My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  And now, all she had to do was wait for Thorne. The coachman had been directed to return to Havilland House and tell the master that she was settled comfortably at the inn. She had added the instruction that His Grace was to allow her several hours before he arrived, that she might make herself fit to greet him.

  She finished drying her hair and pinned it loosely, disregarding the small lace cap Dobson had sent along. Thorne had always admired the brilliant color of her uncovered hair.

  “And then,” she murmured to the empty room, smiling as she looked toward the comfortable bed, “’twill be tousled soon enough.” The thought of seeing him again, of making love, his hard body pressed to hers, made her heart race.

  She gulped down the rest of her simple meal, then paced the room, her impatient steps echoed by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the tap of the cold raindrops on the windowpane. She smoothed her skirts, adjusted the lace neckerchief at her bodice, tucked up a stray curl. She knew she looked beautiful; Dobson had sent a superb outfit—a gown of deep purple damask, with all the accessories she might need, including a magnificent quilted cloak that matched the gown. But where was Thorne? Her joy in her splendid garments could only be complete by seeing herself mirrored in her lover’s eyes.

  She jumped at the gentle tap on her door; then she turned, a smile of welcome on her face. “Enter,” she said.

  The woman who glided gracefully into the room took her by surprise. A fragile blond with clear blue eyes, and a modest pink gown and hooded cloak that made her appear even more delicate.

  Conscious of her own elegant garments, Gloriana resisted the urge to curtsy, though this was surely a high-born lady. Clearly she had mistaken Gloriana’s room for her own. “I fear you have the wrong chamber, madam,” she said.

  The woman pulled off her damp cloak and draped it across a chair. “No,” she said in a sweet voice. “You are… Molly?”

  Gloriana frowned. Who else would have known she was here? “Yes,” she admitted. “And you are…?”

  “Lady Penelope Crawford. I’ve come from Havilland House.”

  “Merciful heaven! Has something happened to John?” Her fevered mind imagined him ambushed in some dark alley.

  Lady Penelope stepped forward and patted Gloriana’s hand. “Not at all. Thorne will be here anon. But I thought I’d come and greet you first.” She scanned Gloriana from the top of her hair to the tips of her shoes. “And you’re as beautiful as he said you were.”

  Gloriana managed a tight smile. The last thing she wanted at this moment was a visit from one of John’s friends, clearly sent to take her measure and report back to Thorne’s circle. Then she thought better of it. His friends would likely become her friends. Best to make a good impression. She gestured toward a chair in front of the fireplace. “Won’t you be seated, milady? You can dry your shoes before the fire.” She turned toward the table. “Will you have some wine?”

  “No. I am quite content.” Lady Penelope sat gracefully in the chair and patted the small footstool in front her. “Sit here, my dear. Let me examine you more carefully.” When Gloriana had seated herself, Lady Penelope took Gloriana’s chin in her hand, turning her face from side to side. “Lovely bones. I can see what he sees in you.”

  Gloriana pulled her chin away. “You’ll make me blush, milady.”

  Penelope gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, my dear, a woman should never be embarrassed by her beauty. Nor by the envy she arouses in other women. ’Twill be amusing to see the faces of our female friends at our next assembly ball.”

  Gloriana returned the woman’s smile and allowed herself to relax a bit. With Thorne—and Lady Penelope—at her side, she might find it easier to fit into her new life than she had hoped. “You are too kind, milady,” she murmured.

  “Only concerned with your welfare, my dear. And I know how Thorne values you. He has spoken of you often. You met this summer, I understand?”

  She smiled, recalling the wonder of their weeks together, the work and the laughter and the sweet love-making. “In Whitby,” she said softly.

  “I see by your smile that you will have years of happy memories.” Penelope stroked Gloriana’s hand, her fingers like a gentle caress. “Now, let us speak of arrangements,” she said, her voice taking on a businesslike tone.

  “Arrangements?” Was this gentle lady offering to help her with marriage preparations? She felt doubly blessed.

