“And we both know English warrants contain nothing but the truth,” she retorted bitterly.
He frowned and compressed his lips into a thin line. “Has he said or done anything that would lead you to believe the charges are false?”
“No, he has not denied he is a thief.”
“A damned clever thief who has already been forewarned that a trap is being set. I dare say you have given him more than a fair chance to save his neck being stretched this time and that alone should clear your conscience of any culpability.” There was more than a hint of sharpness in his voice, for Finn had not been at all pleased to learn of the captain’s first visit to her room. What his reaction would be if he knew she had just spent the better part of the night in his arms did not bear speculation. “Moreover,” he was saying, “I should think that if he is fool enough to rendezvous on the turnpike tonight, he rather deserves whatever fate lies in store.”
She turned to the window and eased the curtain aside with her finger. She stared out across the bleak landscape and somewhere in the back of her mind she saw the image of the horse and rider streaking away in the distance, his laughter echoing softly on the wind.
“He is anything but a fool,” she decided quietly. “Neither is Roth. But I have no intentions of being caught up in the middle of their little games anymore.”
She dropped the curtain back in place as she turned around. “For that matter, I have no intention of being anywhere near any turnpikes tonight unless they are well away from here and pointing the way to London.”
“London, mad’moiselle?”
“They have ships leaving from there and sailing to America, do they not?”
“America?”
“They have no guillotines in America, Finn. And no love of British soldiers. Papa spoke often of New Orleans. He said it was a gracious and elegant city, too far to be corrupted by the royal court, too closely allied with the American colonies to be influenced by the politics of the revolution. We would be safe there, would we not?”
“As safe as one could be, I suppose, in a land of red-skinned savages and bloodthirsty pirates.”
“Would you prefer to remain here where the savages are white and the pirates are no less bloodthirsty for being called family and friends?”
Having no immediate response, Finn pursed his lips. “There is still the matter of getting there. Apart from the financial requirements, I understand it is an arduous voyage of several weeks’ duration, which might be unpleasantly extended to months if one’s vessel is blown off course or encounters foul elements.”
Renée curled her lower lip between her teeth and bit down. Finn had been green for most of the Channel crossing, with his head bowed over the rails. His relief at haying safely escaped France had been surpassed only by his joy at reaching solid land again.
“I am sorry, Finn. It is the only place I can think of where we will be safe from my uncle’s influence, Roth’s anger, and the nightmares of the revolution. Antoine will be safe there. He will be able to grow into a strong, fine young man and perhaps … in a place that is new and strange and wonderful, he will even be able to put the horror of maman’s death behind him.”
Finn nodded slowly, if somewhat reluctantly, in agreement. “Of course, you are absolutely right, mad’moiselle. We must think of what is best for the young master. I am still at a small loss as to how we might achieve our ends with so little at hand, but I am certain, if the will is strong, the way will prevail. I have,” he added with a slight clearing of his throat, “already checked Lord Paxton’s silver drawers and plate cabinets and found them sadly lacking.
If there is anything of any value to be found on the premises, I have no doubt that Pigeon woman keeps it under tight lock and key.”
Renée chewed her lip again and beckoned for him to follow her back across the hall to her own room. While he held the candle, she knelt beside her bed and located a section of seam in the mattress ticking that had been unstitched and hastily tacked closed again. She pulled the threads apart without much care for the feathers that puffed into her face and thrust her fingers inside, pulling out a small cloth pouch. Inside the pouch there were two gold coins and a meager handful of silver livres—all that remained of the hoard she had brought away from Paris sewn into the hem of her chemise.
Finn was not looking at the coins in her hand, however. He was looking at the bed, at the blankets and pillows that were tossed every which way, some of the latter thrown halfway across the floor. She was normally a light sleeper who rarely left a dent to show where she had lain, and by the time Finn’s startled blue eyes arrived back at her face, her cheeks were a deep burning red and her fingers had curled over the coins to form a small defensive fist where she held it clutched against her breast.
“Mary and Joseph,” he whispered. “He was here again, wasn’t he?”
There was no point denying the obvious, not when he lifted his candle and brought it closer so that he might see the condition of her hair, the pinkness of her skin, the shine of culpability in her eyes.
“Good God,” he rasped. “Did he … did he force himself upon you?”
It took what little strength she had left not to lie and save herself a further, painful surge of hot blood up her throat and cheeks. “No. No, he did not force me,” she said quietly. “I was quite willing to steal what I could from him.”
“Steal, mad’moiselle? I’m sure I do not understand what you could possibly steal from him”
“Some of his courage, perhaps. Some of his boldness. Some of his fearlessness. And this,” she added, remembering the diamond cravat pin. With trembling fingers she plucked it off the underside of her lapel and held it out. “It must have fallen when he … when he was leaving and he did not see it. I did not see it either, although I might not have returned it to him even if I had. It is very valuable, is it not? Surely worth three fares to America?”
Finn stared at the glittering diamond pin but he did not touch it. He took several steps backward and sat heavily in the chair, looking suddenly very much his age, thin and frail in the oversized nightshirt.
