She had an aching need to be a part of the family circle. To belong. To offer something to the conversation, if nothing more. “It be a boy,” she announced confidently. “That was the way I carried my Billy. Large in the front, and with my prat stuck out behind.”
She saw the look of shocked surprise in Allegra’s eyes and cursed herself for speaking so impulsively. The language of the London underworld scarcely belonged in this company. She stammered out an explanation. “That is… when a woman be large in the…” she struggled for one of her tutor’s fine words, “… in the posterior…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Grey said gently. “Only let your prediction come true. God knows I wish only for Allegra’s safety and a healthy child. But a son…” His eyes misted with yearning.
“The creature kicks enough for two sons,” Allegra said crisply, motioning to the servants to serve supper—steaming platters of delicious fare that Gloriana still couldn’t get used to. As they ate, Grey and Allegra chatted amiably, discussing the news from London, the weather, the books they were reading. Gloriana listened to their conversation in silence, fearful of saying anything that would embarrass her further. Their talk was elegant and polished, with large words she could scarcely understand, and their tones were soft and cultured, reflecting generations of education, good pedigree and refinement. She longed to fit into their world.
They spoke only of trifles, or subjects that mystified her. But after enduring a particularly incomprehensible discussion about the composer Handel, the favorite of King George, she excused herself, pleading weariness.
She climbed the stairs and turned toward Billy’s room. She hadn’t seen him since morning, and her arms ached to hold him. After more than four months, she still marveled at the wonder of his perfection. She bit her lip in dismay as she entered the chamber—he lay cradled in his wet nurse’s arms, suckling contentedly.
God had even robbed her of that joy. She had only a month to nurse him. A scant month when he had been hers alone. And then she’d fallen ill with a fever. By the time she’d recovered, the milk in her breasts had dried up.
The nurse looked up in surprise. “Oh, milady. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I… I can come back,” she stammered. “Tell me when I should return.”
The nurse could scarcely hide her disdain. “’Tis not my place to give you orders,” she chided. “’Tis your place to do as you wish.”
She felt her face burning. “Of course.” She lifted her head proudly and tried to sound superior. “If Billy be almost through, I’ll wait. I should like to hold him for a spell.”
“As you wish, milady. Little Sir William has begun to nod off already. I think he’s quite finished his supper.”
Gloriana sighed. She was even thwarted in the matter of his name. She was the only one who called him Billy.
The baby’s head dropped away from the nurse’s breast and his eyes closed in sleep. The woman handed him to Gloriana, rose from her chair, and covered her exposed breast. “I’ll take him back from you in a moment, milady.”
“No. Go away. I wish to be alone with my son.”
“But, milady…”
She skewered the nurse with an angry stare. “Do you fancy a cuff on the ear, you saucebox? Do as you’re told! I be all out o’ patience.” She jerked her chin toward the door to emphasize her words.
The nurse rolled her eyes in exasperation and left the room.
Gloriana sat in the chair she had vacated and gazed lovingly down at her child. A sweet, warm armful. “Never you mind, Billy, my lad,” she crooned. “They be… they are naught but a bunch of sour-faced jades. You and me—we’ll laugh and play from morn’ till night. I’ll teach you to ride bareback and swing a smithy’s hammer. There won’t be any folks who dare keep us apart, the stiff-necked fools.”
She stroked back the pale red curls from his tiny forehead and kissed his face, filled with emotions she hadn’t known since Da’s death. Loyalty, a secret bonding of souls, a willingness to die for the other. It must be a kind of love, she thought in sudden wonder, awed by the tender emotions she felt for her child.
At last, she rose from her chair and placed him gently in his cradle, reluctant to let him go. “You and me, Billy,” she whispered. “We’ll be lovin’ comrades to the death. I promise you.” She tiptoed to the door, her face wreathed in a smile, her thoughts on a rosy future with her beloved son.
She stopped when she heard the harsh whisper of the nurse’s voice, just outside the door. “Poor mite. How will he explain a mother like that, when he’s grown?”
