by Diane Gaston
‘I know how to behave properly,’ Genna snapped, still recalcitrant. ‘Did Papa not teach us to never behave like our mother?’
Lorene shot her one more scathing—and, Tess thought—pained look and left the room.
Tess leaped off the bed. ‘Genna, how could you? That was terrible to say. About...about sharing Lord Tinmore’s bed.’ And about their mother.
Genna folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, it is what we think about, is it not? What she must do for him? Because of us?’
Tess felt a pang of guilt.
She took it out on Genna, walking over to her and shaking her. ‘We cannot speak of it! It hurts her. You saw that.’
Genna pulled away, but looked chagrined.
Tess went on. ‘We must make the best of this, for her sake. She’s done us an enormous service at great sacrifice. She has given us a gift beyond measure. We are free to choose who we want to marry.’ She thought of Mr Welton. ‘We must not make her feel bad for it.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Genna turned back to her watercolour. ‘But what are we to say when we hear the guests speak of her marrying Lord Tinmore for his money? Are we to say, “Yes, that is it exactly. She married him for his money and his title. Just like our mother did our father”?’
That was another truth best left unspoken.
‘We pretend we do not hear anything.’ Tess spoke firmly. ‘We act as if Lorene’s marriage to Lord Tinmore is a love match and that we are delighted for them both.’
‘Hmmph. A love match between a beautiful young woman and a very old, smelly man.’ Genna stabbed at her painting. ‘And what do we say when they accuse us of exploiting Lord Tinmore, as well?’
‘Us?’ Tess blinked. ‘Has anyone said that?’
Genna shrugged. ‘Not to my face. Yet. So tell me what I ought to say when they do.’
Tess had not considered that possibility, but it made sense. In a way, she, Genna and Edmund stood to gain more from Lord Tinmore’s money than Lorene. His money would open possibilities for them, possibilities that filled Tess with joy.
Until guilt stabbed at her again. ‘We simply act grateful for everything he does for us, because we are grateful, are we not?’
Genna made a false smile. ‘Very grateful.’
Genna bore watching. She was entirely too impetuous and plain speaking for her own good.
Tess changed the subject. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore has anything planned for us until dinner.’
The guests, all closer to his age than to his bride’s, were in need of rest after travelling to Lincolnshire the day before. Tess supposed they had accepted the first invitation to Tinmore Hall in thirty years because they wanted to see what sort of woman caused Lord Tinmore to finally open his doors.
Tess dreaded their second meeting of the guests. The ladies’ travelling clothes were finer than her best gown. Their dinner gowns took away her breath. The new gowns Lord Tinmore had ordered would not be ready for a week, but Tess could not bear for her and her sisters to look so shabby in the meantime.
‘Would you like to walk to the village with me?’ she asked.
Genna looked surprised. ‘Why are you going to the village?’
‘For lace and ribbons. I believe I can embellish our gowns so it does not appear as if we are wearing the same one, night after night.’ They might be charity cases, but they could at least try not to look like ones.
‘You are being foolish to go out.’ Genna gestured to the window. ‘It will rain.’
Tess glanced at the overcast sky. ‘The rain should hold off until I return.’
‘Well, I am not chancing it.’ Genna dipped her brush in some paint.
‘Very well. I can walk alone.’ Tess always walked alone to Yardney, the village that once had been her home.
But it was only a few short miles from here. Obviously Lorene had walked the distance often enough to get married. Why not walk to Yardney instead of the village nearby? It would take only a little longer. If she went to Yardney she could call upon Mr Welton’s aunt. If Mr Welton was still her house guest, she could tell him about having her dowry restored.
‘You should take a maid or something,’ Genna said. ‘Is that not what wealthy wards do?’
If she wanted someone to know where she was bound, perhaps. Besides, Lord Tinmore was not their guardian. They’d not been appointed a guardian after their father died. There had been no property or fortune to protect. They were under Lord Tinmore’s protection, though.
‘Lord Tinmore will not care if I walk to the village when I’ve been walking the countryside my whole life.’ At least Tess hoped he would not care. She and Genna had hardly seen him, only for a few meals. She opened the door. ‘In any event, I am going.’ With luck she could change their dresses by dinnertime and see to her future, as well.