  Penelope cleared her throat. “I’ve made a few inquiries. There’s a lovely house on Great Russell Street that might serve you well. Close enough to Havilland House to be convenient.”

  Gloriana stared in perplexity. “I… I don’t understand,” she stammered.

  “I know it must seem surprising to you. But, unlike so many other women, I’m tolerant of a husband’s straying. It will leave me free to seek my own diversions.”

  “Husband?” The word was like a knife to Gloriana’s heart. Was Thorne more dishonest than she had supposed? She jumped up and glared down at the woman in disbelief. “Are you married to him?”

  “Not yet, my dear. But soon.” Penelope held up her hand, displaying a small ring on her finger. Gloriana recognized Thorne’s crest.

  “Bloody hell,” she whispered. “And I?”

  “You’re to be his mistress, as I told you. And live in splendor in your very own house.”

  Gloriana shook her head. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But he loves me!” she cried.

  “Of course he does. I understand that. But he doesn’t marry someone like you. The Thorneleighs have a name that goes back for generations. He would scarcely shame his ancestors by…” Penelope shrugged apologetically. “You understand, I’m sure.”

  “The poxy villain!” Gloriana clenched her fists, wishing that Thorne was before her at this very moment. She wanted to beat his face into the ground, to tear at his eyes until he begged for mercy. In Newgate, he had spoken of their future together. This is what he had meant for her—the sordid life of a concubine. Clearly he still thought of her as a common whore. “He can go to hell,” she spat.

  Penelope rose from her chair, her eyes warm with concern. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought surely that Thorne had explained it all to you.” She stroked Gloriana’s arm with a motherly hand. “Do consider how well you’d be cared for.”

  Gloriana turned away, her eyes filling with tears. “I’d rather die than live that life,” she choked.

  “But what will you do? I would suggest you leave London, of course. Thorne will be in a fury when he learns how his comfortable plans have been upset.”

  Leave London. Yes, of course. She took a deep breath, swallowing her grief. There was only one way for her to begin life anew. “I think I shall to go to the Colonies. I’ve heard Virginia is quite a pleasant place.”

  “That sounds splendid. You’re a very strong and determined woman. I admire you for that.” Penelope frowned. “Do you need money? I think I can arrange—”

  “No. I’m quite able to care for myself.” She’d go to Old Diggory, reclaim her purse of gold and book passage on the next ship leaving for America. She felt her pain rising in her breast, ready to choke her. She needed to cry for a few moments, to vent her anger and grief. But not in front of this woman, who seemed so genuinely concerned for her welfare. “If you please, milady,” she said, “I should like to be alone now.”

  “I quite understand.” Penelope picked up her cloak and turned to the door. Then she stopped. “But what will Thorne think when he comes here and finds you gone?”

  “I don’t give a tinker’s dam what the rogue thinks.”

  “No, no. He’ll search for you again, as he’s done in the past. And if he finds you, who knows what will happen, given his wounded pride?” Her face brightened. “Why don’t you leave him a note?”

  What did it matter? She shrugged. “If you think it’s best.” At Penelope’s nod, she found pen and ink and paper. With the woman’s help, she wrote a brief letter, telling Thor
ne that it was over between them. She never wanted to see him again. She was going far away, and he was not to look for her. She intended to forget him as soon as possible. She hated him too much to even sign her full name; she simply wrote “G.” She sealed the note, then handed it to Penelope, begging her to leave it with the innkeeper.

  “How brave you are,” said Penelope. “To reject Thorne’s unworthy offer. I should never have the strength.” She sighed unhappily. “I shall miss your sweet company in London.” She gave Gloriana a sisterly hug and swept from the room, casting a final sad look in Gloriana’s direction.

  When she had gone, closing the door softly behind her, Gloriana sank to the bed and gave way to the sobs that burst from her. Miserable Gypsy’s spawn that she was, she would never be worthy of a nobly-born man. Any man of rank. Charlie had only made her his Lady because, as a wanted highwayman, he had sunk to her level. Not because she deserved the honor.