She heard Barbara’s cruel chuckle in response. “If he’s wise, he’ll keep her locked in the larder, and only let her out to go to church of a Sunday.”
“Aye. She’s as wild as her unknown Gypsy mother.”
“Gypsy?”
“Aye. I heard her telling Lady Ridley.” The nurse gave a contemptuous snort. “And do you see the way she moves? She lopes like a colt, strides like a man. A disgrace to her fine name.”
Barbara gave a loud sigh. “Poor mite,” she agreed.
Gloriana fought back the tears. What had she been thinking of, with her foolish dreams? Billy would be ashamed of her as the years went by. She was uneducated, stupid, clumsy—and not likely to change enough to suit the gentry or the servants, even with a hundred tutors. They would always look at her with eyes that remembered what she had been—a creature not fit for refined company.
She groaned. Would she embarrass her son, watch the contempt growing in his eyes day by day? Better he had no mother at all. Grey and Allegra were the proper ones to raise him.
Better for Billy that she leave now, before she brought him grief.
She took a steadying breath, her mind made up, cast a final longing glance toward the cradle, and sailed out into the passageway, sweeping silently past the servants. She hurried to her rooms, her mind fervent with activity. “You be a fish out o’ water, my girl,” she said softly. “There be no place for you here.” She saw the dried ink on the wall, remembered blurting out the word “prat” at the table. Ungoverned temper, crude language. This was not where she belonged, no matter how hard she tried.
But where to go? London? Jeremy Royster would take her back into the ring in a flash. She’d been his best gladiator. She’d earned a good living at it before. Why not return to the life she knew?
She shook her head. No. After her months of living like a lady, she wasn’t sure she wanted to return to the sordid life of the London streets. There must be something more, she thought, anguished. A quiet life in a village somewhere, where she could pass as a decent peasant, if not as a gentlewoman.
Whitby, of course! Charlie had owned a house in the Yorkshire seacoast village. They’d lived there for a scant month last fall, lying low, while Grey worked on Charlie’s pardon in London.
She remembered the charming cottage with warmth. A cozy stone house secluded in a leafy hollow just inland from the cliffs. She’d been ecstatically happy there, cooking and scrubbing like an innocent goodwife, while Charlie moped and grumped around, lost in an alcoholic stupor most of the time. She’d been heartbroken when he’d sold the place after they’d come to London.
But perhaps she could buy it, or at least rent it. She had all the jewels Charlie had given her; they were hers to do with as she wished, without being beholden to Grey or Allegra. She’d go to Whitby by way of London. Toby Swagger was the best fence in town, now that the great Jonathan Wild had been taken and condemned.
“Bloody hell!” she exclaimed, struck by a new idea. She’d have enough money from the jewels to buy a forge! Why not? Every village could use another blacksmith. And with the shipbuilding in Whitby, there might be commissions for tackle and iron fittings. There was a stable next to the little cottage—it would be perfect for her needs.
She had a sudden disquieting thought. Country folk would never accept a woman as a blacksmith. She’d have to hire a man to shoe horses, at least. She could always work
in secret on the more complicated ironwork she was good at.
“That be the ticket,” she muttered. “I needs me a front.” Any strong young buck would do—she could always teach him to shoe horses.
Confident in her plans, she dressed simply for the long walk to Ludlow, tucking her distinctive red curls under her cap. She didn’t want to be recognized in the nearby town; she meant to disappear from the Ridleys’ lives for good and all.
In Ludlow, she could catch the mail stage for London; she still had a sack of guineas, the last of the king’s pension that Charlie had received. There were shops aplenty in London where she could buy humble country clothes. And then the trip north to Whitby, where Glory Cook (her father’s name) could live in happy obscurity.
God willing, they would never find her.
One final chore. She sat at her writing desk, pulled out pen and paper and began the difficult task of writing to Grey and Allegra. She chewed on her lower lip as she painfully formed the letters, expressed sentiments that broke her heart.