Genna did not look away from her watercolour. ‘Well, if it pours and you get soaking wet and catch your death of a cold, do not expect me to wipe your nose.’
That was much how their father had become ill. Surely Genna did not realise.
‘I never catch colds.’ Tess walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
* * *
The rain did not begin until Tess left Yardney and was already on the road back to Tinmore Hall. The first drops that splattered the dirt road quickly grew to a heavy downpour. Moments later it was as if the heavens had decided to tip over all their buckets at once. In mere minutes Tess’s cloak was soaked through. Even her purchases, wrapped in paper and string and held under her cloak, were becoming wet.
‘Genna, you are going to gloat,’ she muttered.
But it had been worth it. Tess discovered that Mr Welton had indeed left for London, but he knew about Lorene’s marriage. She told his aunt about her changed circumstances.
He would find her when Lord Tinmore took them all to town for the Season. Only a few more weeks.
Mud from the road stuck to Tess’s half-boots, and it became an effort merely to lift one foot in front of the other. Water poured from the drooping brim of her hat and the raindrops hit her face like needles of ice. She had at least two miles to go before she’d cross through the gatehouse of the estate.
The mud grabbed at her half-boots like some devious creature bent on stopping her. Trying to quicken her pace was futile, but at last she spied the bridge ahead through the thick sheets of rain.
But the stream now rushed over it.
‘No!’ Her protest was swallowed by the wind.
What now? She did not know of any other way to reach Tinmore Hall. There was no choice but to walk to the nearby village as she ought to have done in the first place. The rain was cutting into her like knives now, not needles.
She glanced at the wooded area next to the road. If this were home, she’d know precisely how to cut through the woods and cross the fields. She might be home already, sitting in front of a fire, letting the heat penetrate instead of this rain. Here she did not dare leave the road that she knew led to Tinmore Village.
Do not think, she told herself. Just put one foot in front of the other. Despair nudged at her resolve.
She walked and walked until she thought she saw a vague outline of the village church tower. She hurried on, but up ahead water was streaming across the road. She could not go forward. She could not go back.
But she could go home, home to Yardney, at least. Perhaps she would seek shelter at Mr Welton’s aunt’s house. Or knock at the door of Summerfield House.
She turned back, retracing her steps, passing the road leading to the blocked bridge. A short distance from there, the road was flooded. Turning back again, she walked until she found another road, not knowing where it would lead her.
If only she were closer to home. She would be able to turn in any direction and find someone’s house who would welcome her, but she no longer knew where she was or how to find her way to anywhere familiar. She was lost, wet and terribly cold.
Chapter Two
Marc Glenville cursed
the rain.
Why there must be a downpour while he was on horseback on his way to London was beyond him. Unless the gods of weather somehow caught his mood.
Returning to London was never a joy.
But there was nothing else for him to do. His business in Scotland was complete.
His horse faltered and his head dipped. A stream of water trickled down his back.
Business in Scotland. Ha!
That was the fiction he told his parents and would tell anyone else who questioned his whereabouts these last long months, but it was not the truth.
He’d been to France. Paris and the countryside, mixing with Bonapartists and others discontented with returning Louis XVIII to the throne, keeping an ear tuned to whether discontent was apt to erupt in insurrection.
All for king and country.
Unrest was not widespread. The French, like the British, were fatigued with war. Mark had made his reports. No more would be asked of him.
It was time to face more personal matters.
Time to face again the fact that his brother would never again grin at him from across the dinner table and his best friend would never again come to call. When he was pretending to be Monsieur Renard, citoyen ordinaire of France, he could almost forget that Lucien, his brother, had been gone for four years and Charles, not quite three. Whenever he returned, though, he half-expected to see them walk through the door when he was home.
Grief shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
Foolish Lucien. Reckless Charles. They’d died so needlessly.
Marc willed his emotions to cool, lifting his face to the rain that was already chilling his bones. Best to keep emotions in control. When deep in espionage, it could save his life; back in London, it might save his sanity.
Good God. Was the near-freezing rain begetting gloomy thoughts as well as soaking him to the bone? Concentrate on the road and on his poor horse. Slogging through muddy, rut-filled roads was a battle, even for the sturdy fellow.
The stallion blew out a breath.
