Maggie snatched the wildflower out of his hand. “I am sure she doesn’t.”
“Then more fool her,” Nicholas said, lying back down on the grass. “Everyone knows high-spirited termagants are the only sorts of ladies I fancy.”
“Such compliments. I believe I shall swoon.”
A foolish grin spread over Nicholas’s face, and as he gazed up at the clear blue sky, he reached out his hand halfway between their two bodies, turning it palm up in unspoken invitation. Almost immediately he felt Maggie’s small, slender hand sliding into his.
“Can you get away tonight after supper?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “I’m already behind in my chores. I’ll have to catch up this evening if I’m to have any hope of meeting you tomorrow.”
Maggie twined her fingers through his. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow, then,” he’d echoed.
Tomorrow.
Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut against the oppressive darkness of the loose box. His chest burned with the effort it took to stave off an onslaught of angry tears.
There would be no tomorrows.
He was never going to see Maggie Honeywell again.
Within the next hour, Fred would return with the magistrate. And then Nicholas would be hauled off to jail. From there, he imagined Fred would see that things proceeded with the utmost haste. The Burton-Smythes had a great deal of influence in the West Country. There would be no delays in judgment, no last-minute reprieves.
How soon would they hang him? A week? Ten days?
Nicholas covered his face with his hands, feeling as if he’d been cast into a black pit of despair.
And then, the sound of creaking wood rent the darkness.
He sprang to his feet, instinctively backing as far away from the doors of the loose box as he could get.
Another creak.
Fred had returned with the magistrate.
Nicholas listened hard, ignoring the sound of his pulse pounding in his veins and the cold sweat that caused his torn linen shirt to cling to his back. Any moment now, the bolt would be thrown open and they’d try to take him.
Would he fight to his last breath?
Or would he go with them meekly and quietly, like a lamb to the slaughter?
He clenched his fists.
There was a soft rap at the wooden doors of the loose box. “Nicholas?” a voice whispered urgently.
Nicholas stood stock-still, not able to believe the evidence of his own ears. “Maggie?”
The bolts slid back and the doors to the loose box swung open.
Maggie Honeywell stood there, the dearest sight in the whole world.
She was wrapped in a red woolen cloak, and her dark hair, unpinned, tumbled about her shoulders in magnificent disarray. She held a lamp aloft in one hand, illuminating her pale, fiercely determined face.
He closed the short distance between them.
She set the lantern on the ground as he approached. And then her arms were around his neck, and Nicholas was embracing her so tightly that he feared he might crush her.
When he at last loosened his hold, she drew back just enough to bring her hands to his bloodied face. With excruciating care, she inspected him for injury, her hands moving lightly from his forehead, to his jaw, to his broad shoulders and chest.
“My God,” she breathed. “What has he done to you?”
Nicholas caught her busy hands and held them firmly in his, preventing her from delving beneath his torn shirt. To his mortification, he felt tears stinging at the backs of his eyes. No one, not even his mother, had ever shown him the tenderness and concern that Maggie Honeywell did. “How did you know where to find me?”
She gave his hands a reassuring squeeze. “Do you remember my telling you that Mrs. Applewhite was coming to supper? Well, Aunt Daphne invited her to stay the night, and after I retired to bed, the two of them must have dipped into the sherry. I could hear them laughing and carrying on all the way upstairs. And thank heaven I did, for when I went down to the drawing room to see what all the noise was about, I overheard my aunt talking about what had happened with you, and Fred, and my jewelry. I came as fast as I could.”
“I swear I didn’t steal anything from you. Fred must have taken your jewelry and hidden it in my room. How else would he have known where to look for it? He wanted to catch me with it. To get me out of your life once and for all. I saw it in his eyes when he found us dancing in Burton Wood. He wants me to be hanged or transported for life, anything to—”
“There’s no time for that,” Maggie said. “I’ve come to set you free. To help you get away before the magistrate comes.”
Nicholas took a step toward her, his grasp on her small, slender hands tightening. “You have to believe me. I’d never steal anything of yours. Say you believe me!”