I be going, she wrote. For goode and all. Doant look for me. This be the best way. Take cayre of my babby. Tell Billy I be dead. It were better that way. He doant need no common wench for a Ma. Gloriana
By the time she was finished, she was weeping. She blotted at the teardrops on the page, then folded and sealed the letter, printing “A. & G.” on the outside. It was done.
She slipped the bag of coins into her pocket, tied up her jewels and several pairs of stockings in a spare shift, and threw on her hooded cloak. She found her precious keepsake—a scrap of Billy’s hair tied with a blue ribbon—and wrapped it in a handkerchief, tucking it into her bodice next to her heart.
“Oh, Billy,” she whispered, sobbing anew. “Pray God I forget you.”
• • •
Thorne swept his battered cocked hat from his head and brushed his sleeve against his damp forehead. Damme, but it was hot! He’d had a brief respite—a cooling puff of sea air—when he’d stood atop the cliffs overlooking Robin Hood’s Bay, but this path through the leafy glen leading to the secluded cottage he sought seemed to exhale heat into the already humid air.
And his coat… he plucked at the coarse woolen sleeve and silently cursed his valet. Dobson had assured him that Yorkshire—and Whitby—would be much cooler than London in July. Christ Jesus! It was enough to lower himself by donning second-hand clothing that itched and chafed; to suffer in this heat made him wonder if he was mad.
No! It was worth all his discomfort. He would see her again.
He chuckled softly, remembering the faces of Felix and the rest of his drinking companions. The gossips in London had buzzed with the news that the Lady Gloriana Baniard had vanished. The Ridleys had searched for her in vain for nearly a month.
And then, much to his own surprise, he had heard himself impulsively announce, “I shall find the lady within a four-month. And bed her.” He had sealed his vow with a wager against every man crowded around the table: a thousand pounds each if he lost.
And he never lost a wager.
She was here. It had taken a score of his men, using their lowest connections, to discover that she had lived here in Whitby with Sir Charles for a few weeks. After more inquiries, they had learned that she had rented a cottage and was going by the name of Glory Cook.
And she was looking for a manservant.
He glanced down at his worn shoes, his threadbare clothes. He didn’t know what she needed a servant for, but Dobson had assured him he looked common enough. He only regretted he had to walk, but a horse would have made him seem too prosperous to need such humble employment. He knew he could charm her into the job—had he ever failed to conquer a woman? And then… into her bed. That lustful thought, the memory of her magnificent body, made him warmer still.
Well, perhaps it would rain later and cool the air. The clouds over the sea had looked dark and threatening; even as he walked, he noted that the sun had begun to dim.
Yes, it was a good plan. He had a cache of gold coins hidden in the heels of his shoes, and Dobson, posing as a visiting scholar, was settled at an inn in Whitby in case he was needed. Thorne felt a sense of expectancy that was more exhilarating than anything he had experienced in months.
He reached the end of the path and saw a small stone cottage in the clearing. Off to one side was a smaller building, its wide doors open to the elements. A stable, he guessed, seeing a horse within, yet there seemed to be several tables as well. And a brick chimney—odd for a stable. Odder still were the wisps of smoke it emitted, on such a hot day.
From the deep recesses of the shed came a loud pounding sound. Someone was there. “Halloo!” he called.
She emerged from the back of the stable, a large hammer in her hand. She was as beautiful as he remembered: bright red hair tied loosely off her neck and shoulders, sleeves rolled up, exposing golden flesh, skirts tucked up into her waistband to reveal bare legs and feet. And her eyes were most assuredly green, the color of emeralds.
He gulped, feeling inexplicably shy and overwhelmed by the sight of her. Then, remembering his disguise, he swept his hat from his head and gave a tentative bow, dropping his hat to the ground. “Mistress Cook?”
She stepped closer. Small beads of sweat covered her upper lip; he fought the urge to grab her and kiss them away. “Who be wantin’ me?” she said. “I be too busy to trifle with you today.”