“I … never thought it would come to this. Being forced to sell yourself to this—this road hawk. Where have I failed you?”
“I did not sell myself,” she insisted quietly. “Nor did I plan to give myself either, it—it just happened. And I have never been forced to do anything other than live when I would have preferred to die.”
Finn’s gaze rose slowly to hers. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head and sank down onto her knees before him. “I was standing in the same square as you and Antoine when maman was attacked by the soldiers. I did not run forward to try to help her because I was too frightened. I saw them beating her, kicking her, laughing at her, and I wanted to scream as loudly as Antoine, but … I was too frightened. I could not move. I saw it, I heard it, I knew there must be something I could do to help, but … I could not move. Afterward, I wanted to die. I just wanted to die, but you would not let me. You made me run and you made me think of Antoine, and you made me come here, to this place, when all I really wanted to do was go back and be with maman and papa, Jean-Louis … the others. Without you by my side I should have gone mad long before now. Vraiment, I may still go mad, but not because of any promises you have failed to keep. If anything, it is I who have failed you.”
One of Finn’s bony hands stretched out, the fingers trembling, and stroked a length of the long golden hair. “How?” he asked with a frown. “How have you possibly failed me?”
“By not being more like my mother. By not having her courage, her strength.”
“Good God, child. Is that what has been laying so heavily on your mind all these months? Is that why”—he leaned forward suddenly and gripped her shoulders tightly—“is that why you agreed to cooperate with Colonel Roth? Is that why you agreed to this abominable marriage? Because you were not able to sacrifice yourself in Paris? Because you are alive and your mother is dead and—”
he had to stop himself again, for the words, the sentiments were as thick in his throat as they were in Renée’s.
Thirty years earlier he had helped Celia Holstead escape her family’s clutches to flee London and elope with Sebastien d’Anton. The escape had required courage and precise timing, for the old earl had kept his daughter under lock and key, watched day and night by servants as well as family members until such time as she could be whisked to the altar and safely married to the aged and gout-ridden Duke of Leicester. On the day of her wedding, Finn had taken his place as usual in the driver’s box, but instead of going to the church, he had ridden hard and fast for the coast, where Sebastien had a ship standing by and ready to set sail the moment she set foot on board. It had not been in Finn’s original plans to depart England himself, but with the earl’s retainers in hot pursuit, and shots being exchanged ship to shore, he was easily persuaded to make France his new home.
He had remained a steadfast and loyal member of the d’Anton household ever since, yet no one had ever suspected the real reason why he had stayed. No one but Renée, who had only understood herself after witnessing his utter devastation following her mother’s death. He had loved her as deeply, as honorably, as nobly as any man could love a woman, and had borne it in his heart with silent dignity for over four decades.
“Never,” he said raggedly, “never let me hear you say such a thing again. Never let me believe you are even thinking it, for if you regret a single day that you are alive, then her death, your father’s death, would have been in vain. We might well all have offered ourselves to the guillotine and shouted, while we did so, that all our lives, all their lives had just been a waste. That they had no meaning, no purpose. That neither you nor your brother should have been born, that you should never have survived to provide living proof that your mother and father had lived, had loved, had left a part of themselves behind. If nothing else, child, you are proof of that. You are proof they existed and so long as you keep them alive in your memory, all the blades in all the town squares cannot eradicate that.”
The tears Renée had been fighting so valiantly to suppress welled along her lower lashes and splashed free on the first blink. Seeing them, Finn cleared his throat again and pushed to his feet.
“I agree: hang the rubies. It was a fanciful notion at best and the sooner we are away from this place, the better. The guards have become lax although discretion, of course, must still be our tantamount concern; we must not give cause for anyone to raise an alarm. I dare say Colonel Roth will not take kindly to being cheated of his entertainment.”
Renée dashed the back of her hand across her cheeks and stood beside him. “I hope he chews his fingers raw with frustration.”
“Yes. Well. I have been giving the matter some thought and”—he paused and glanced around the room—“how did he get in here, anyway? The doors are guarded and I was most thorough in locking and bolting all of the windows.”
“I do not know how he got in,” she admitted. “He was just … here. He said it was how he made his living, going places he was not wanted, taking things he was not supposed to take. Locks, he said, only made the challenge more interesting.”
Her voice trailed away and Finn snorted. “One can only hope he is as resourceful when he finds himself challenged by the stout locks on a gaol cell. In the meantime, we shall benefit from his example and simply leave by the main door. In order to avoid suspicion, we shall have to forgo the taking of any baggage save for what can be carried in a single valise. When it is ready, I should be able to remove it to the coach house without too much difficulty, but it will fall upon you, I am afraid, to find some excuse to drive into town. That Pigeon woman will insist on accompanying you, as usual, but …” He stopped and frowned. “Do you still have those packets of sleeping powders the doctor in London gave you?”
