One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jo Goodman

  Mr. Lowell backed away, then turned and headed for the rear of the cottage. Mr. Wellsley followed suit, though the caretaker doubted it was because he feared Mrs. Lowell’s censure.

  Mrs. Lowell wasted neither time nor movement stripping off Mrs. Caldwell’s clothes. Only the short cotton shift was dry and, therefore, allowed to remain. Once the last of the blankets was securely tucked around Mrs. Caldwell’s shoulders and torso, Mrs. Lowell briskly massaged the younger woman’s feet, infusing them with warmth from her own palms.

  “That’s just the thing, isn’t it?” Mrs. Lowell chattered as she worked. “You’ll feel the blood flowing soon enough. Sharp as pins and needles it will be but with no ill effects. Can’t imagine what you were thinking going out today, though I suppose your parcel explains some of it. Most anyone around here could have told you it wasn’t walking weather. And with you having your own carriage, it seems rather foolhardy. But don’t take mind of my scolding, it’s not my place to say anything, especially not to quality.”

  She continued to rub Mrs. Caldwell’s feet while freely sharing all manner of advice that she frequently remarked was not her place to give. When she judged the feet to be sufficiently warmed and the urge to continue her scold had passed, Mrs. Lowell drew the blankets down, tucked them, and began to gather the clothes. She stuffed the shoes with dry rags and placed them closer to the fireplace. The stockings were laid carefully over the back of one of the chairs, and she wrung out the underskirts and wet drawers. Droplets of water sizzled on the hot stone apron when they fell in that direction.

  “Mr. Lowell. Mr. Wellsley. I have need of you now.” They responded quickly and were given the task of wringing out the heavy gown and pelisse. These items were removed to the tidy kitchen and draped over chairs that were pushed toward the hearth. At his wife’s request, Mr. Lowell prepared tea.

  “How can I be of assistance, Mrs. Lowell? I assure you, I am unused to doing nothing.”

  Mrs. Lowell regarded Mr. Wellsley with some skepticism. “I probably should not say so, but I have heard it somewhat differently.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, dear. I have upset you. It’s no good denying it. Mr.Lowell says I am too forthcoming, but I have always thought it was because he will not come forth at all. I very well understand that you cannot like that there has been communication regarding you, but we are all interested when someone like you arrives in our village.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Why, quality, of course. You are the grandson of the Viscountess Bellingham. I have not mistaken the matter, have I? You did write of such when you arranged to take this lodging.”

  “By way of introduction. And what is that you’ve heard, Mrs. Lowell?”

  “Scapegrace,” Mrs. Lowell intimated delicately. “I’ve heard you called such.”

  “I’m sure.” He hunkered down beside their guest. “She is shivering. Tell me what I must do.”

  “There’s no harm in shivering. Keeps a body warm. But go on, take her hands and place them in yours. That will help.”

  He lifted her hands as instructed. “Are you quite certain this is Mrs. Caldwell?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve never met her, you understand. She hasn’t been living at the Sharpe house for much longer than a fortnight, but other than you and the servants she brought from London, there are no strangers about.”

  “Mighten she be one of the servants?”

  “Wearing that pelisse? It strains the imagination.”

  “She could have let one of the maids borrow it for the trek into the village.”

  “Do you see that?” asked Mrs. Lowell, pointing to the parcel she had placed on the caned seat of the chair. “It has her name on it in Mr. Foster’s neat script. I should know. I’ve received enough goods like it from him over the years.”

  “She could have sent a maid to collect it.”

  “My, you are in want of convincing, aren’t you? Well, if I must speak frankly, I will. There’s her intimate things that tell the tale. Mrs. Caldwell might be moved to lend her velvet pelisse to a servant doing an errand for her, but I doubt her generosity extends to permitting the same servant to wear her fine linen drawers.”

  “I see.”

  Mrs. Lowell studied him. “I thought that would put you to a blush, but you are made of sterner stuff than my own dear husband. Your grandmother is indeed in the right of it to name you a scapegrace.”