“Of course I do. And if I thought it would do any good, I’d proclaim your innocence to Aunt Daphne and the magistrate and anyone else who would listen. But they won’t listen to me. You know they won’t. They’ll say our friendship has blinded me to your true nature, or some such nonsense. And then they’ll accuse me of impugning Fred’s honor by doubting his word as a gentleman.”
Abruptly Nicholas let her go, not trusting himself to touch her any longer. “A gentleman. Your future husband, you mean.”
Maggie’s eyes blazed. “Why do you always bring that up? As if I want to marry Frederick Burton-Smythe.”
“Look at what he did to me tonight.” Nicholas drew aside the collar of his shirt, revealing the deep gash of blood running from the side of his neck down to the top of his chest. “I ask you, is this the work of a gentleman?”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Good grief! Did Fred do that?”
“Who else?”
“But why?”
“Do you think I’d just let him lock me up in here without a fight? He pulled me from my room after he found your jewelry. We were struggling with each other all the way down the stairs. I might have beaten him if he’d fought fair. Instead, when I drew back to hit him again, he lashed out at me with that blasted whip he’s always carrying. I should have expected it. After all these years, I should have known…” He raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “But I wasn’t prepared, damn me. I fell backward into the loose box, and before I could regain my feet, he’d bolted the door.”
“The blackguard!” Maggie’s low voice trembled with fury. “The confounded coward! I shall show him what it feels like to be struck with a whip. When Papa returns from London, I’ll—” She broke off with a muttered oath. “Devil take it, there’s not even enough time for me to dress your wound. You must go, Nicholas. You must hide yourself from Fred and the magistrate until my father returns next week, and then, when you come back, we shall go to Papa together and explain—”
“Why should I come back?” Nicholas spat in a sudden burst of anger. “I hate this cursed place.”
Maggie shook her head, denying the truth of his words. “Don’t say that.”
“I hate everything about it. I hate Sir Roderick and I hate Fred Burton-Smythe. I hate Mrs. Applewhite and your Aunt Daphne. I despise working in this stable and—”
“What about me?”
He felt a spasm of deep anguish. “You know how I feel about you, but how can one good thing outweigh all of this misery?”
“Well, you can’t go away and never come back. As horrible as everything else is, Jenny’s here, and I’m here, and you have someplace to sleep, and a chance to earn your living—”
“Earn my living? As what? A groom in your father’s stable?” Nicholas laughed bitterly. “I’ll never be a gentleman if I remain here. No matter how much you teach me about books and music and dancing. Bastards and commoners can never be made into gentlefolk, by no miracle. I’ll never be anything more than a servant to you. And one day�
��” He looked at her, his chest constricting with torment. “One day you’ll marry Fred Burton-Smythe, and you’ll forget I ever meant anything to you.”
“I would never!”
“I can’t be here when that day comes, Maggie. I’d rather be dead. And if I remain here, I might as well be. There’s no future for me as a servant at Beasley Park. Can’t you understand that?”
“But where else can you go?”
“To Bristol. To the sea. I’ll go to find my father.”
“Your father?” Maggie repeated. “Do you mean…Gentleman Jim?”
“Jenny says that the last time she ever heard anything of him, he was on his way to Bristol. Perhaps if I can find him, if I can convince him I’m his son, he’ll allow me to stay with him. To ride with him on his travels.”
“But you don’t even know for certain that Gentleman Jim is your father! Jenny has never admitted—”
“She’s never denied it. And everyone who remembers what Gentleman Jim looked like says I’m the very image of him.”
“Yes, I know that, but no one has seen him in ages. What if you can’t find him?”
Nicholas’s jaw hardened. “I will find him.”
Maggie glared at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Confound you, Nicholas Seaton, you know there’s no time to argue!” She stamped her foot. “Oh, very well.” She reached into the folds of her cloak and drew out a small, heavily filled sack. “If you insist upon going, then you must take this with you.”