He smiled his most beguiling smile, his confidence returning. “My name is John Thorne. I hear in Whitby that you need a manservant. I thought that perhaps…”
“You?” She scanned him from the top of his head to the toes of his scuffed shoes, clearly finding him wanting. “Take off your coat,” she ordered sharply.
He bristled. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in that tone. “Now see here…” he began, glaring at her. Then he remembered who he was supposed to be. He lowered his eyes and peeled off his coat. “Of course, mistress,” he said, forcing himself to sound humble.
She threw down her hammer and reached for him, clutching and squeezing his arms with both hands as though she were kneading a lump of common dough. She grunted. “Well, some muscle there. Show me your hands.”
Dutifully he held out his hands, palms up. She ran her fingers across his flesh, which gave him a thrill of anticipation. “Bloody hell!” she exclaimed. “Soft as a baby. You ain’t done no work in your whole miserable life!”
“That’s not so.” He thought up a quick lie. “I… I was a soldier once. And I’m handy with a sword.” That last part, at least, was true—he’d practiced often, and had even fought the occasional duel.
Her magnificent lips curled in a sneer. “Oh, what a bullyboy. I be in danger every day from the good folk of Whitby! Why, only yesterday, the apothecary tried to overcharge me for a powder.” She snickered. “If you was my servant, you could run him through.”
He ground his teeth together and swallowed his pride. This wasn’t going as he had planned. “I can work hard,” he said softly.
“What was you afore this?”
“A valet to a duke.” That was an easier lie. A part he could play.
She laughed at that, a mocking sound that raised his hackles. “Oh, good! You can tie my garters into pretty little bows.”
He ignored her sarcasm with difficulty. “I can keep your books. I’m good at numbers.”
That seemed to give her pause. “Well…” She tossed her head in the direction of the shed. “Can you do carpentry?”
“I can learn.”
“Can you shoe a horse?”
Damme! He tried the charming smile again. “I can learn.”
She shook her head reluctantly. “Look, my fine cove. I don’t need no soft toupet-man. I be wantin’ to start a blacksmith shop here. But the folks bean’t takin’ kindly to a woman smithy. I needs a man who can shoe a horse. I can do it myself and t’other ironwork besides, but I needs me a man who can front for me. Not a softling who ain’t never done real man’s work.”
He had never felt more useless in his whole dissolute life. It stung his sense of honor that this chit of a girl could dismiss a man of his station so rudely. He grabbed for her arm and tried to still his rising anger. “Please, mistress. I need the work.”
She glared at him, green eyes flashing. “Take your hand off me, caitiff! I be no country wench. I be mistress here. And you be a wretch who don’t know his place!”
His place? The great Duke of Thorneleigh? And she dared to use a low word like “caitiff?” The anger burst forth. “Until you’re Queen of Whitby, mistress, you should temper your own high-handedness! I’m scarcely accustomed to being treated in such a vile manner, and by a creature such as you!”
“Arse-lickin’ pig!” she shrilled, planting her hands on her hips in outrage. “Bloody worm! Begone from my sight. I wouldn’t hire you if you was starvin’. You with your soft hands and your high-flown ways. You ain’t no man! I reckon you runs from a woman, your prickle hangin’ useless atween your legs.”
That was too much. Not a man? With a growl, he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close and ground his mouth down on hers. Her lips were full, delicious… and yielding. She sagged in his arms, all soft surrender. She smelled of lavender from the moors.
But after a long, heart-pounding moment, she stiffened, broke free, pushed roughly at his chest. She bent and scooped up her hammer, holding it menacingly above her head. “Begone, villain, lest I dent your pretty face!”
“As you wish,” he drawled, lazily picking up his coat and then his hat, which he planted firmly on his head. He turned and made his way back along the path, grinning as he went. She’d wanted his kiss, welcomed it. And though he regretted his prideful anger, he knew with certainty that she could be won. He’d find another way.
He glanced back once more. She stood where he had left her, looking stunned, one hand to her heaving breast.
My Lady Gloriana Page 4