  “Lady Bellingham is frequently in the right of things.” He continued to gently rub Mrs. Caldwell’s hands. “She is not wearing a ring.”

  “She is a widow. I cannot know if that explains it or not.”

  “You say she is only recently come to Penwyckham?”

  “That’s right. We rarely have visitors from London, and now we have two at the same time. I can tell you without fear of being contradicted that it has created quite the stir.”

  Mr. Lowell arrived with the tea and held out the cup and saucer to his wife. She pointed to Mr. Wellsley, as she was occupied with wringing more water out of an underskirt.

  “See if you can get her to take some of it,” Mrs. Lowell said. “Bring it close to her nose and don’t be surprised when it brings her around. A good cup of tea has restorative powers.”

  “A bit of whisky wouldn’t be amiss, either.”

  Mr. Lowell snorted lightly and passed the brew.

  Mrs. Lowell smiled. “He’s already put it in there, Mr. Wellsley.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “More or less. Be mindful you don’t splash her with it.”

  He sat on the floor and carefully slipped his free arm under Mrs. Caldwell’s shoulders, raising her just enough to effect the proper angle for taking the tea. Doing as Mrs. Lowell suggested, he passed the cup beneath Mrs.Caldwell’s nose and observed that Mrs. Lowell was right: The brew had the efficacy of smelling salts.

  Cybelline’s nose twitched, then she blinked. Her lashes fluttered several more times before her vision focused enough to make out the features of the man looking down his aquiline nose at her. Shock held her silent. Her understanding of her situation did not improve when the gentleman holding her said, “Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Caldwell. I am Mr. Porter Wellsley, and these fine people are Mr. and Mrs. Lowell, the caretaker and the proprietors of this lodge.”

  Cybelline had no idea if he was telling the truth about Mr. and Mrs. Lowell, but she was absolutely certain he was lying about his own identity. She did not know any gentleman named Mr. Porter Wellsley, but she recalled the Earl of Ferrin in every detail.

  This was he.

  She opened her mouth to speak only to have the teacup pressed against her lower lip. She jerked her head backward and might have had the cup upended on her face if Ferrin had not drawn it away so quickly.

  “It is too hot,” he told Mr. Lowell, raising it up for him to take. “Bring me a glass of sherry.”

  “Oh, there’s none of that around,” Mrs. Lowell said. “There’s only the whisky.”

  “Then bring me some of that,” he said, directing his order to Mr. Lowell. “We will have the tea when it cools a bit.”

  Mrs. Lowell watched her husband return to the kitchen, where the spirits were kept, and offered an aside. “I suspect he thought adding the whisky would make it cool enough to drink. He’s not the sort to do harm to anyone. Can’t bear to witness another’s suffering.”

  “Allow me to sit up,” Cybelline said. She struggled to rise but Ferrin held her firmly in place, and Mrs. Lowell came to his rescue.

  “There now, Mrs. Caldwell, you don’t want to sit up yet. I’ve got the blankets all tucked around you and your clothes are on this side of them, if you take my meaning.”

  Cybelline did. Her eyes widened in alarm, and she could not look at Ferrin. Had he recognized her? He gave no indication of it, and he had called her Mrs. Caldwell. Still, she knew that this was the second time she was only partially clothed in his presence, and she had neither darkness nor Boudicca’s mask to hide behind. She slipped
her hands under the blankets and was only slightly relieved to find that she was still wearing her short shift. It barely reached as far as her fingertips when she was standing up. It certainly was not adequately covering her nether parts in her current position.

  Ferrin could not find it in himself to be sympathetic to her alarm, not when it gave him the first clear view of her splendid eyes. They were a steely shade of blue-gray that made him think of flint about to spark or a finely honed blade caught in a beam of sunlight. He had spent an unseemly amount of time wondering about them, and now he knew. He was also aware that this discovery was not at all anticlimactic, as he had supposed it might be. When he had time to consider what that meant, he would decide if that necessarily boded well.