Nicholas eyed the sack warily. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes. Most of my pin money and all of the little tokens Papa has given me in the last several years. A shilling here, a guinea there. I daresay it has added up to a tidy sum. I was going to give you a few coins to sustain you until Papa returns from London, but under the circumstances I think you must take it all.”
“No.” Nicholas took a step back from her. “It’s a king’s ransom.”
“Good. Then I’ll never have to worry about you freezing to death or going hungry.” She thrust the sack of money at his chest. “Take it. And take Miss Belle, too. Ride her as far as the crossroads and then set her loose. She can find her way back to Beasley Park from anywhere in the county.”
Nicholas swallowed hard as he accepted the money. “Maggie Honeywell, you’re an angel.”
At his words, the first tears spilled over onto Maggie’s cheek. She dashed them away with her hand. “I know I will never see you again.”
Nicholas stepped closer, and reaching out, caught her cleft chin in his hand. It was an old habit. Something he’d done since she was a little girl. But this time the gesture wasn’t playful or teasing. He didn’t, as a brother would, give her chin an affectionate pinch and then let her go. Instead he gently tipped up her face so that her large blue eyes were forced to meet his. His thumb brushed away a tear, and then, before Maggie could guess his intention, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her very softly on the lips.
It was a brief kiss, and considering her tears, not a particularly romantic one, but it was the first kiss they’d ever shared. And it was nothing at all like the kiss that a brother would give to his sister.
“Wait for me, Maggie,” Nicholas said. “I’ll find Gentleman Jim, and when I make my fortune, I’ll come back for you.” He held her gaze for what seemed like an eternity. “No matter how long it takes,” he vowed. “I will come back.”
London, England
Spring 1817
Margaret Honeywell sank back into the velvet cushions of her father’s traveling coach and closed her eyes. Last night had been spent at a rather inhospitable inn, the landlord of which had relegated her and her maid, Bessie, to a cramped bedchamber overlooking the stable yard, complete with a smoking fireplace, a lumpy mattress, and a door with a very unreliable lock. Between the noise, the discomfort, and the fear that they would be murdered in their beds, Maggie had hardly managed to sleep a wink.
“That’s right, Miss Margaret.” Bessie draped a carriage rug over Maggie’s lap, tucking it in all around her. “You close your eyes and rest.” She untied the ribbons of Maggie’s bonnet and lifted it from her head. “And don’t you fear dropping off to sleep neither, for there’s a good two hours before we arrive at Lord and Lady Trumble’s, and I’ll wake you in plenty of time to put you to rights.”
“You must rest too, Bessie,” Maggie murmured without opening her eyes. “You slept as little as I did last night.”
“Don’t you worry about me, miss.” Bessie settled her enormous bulk back into the seat across from Maggie. “A ten-minute nap, and I shall be as fresh as a nosegay.”
The rhythmic rattling of the coach lulled Maggie to sleep. When next she awoke, they were within the city limits of London.
Bessie was at the ready with the dressing case, and having once again moved to sit beside her, combed out Maggie’s curls and secured them with a few artfully placed hairpins. “Pinch your cheeks, Miss Margaret,” she commanded in the same brisk, no-nonsense tone she used when directing Maggie to drink a vitamin tonic or to eat an extra spoonful of restorative jelly. “I mayn’t be your nurse any longer, but I’ll not have it said that you lost your bloom under my care.”
Maggie dutifully pinched her cheeks, but when Bessie began forcefully tugging at her carriage gown in an attempt to straighten out the wrinkles, Maggie slapped her hands away. “Enough, Bessie! You’re making me as nervous as a cat with all of your fussing. Leave me be for now. It’s only Jane who will see me, and she’ll not mind my hair and gown.”