  As for Thorne, she would curse his name for the rest of her life.

  • • •

  Thorne heard the crash of wheels outside his coach a second before the collision jerked him forward, sending his hat to the floor. “What the devil is going on?” he cried to his coachman.

  He heard the panicked whinnying of horses, then the sound of his coachman scrambling from his box. The door flew open. The man gaped in at him, looking bewildered and breathless. Rain dripped from his hat. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he panted. “Some bloody fool swerved in front of the coach. I couldn’t stop in time.”

  Thorne moved toward the open door. “Is anyone hurt?” He stepped out into the road, hunching his shoulders against the downpour, and frowned at the curious onlookers who had begun to crowd near. He was already late to meet Gloriana at The Golden Crown. He had foolishly waited for a jeweler to bring around the ring he had picked out for her, and the man had been late. Thorne had paced his drawing room, bursting with impatience. And now this unfortunate interruption.

  He surveyed the scene of the accident. A small coach rested just beyond Thorne’s snorting team; it tilted precariously on one axle, its dislodged wheel lazily spinning on the rain-slicked cobblestones. Clearly the other coachman had attempted to make a turn without seeing if the way was clear. The man sat lopsidedly on his box, looking dazed.

  As Thorne watched, a young gentleman staggered from the damaged vehicle, one hand to his forehead. His small periwig was askew, and a few blond strands of hair had escaped from beneath the powdered curls and now hung limply around his face. “Your pardon, sir,” he said in a hoarse voice. “My great looby of a coachman should never have taken the turn at such speed. And in this weather.” He glared up at the man. “Come down here, sirrah, that I may box your ears!”

  “That’s hardly necessary,” said Thorne. He patted his watch pocket in annoyance. Gloriana would have to wait. He could scarcely drive off and leave the young man in such helpless circumstances. He was young, of slight build, almost fragile-looking. There was no way he could take a hand in righting the coach.

  Thorne waved the man’s coachman from his box and turned to his own servant. “Do you think the two of you can attach the wheel again?”

  “Aye, milord. If we can find the pin, me and him can set things to rights.” The coachman frowned. “But we be needin’ a few strong arms to lift the coach while we puts back the wheel.”

  Thorne took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, grateful for his newly expanded muscles. “I can do it.” He pointed to a robust man in the gathering crowd. A carpenter, he guessed, from the small axe slung over one shoulder. “You, there. Give me a hand, man.” When the worker hesitated, Thorne fished in his pocket and threw him a silver coin. The carpenter smiled, tossed down his axe and stepped forward.

  The two of them bent to the coach, struggling against its weight to lift it to the proper height. Thorne gritted his teeth with the effort, cursing the passage of time as the two coachmen righted the wheel and tried to slip it back onto its axle. Half a dozen attempts, while the rain beat down on their heads, their hands, the wheel, making the chore twice as difficult.

  It took many precious minutes, and much tugging and straining before the wheel was restored to its proper place and pinned securely. And more long minutes as the young man clung to Thorne’s arm and refused to release him without many expressions of thanks and gratitude.

  At last Thorne was able to break away. “Get me to the bloody inn,” he growled to his coachman, and leaped into his carriage, discarding his wet coat and shirt in favor of the warm cloak he’d left behind. Gloriana must be frantic with worry by now. He drummed the seat with impatient fingers as the coach splashed through puddles on the wet streets and finally arrived at the Golden Crown. He dashed into the inn and shouted at the innkeeper. “The Duke of Thorneleigh’s room!”

  “Top o’ the stairs, milord.” The man shook his head. “But you won’t be findin’ the lady there.”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “Why, your worship, she left near to a quarter of an hour ago.”

  He staggered back, stunned by the man’s words. “Left? Did she not say where she was going?”