  Mr. Lowell appeared with the whisky. Ferrin accepted it and raised the glass. “Will you take some of this?” he asked. When she nodded, he placed it against her lower lip and tipped it back. Her teeth chattered lightly against the glass, but she continued to sip the liquor without any indication that she disliked or appreciated it. He suspected that now that her initial surprise had worn off, and she had come to terms with her dishabille, she was not going to give much of her thoughts away. Her mask had slipped once; it was not likely to do so again.

  When the glass was empty, Ferrin returned it to the caretaker and lowered Mrs. Caldwell’s head to the folded blanket that was her pillow. “You are still shivering,” he said. “Do you wish to be closer to the fire?”

  “I wish to be in the fire.”

  “I do not recommend it.”

  “Then I shall remain where I am, Mr. Wellsley.”

  Though he did not reveal it by so much as a twitch of his lips, Ferrin was amused that she had called him Wellsley. He wondered if she would, or if she would admit that she knew him to be Ferrin. She must be entertaining some doubt that he was aware that she was his Boudicca. It was a delicious conundrum for her. If she owned that she knew he was the Earl of Ferrin, then she would surrender herself. The only way she could hope to secure her secret was not to reveal that she knew his.

  “I am Mrs. Caldwell, but then you know that already.” She frowned slightly. “You said so at the outset. How do you know me?”

  “I don’t know you,” Ferrin said easily. “I know your name. As to that, Mrs. Lowell discovered it. It is printed on the parcel you collected from Mr. Foster. Apparently she is familiar with his handwriting also. I do not think there is much that escapes Mrs. Lowell.” He looked up to find her smiling broadly. “Is that right, Mrs. Lowell?”

  “There are those who say it’s so.”

  “You see, Mrs. Caldwell, I am one of many who say it’s so. Mr. Lowell? I think the lady will have that tea now.” He supported her shoulders again and took the cup when it was held out to him. “You are in no danger of being burned by it.”

  Nodding, she accepted his help and took a large swallow before indicating it was enough. “There is rather more whisky in it than tea, I think.”

  “That explains its restorative powers.” He glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Lowell, both of whom merely shrugged. “How long ago did you leave the village?”

  “I could not say. I was not yet at the village’s edge when the snow began to fly. I thought I could not lose my way on the road, so I went on.” She made a small grimace. “I was wrong.”

  Mrs. Lowell clucked her tongue, only narrowly restraining herself from delivering a full scold. “Your pelisse and gown, indeed all of your underskirts, are wet through and through. Did you take a tumble in a snow bank?”

  “In the brook. When I lost my way I went toward the water. I knew I could find the Sharpe house if I stayed on the water’s path.”

  “And walked a goodly distance out of your way,” Mrs. Lowell said. “The brook meanders far and wide. I would venture to say it is slightly more than two hours since you left Penwyckham.”

  Cybelline immediately tried to sit up. She glared at Ferrin when he removed his arm from under her and placed one hand firmly on her shoulder to restrain her. “You do not understand. They will all be worried. I must get back. It is likely Mr. Kins is already searching for me.”

  “Mr. Kins?” asked Ferrin.

  “He is my head groom and driver. He is the most logical person to have set out. If he makes it to the village he will discover that I left. It will cause a stir, all the while I am here safe and sound. I must make my way back.”

  “There is sense to what she’s saying,” Mrs. Lowell said. “Mark my words, there will be a search made for her.” Her glance out the window drew everyone’s attention in that direction. Snow was still falling wet and heavily, lining the skeletal branches of the deciduous trees and weighing down the pine boughs with a thick coat of frosting. “And it will be dark soon. Nothing good can come of this, I’m afraid.”

  Cybelline was unable to hide her distress. Her breath caught and then was expelled as a tiny moan. Ferrin gave Mrs. Lowell a look meant to quell her. She was oblivious to it. Mr. Lowell snorted.

  “I will ride to the Sharpe house,” Ferrin said, “and inform them you are quite safe. If I learn that Mr. Kins or some other person has been sent to find you, I will return this way and go on to the village. If there is a search party already formed, I am certain to come across it.”

