal’s not comin’ near me rig,” said Hoskins truculently.

  “Plague take it, man! He won’t do any more damage, I promise you.”

  “I don’t want him near me rig, or me cattle,” Hoskins repeated, and again ran his hand over the scars on the glossy coach.

  Cyn sighed. He could force his will, but he feared Hoskins would take out his anger on Charles. After all, the man didn’t know she was a girl. “Very well,” he said. “He can travel as my brother. But it’ll leave you hard-pressed.”

  “I’ll manage,” grunted Hoskins. “Where’s that paint?”

  Cyn left the coachman doing his best to repair the damage. When he entered the cottage and found the three ladies in the kitchen, he said, “I’d keep out of Hoskins’ way, young Charles, if I were you. He’s after your gizzard.”

  She colored. “We could hardly traipse around the country with the Rothgar arms emblazoned on the side.”

  “Why not? I’m along willingly, and no one connects me to you.”

  She had the look of one determined not to admit to a mistake. “How can I stay out of his way if I’m to be the groom?”

  “You’re not anymore. You’re my young brother. You’d better hunt up more good-quality clothes.”

  She shot to her feet. “Need I remind you, my lord, that you are our prisoner? Will you kindly stop giving us orders?”

  Cyn sat. “Very well. I leave it all in your hands.”

  She glared at him. “I will travel as the groom.”

  “As you will. As the groom, however, you will be under the authority of the coachman, and Hoskins is not known as a tender man at the best of times. He’s always been remarkably proud of the perfect finish on his coach.”

  She swallowed but kept to her guns. “You will give him orders not to touch me.”

  “Will I?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “Very well, but he’s my brother’s coachman, not mine. He taught us all to handle the ribbons. He cuffed us if he thought we needed it, and he’ll do at least as much for you. I suppose it doesn’t matter really,” he added carelessly. “You’ll have had many a beating at school, and I don’t suppose Hoskins will do any worse.”

  Verity quickly said, “Charles dear, please reconsider. It would serve no purpose to upset the poor man more.”

  Charles threw herself in her chair. “Oh, very well.” She impaled Cyn with stormy eyes. “But I give the orders on this journey.”

  Cyn bit back a sharp retort. Where was the charmer who had glowed over a warm biscuit? Then he reminded himself she was wounded, and probably afraid. He must control this lamentable tendency to tease her.

  “As you will,” he said as moderately as he could. “But I have a great deal more experience of the world than you, and Hoskins, I’m afraid, will only take orders from me. I would have thought Verity too should be consulted, as this is her affair, and she is surely some years your senior.”

  “Of course I will consult Verity. How would you think otherwise?”

  “Young men often disregard sisters,” he teased, then winced. So much, he thought, for good intentions.

  “I do not,” she responded, and stood. “I will acquire a few other items of clothing.” At the door she stopped and grudgingly asked, “Can you think of anything else we might need? Weapons, or something like that?”

  He gave her credit for swallowing her pride. “I can think of nothing. We have the coach pistol, and my rapier. That should be sufficient. We are not, after all, going to war.” Then he added, “Wait! One thing I don’t have for my disguise is feminine trinkets. Can you acquire any?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She returned in an hour with extra shirts and a pair of top boots. She also had a leather-bound jewel box. It was a handsome piece with a solid lock, clearly intended for expensive ornaments. When opened, it proved to contain only a sparse selection of cheap trinkets.

  The obvious explanation was that they were destitute, and had sold anything of value. It did not satisfy him, for it left unexplained the men’s clothing of fine quality, two thoroughbred horses, and a pair of silver-mounted pistols. Cyn’s curiosity itched him like a bed full of fleas.

  Chapter 5

  Early the next morning they prepared for departure. Hoskins went off to ready the horses. Cyn began to struggle with his female garments. Charles dressed in her good-quality clothing and assisted her sister until Cyn slyly questioned the propriety of this. Then she came reluctantly to assist him.

  He took care not to offend her modesty, and when she came into the kitchen he was wearing his drawers. He also wore the striped stockings and lacy garters. She took one look and burst out laughing. It was very feminine laughter, but he did not remark on it, merely enjoyed it.

  She looked delicious, flushed with humor. Despite the clothes and the hair, he could n
o longer see her as anything but supremely female. Which was very dangerous. He turned his attention to his shift.

  When he looked up again, she was no longer laughing, but was staring in horror at his scar. “What on earth caused that?” she asked.

  “A saber,” he said casually, interested to see what her reaction would be. The livid scar ran across his chest like a bandolier. All the women who had been favored with a glimpse of it had been impelled to touch it. Most had traced it, some with a finger, some with their mouths. “Fortunately it was only a glancing blow, and the cut was shallow.”

  He saw her hand twitch upward and be controlled.

  “So you really are a soldier,” she said.

  “Did you doubt me?”

  “You don’t look like one.”

  He sighed humorously. “I can’t help my beguiling charms.”

  She was still fascinated by the scar. She took a step closer. “It must have bled a lot.”

  “Like a slashed wineskin. Made the devil of a mess of my best uniform.”

  Since she seemed stuck, he closed the gap between them with a casual step. After a moment he had to acknowledge with regret that she wasn’t going to give in to temptation and trace the scar’s path from left shoulder to right hip.

  He dropped the lawn shift over his head and tied the laces at the low neck, then struggled into the Brunswick gown. Designed for comfort and simplicity when traveling, it was made all in one piece. When fastened, it would have the look of a loose sacque gown over a braided corset, but in fact the stomacher was part of the bodice, kept snug around the body by laces beneath the loose back. It was appropriate traveling wear, but its chief charm for Cyn was the lack of whalebone.

  He tried to tie the laces himself but couldn’t find them under the heavy, wide skirts. “The laces elude me. Your assistance, please, Charles.”

  Her reluctance was visible, but she came over to stand behind him. She pulled up the back of his skirt. “I can’t see them. They must have fallen to the front.”