Renée nodded and went to retrieve three small envelopes from the sandalwood box in her dressing room. When she returned, Finn’s shoulders had a determined squareness to them again. He took one of the packets, then muttering a comment about the housekeeper’s vast bulk, took another. “We will stop first at a pastry shop and suggest a treat of something particularly sweet and cloying—she thrives on those little white cakes soaked in porter and cream. While you peruse the next shop, I shall sweeten her cream further”—-he wiggled one of the packets—“and if her past behavior holds true, she will endure perhaps one additional stop before remaining behind to devour her cake and sip an ale. As soon as she is asleep, we can drive the coach to some secluded street and hire another from the public livery. By the time her head clears, we should be halfway to Manchester.”
“Manchester? Not London?”
“London, I rather think, will be the first direction they search, and without the rubies, we have no real reason to go there. I imagine the hounds will be loosed on all points as soon as it is discovered the hares have escaped the warren, but I believe the greater concentration of efforts will be to the south, not north.” He paused, and noting that her eyes had not lost any of their haunted look, he attempted to reassure her with a brief smile. “Granted, the plan is not without its flaws, but then neither is Colonel Roth as skilled a huntsman as he boasts, despite his endless, tedious declarations to the contrary. If he were, he would not have required your assistance with the redoubtable Captain Starlight in the first place.”
He took the cravat pin out of Renée’s fingers and held it up to the light. “Indeed. A particularly fine piece. The gems should easily fetch enough to pay for three passages to America. One can only hope the cost of buckskins and beaver hats is not too dear.”
“He gave me the name of someone who might help us.”
“Who did?”
“M’sieur Tyrone. That is Captain Starlight’s name,” she added in a whisper. “Tyrone.”
Finn’s nostrils flared slightly in disdain. “Irish. Hardly a surprise.”
Renée gave the old butler an odd look. “Are you not part Irish yourself?”
He arched an eyebrow and gave his nightshirt a tug to straighten it. “It is not something I am wont to brag about, mad’moiselle. They are a mad, unpredictable race of people who lack any self-discipline and adhere to wild notions of independence.”
At the mention of the word discipline, Renée’s cheeks flushed and her belly fluttered. Her gaze strayed to the bed, to the tumble of sheets and pillows where, for a few brief hours, she had felt as bold and unafraid as the man who had held her in his arms.
“Waken Antoine,” she said quietly. “Then inform Mrs. Pigeon we will be driving into town this morning.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Finn excused himself to dress and within the half hour, Jenny was at the door carrying two steaming bucketsful of water. The tub was dragged out of the dressing room and set in front of the fire and while the maid hastened away to fetch more water, Renée finished packing a tapestry valise.
The small pouch containing most of the coins went in first, muffled inside stockings and spare underpinnings. The cravat pin remained on the collar of her robe until such time as she was able to dress and clip it safely to the underside of her chemise. Apart from her small box of medicines, her brushes and combs, there was not much else she considered a necessity. Finn was right. Aside from the sheer impossibility of removing trunks and boxes, too much baggage would slow them down as well as make her a more easily identifiable traveler for anyone who sought to give chase.
For such an auspicious occasion as flight, she also chose to wear an English style skirt and fitted bodice. The whalebone corset would pinch her waist and push her breasts upward and outward like the prow of a ship, but again, the gown was an unremarkable style, almost matronly, with wrist length sleeves and a modest neckline. The skirt was cut from an overabundance of blue velvet that flared from the waist over a stiff layer of petticoats, but it would be warm and sturdy for traveling and, with the addition of a plain riding coat, buttoned high to the neck, ought not to raise a curious eyebrow anywhere
along the way.
Jenny returned with more buckets of water and a cup of thick chocolate that would serve to curb her appetite until she descended to the breakfast room. It was a gritty and bitter drink, very nearly unpalatable, having not been beaten or frothed long enough to remove all the lumps of cocoa butter. But she choked it down anyway, once again obeying Finn’s orders to take in as much nourishment as she could, for there were no guarantees what or when they would eat again after today.
The logic extended to more than food, Renée reasoned as she stepped gingerly into the tub of hot water. Most inns and posting houses looked at a guest as if they had three ears if they requested a bath, and she was almost certain such luxuries were unheard of on board ocean-going vessels. Her present hip tub was enameled tin and did not allow for much more than sitting with the knees bent up to the chin, but at least the water was hot and the soap smelled clean and she was able to soak away a few more memories of the night.
Of course, the bed was there in full view to remind her. She had tidied the sheets and blankets and returned the pillows to their proper places, but each strayed glance produced a vivid image of two naked bodies entwined together, moving and writhing and straining to the urgent rhythms of passion. She could feel his hands on her hips and his mouth on her breasts, and she could close her eyes and relive the sensation of each full-blooded thrust, when all the world was reduced to brilliant flashpoints of pleasure.
“Ma’am?”
Jenny was standing by the tub holding up a towel, waiting for Renée to stand so she could dry her body and hair. The water had cooled quickly and she was shivering as she rose, her body white and glistening in the mix of sun and firelight. Finn would be happy to see the hazy light streaming through the windows; it would make for better haste on the roads.
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