  “Permit me to accompany you,” Cybelline said. “If no one from my home has left in search of me, then I will be safely returned and no longer a bother to you.”

  “No.” Ferrin’s tone did not allow for argument. “You have not yet recovered from your first adventure. It would be unwise to support you in another.”

  “But you are only recently arrived here. You do not even know where you are going.”

  “The Sharpe house is due east of here, is it not?” He looked at Mr. Lowell for confirmation and received a firm nod. “There, you see? I will find it.”

  “It will be dark soon. You cannot hope to find your way without help.”

  “I will take the help I need with me, and you will remain here.”

  Mrs. Lowell paused in wringing out one of the damp petticoats. “I pray you’ll forgive me for being forward, Mr. Wellsley, but I don’t know that I like the idea of Mr. Lowell venturing out in this weather. Not that he wouldn’t do it, but he’s got a touch of the rheumatism and the cold makes his leg ache so.”

  Ferrin interpreted Mr. Lowell’s rumbling growl as a directive that his wife should cease to speak immediately. When Mrs. Lowell’s mouth snapped closed, he realized he was beginning to understand the nuances of Mr. Lowell’s language. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Lowell, and it is a fitting one for a wife to have for her good husband; however, it was not my intention to ask Mr. Lowell to lend his assistance. I have in my possession a compass that I have used on previous occasions and found to be wholly reliable.”

  “A compass.” Mrs. Lowell’s tone indicated she was suitably impressed. “Why, aren’t you the clever gentleman. And wholly reliable, you say. If it will take you directly to the Sharpe house, then I am all for it.”

  Finding it difficult to keep his amusement in check, Ferrin realized he was making some noises at the back of his throat that sounded rather like Mr. Lowell. He dared not look at the hosteler, afraid the man’s expression would be so telling of his own suffering that Ferrin would howl with laughter. “It is gratifying to learn that you approve, Mrs. Lowell. I must inform you, though, that the compass will not take me directly to Mrs. Caldwell’s home but guide me in that easterly direction.”

  “I’m sure you know all about it, Mr. Wellsley,” she said confidently. “Shall I get your greatcoat?”

  “In a moment.” Barely suppressing his grin, he regarded Mrs. Caldwell. “I think we should discuss how best to situate you. There are but two bedrooms above stairs. Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Lowell occupy one. The other is the one I have let for the time being. I think you will be infinitely more comfortable there.”

  “In your bed?”

  He thought she sounded as if she might choke on the words. “Yes,” he
said with perfect ease. “It is the practical solution. Mrs. Lowell will prepare the warming pan and lay the fire. I believe you will find the room to your liking. Certainly there is privacy that you cannot be afforded here.”

  “It is good of you to wish to see to my comfort,” she said carefully. “But I want the privacy of my own room and the comfort of my own bed.”

  “Then I regret that I must refuse you. It is not the most auspicious beginning for new neighbors, but I suppose it cannot be helped. We are of different opinions, you and I, and on this occasion I believe I shall have my way.” Ferrin stood. He set the teacup aside and addressed Mrs. Lowell. “I will have my coat now.”

  Mr. Lowell followed his wife, retrieved his own coat and hat, and left the cottage to make Ferrin’s mount ready for the journey. Ferrin joined him minutes later turned out in a Carrick coat eminently suited for the bad weather, leather gloves, Hessians, and a top hat that rode low over his brow. The cinnamon-colored gelding, an Irish thoroughbred sixteen hands high, stood patiently while Mr. Lowell made the last adjustments to his bridle.

  Ferrin accepted the leg up to mount Newton, gave the hosteler final instructions regarding the care and welfare of their patient, then was off. Newton didn’t shy from the blizzard conditions, and Ferrin was forced to hold him back to make certain the horse did not come up lame. They picked their way through the trees in the general direction of the road. Ferrin carried a lantern that allowed him to make out the face of the compass as darkness settled.