  “She were cryin’, milord. Didn’t seem proper to ask.” He fished in the pocket of his apron. “But there be a note…”

  Thorne snatched it from his hand and tore it open. He read Gloriana’s words in disbelief, his heart thudding with dread. She never wanted to see him again? What the deuce had happened? His coachman had assured him that the lady was smiling and happy when he’d delivered her to the inn several hours ago. He looked plaintively at the innkeeper. “Did she say nothing when she gave you this note?”

  “Oh, no, your worship. ’Twasn’t her that give it me. ’Twas t’other one.”

  “Another woman?”

  “A little thing, she were. With yellow hair.”

  “Christ’s blood! And blue eyes?” At the man’s nod, he gnashed his teeth. That witch, Penelope! What could she have said to Gloriana to produce the hatred that seeped out of every word on the page?

  He raced back to his carriage, shouting Penelope’s address at his coachman. Then he stopped. “No. Wait.” He’d have to pass Havilland House on the way. It might be wise to stop and get Dobson to accompany him. He needed a cool head to keep himself from possibly strangling Penelope. And he needed a dry shirt and coat. He was grateful, at least, that the rain had finally stopped.

  As he dressed in the carriage on the ride to the Crawford house, he briefly explained the situation to his valet, his words alternately expressing outrage at Penelope and bewilderment at Gloriana’s leaving without allowing him to speak to her. “And that blasted accident,” he muttered, carelessly tying his cravat. “I would have been there on time, save for a reckless coachman.”

  He slammed his fist against the Crawford door until it opened, and brushed past the footman, gesturing toward a small parlor. “Is the lady there?” At the man’s nod, he stormed to the door. “I’ll announce myself,” he growled.

  Dobson said a few conciliatory words to the stunned footman, then followed Thorne into the parlor.

  At sight of Thorne, Penelope rose from her chair in a flurry of skirts. Her eyes opened wide in alarm. “Thorne, my dear! What brings you here? And looking so distraught.”

  He tried with limited success to keep his voice calm. “Were you at The Golden Crown this afternoon?”

  She moved closer to him, managing a gentle smile. “Merciful heaven, an inn? Why should I want to go there? In point of fact, I haven’t been out all day.” She waved a dainty hand toward the window. “And in this weather? My constitution is far too delicate to take pleasure in a winter rainstorm.”

  Thorne glanced back at Dobson, a frown of doubt creasing his brow. “Then who the devil—”

  Penelope pressed her fingers against his mouth, silencing him. “Not another word, my dear Thorne. You come bursting into my parlor, unannounced, and clearly beside yourself. Come and sit. I’ll ring for a cordial, and then you can tell me
what has disturbed you so.”

  He plopped into a chair, feeling as helpless as a child. If it hadn’t been Penelope, then… who? And what was he to do now? He accepted the offered cordial, drank it in a daze, and sighed in weariness. All the while, Penelope watched him with sympathetic eyes, concern etched deep on her face. “’Tis only…” he began at last, his voice deep and muffled, “…’tis only that Glo—Molly has gone. And I don’t know where.”

  Penelope knelt in front of him. “And you never had a chance to see her? Oh, my dearest Thorne. My heart bleeds for you.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t even know why. I only—” He glanced across the room toward Dobson. From the moment they had come into the parlor, his valet had been casually circling the room, picking up an occasional trinket, riffling the pages of an open book. Now he had suddenly stopped. He glanced at Thorne, then dropped his gaze to a settee in the corner. Thorne followed his glance. A pink cloak, companion to the gown that Penelope was wearing. And even from here he could see the wet stains on the shoulders and hood.

  He jumped to his feet and roughly pulled up Penelope to stand before him. He gave a savage tug to her skirt, exposing the damp and muddy hem. “You bitch,” he growled. “It was you.”

  Her face turned white. “I… I was only trying to be helpful,” she whispered.

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “Nothing!” Penelope rubbed her hands together, then covered one hand with the other, a surreptitious gesture that seemed to be more deliberate than casual.

  Thorne cursed aloud. His ring! “Did you tell her we were betrothed?”

  “I… I might have… suggested that… some day… I didn’t mean any harm.”