Undeterred, Bessie picked up Maggie’s bonnet and began to dust off the crown. “Miss Trumble may not mind it, but you can be sure that dresser of hers, Miss Jenkins, will have something to say about your appearance. And any fault she finds will be hung round my neck, make no mistake. It’s jealousy, is what it is. For all you aren’t the daughter of a baron, she’d give her right arm to do for you instead of Miss Trumble. Not that Miss Trumble isn’t a sweet girl—far sweeter than you are, Miss Margaret, truth be known—but she isn’t what anyone would call a beauty.”
“In tonnish circles, Jane is considered quite pretty.”
Bessie snorted. “I’ll wager no gentleman ever compared her complexion to Devonshire cream, or said her eyes were like two Indian sapphires.”
“It would be rather silly if they had. Jane’s eyes are brown.”
“And what about those gentlemen during your come out, Miss Margaret? The ones that called you the Pocket Venus? I can’t imagine anyone saying the same about Miss Trumble, no matter how many frills and furbelows Miss Jenkins puts her into.”
“Naturally, they wouldn’t. Jane is tall.”
“A regular Long Meg,” Bessie agreed without malice.
“And I might have been called the Pocket Venus at the beginning of my come-out season, but before I returned home, they were calling me something quite different, and well you know it.”
“Foolishness,” Bessie grumbled. “And don’t think that makes Miss Jenkins any less envious of me looking after you!”
Maggie stared out the window of the coach as Bessie fitted her bonnet back on her head and tied the ribbons in a jaunty bow at the side of her face.
It had been over four years since Maggie had last traveled to London to visit her friend. She’d fully expected to make the journey the previous spring, but no sooner had she cast off her blacks after a year spent in mourning for her father than Aunt Daphne—in her typically disobliging fashion—had slumped over one morning at breakfast, as dead as the proverbial doornail, and Maggie had been forced straight back into her mourning clothes again.
Aunt Daphne had been the last of Maggie’s family. There were no other relatives living, and consequently, no one left who might eventually need to be mourned. “Burn these,” Maggie had instructed Bessie when she’d stripped off her mourning weeds for the very last time. “I
shall never be needing them again.”
For the journey to London, Maggie had donned a dark blue carriage gown. It had once accentuated the generous curves of her bosom and the narrowness of her waist. Now, it hung loosely on her small frame. She’d always been petite. Indeed, after the age of sixteen she’d never grown any taller. But following her illness, and the subsequent years of grief and isolation, there was altogether less of her.
Her mirror didn’t lie. Instead of the voluptuous curves that had once inspired gentlemen of the ton to dub her the Pocket Venus, there was now a fragile delicacy to her face and figure that had never been there before.
She looked—or so she feared—very much like an invalid.
“A bit of good food and good company, and before you know it, Miss Margaret, you’ll be as bonny as you were while your Papa was alive,” Bessie said. “Mind you, you’re still the prettiest young lady I’ve ever seen.”
Maggie gave her maid a wry smile. At six and twenty there weren’t many who would still consider her a young lady. Rather the opposite, in fact. She was well on her way to becoming an old maid.
It wasn’t for lack of choice.
During her come-out season alone, she’d received six formal offers of marriage, including one from an impoverished earl who had hopes that Squire Honeywell’s vast fortune would replenish his ancestral estates.
She had refused them all, just as she’d refused every offer since.
And if she still had any choice in the matter, she would continue refusing.
They arrived at Lord and Lady Trumble’s house in Green Street a short time later. Jane was waiting on the front steps, a colorful Indian shawl draping her tall, slender frame. As a footman handed Maggie out of the carriage, Jane ran down to meet her, both hands extended in greeting.
“My dear friend! It’s been far too long. How was the journey? Are you dreadfully tired?” She kissed one of Maggie’s cheeks and then the other before linking arms with her and walking her into the house. “Aunt Harriet is fast asleep in her room else she’d be here to greet you. She’s meant to be our chaperone, you know. Papa wouldn’t consent to my coming to London otherwise. But you mustn’t think she’ll interfere with our fun. She’s an absolute relic. She falls straight to sleep a moment after sitting down in a chair, and can’t hear a thing without her ear trumpet. It will be as if we have the entire house to ourselves.”
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