‘Hard going, eh, Apollo?’ Marc patted the horse’s neck.
He’d hoped to reach Peterborough by nightfall, but that was not in the cards in this weather. He’d be lucky to make the next village, whatever that was, and hope its inn had a room with a clean bed.
The rain had forced him off the main route and he and Apollo were inching their way through any roads that remained passable.
The delay did not bother him overmuch. No one was expecting him. He’d not informed his parents he was coming to town. Let it be a surprise.
Marc dreaded the family visit, always, but it was time to take his place as heir, now that duty did not call him elsewhere. He’d call upon Doria Caldwell, Charles’s sister, and make official what had been implied between them since Charles was killed. He owed that much to Charles.
Besides, the Caldwell family, now consisting only of her and her father, was so ordinary and respectable—and rational—he would relish being a part of it.
Lightning flashed through the sky and thunder boomed. Was he now to be struck by real lightning, instead of being struck figuratively?
He must be near a village; he’d been riding long enough. Gazing up ahead, he hoped to see rooftops in the distance or a road sign or any indication that shelter might be near, but the rain formed a grey curtain that obscured all but a few feet in front of him. What’s more, the curtain seemed to move with him, keeping him engulfed in the gloom and making his eyelids grow heavy.
Lightning flashed again and he thought he’d seen someone in the road. He peered harder until through the curtain of rain a figure took form. It was a woman on foot, not yet hearing his horse coming up from behind.
‘Halloo, there!’ he called out. ‘Halloo!’
The woman, shrouded in a dark cloak, turned and waved her hands for him to stop.
As if any gentleman could pass by.
He rode up to her and dismounted. ‘Madam, where are you bound? May I offer some assistance?’
She looked up at him. She was a young woman, pretty enough, though her face was stiff with anxiety and exhaustion. ‘I want to go to Tinmore Hall.’ It seemed an effort for her to speak.
‘Point the way,’ he responded. ‘I’ll carry you on my horse.’
She shook her head. ‘No use. Floods. Floods everywhere. Cannot get there. Cannot get to the village.’ Her voice shook from the cold.
He extended a hand. ‘Come. I’ll lift you on to my horse.’ Her cloak was as wet as if it had been pulled from a laundry bath. Her hat had lost any shape at all. Worse, her lips were blue. ‘We’ll find a place to get you dry.’
She nodded, but there was no expression in her pale eyes.
She handed him a sodden parcel which he stuffed in one of his saddlebags. He lifted her on to Apollo and mounted behind her. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you feel secure?’
She nodded again and shivered from the cold.
He encircled her in his arms, but that offered little relief from the cold. He took the reins. Poor Apollo, even more burdened now, started forward again.
‘I am not from here.’ He spoke loudly to be heard through the rain’s din. ‘How far to the next village?’
She turned her head. ‘Lost. Yardney—cannot find it.’
Yardney must be a nearby village. ‘We’ll find it.’ He’d been telling himself he’d find a village this last hour or more.
She shivered again. ‘Cold,’ she said. ‘So cold.’
He’d better find her shelter quickly and get her warm. People died of cold.
She leaned against him and her muscles relaxed.
He rode on and found a crossroads with a sign pointing to Kirton.
‘See?’ he shouted, pointing to the sign. ‘Kirton.’
She did not answer him.
A little further on, the road was filled with water. He turned around and backtracked until he came to the crossroads again, taking the other route. Someone was farming the lands here. There must be houses about.
If only he could see them through the rain.
The road led to a narrower, rougher road, until it became little more than a path. He followed it as it wound back and forth. Hoping he was not wasting more precious time, he peered ahead looking for anything with a roof and walls.
A little cottage appeared in front of them. No candles shone in the windows, though. No smoke rose from the chimney. With luck it would be dry.
‘Look!’ he called to his companion, but she did not answer.
Apollo gained a spurt of energy, cantering to the promise of shelter. As they came closer, a small stable also came into view and he guided Apollo to its door. He dismounted carefully, holding on to her. She slipped off, into his arms. Lifting her over his shoulder, he unlatched the stable door. Apollo walked in immediately.
Marc lay the woman down on a dry patch of floor. ‘Cold,’ she murmured, curling into a ball.
At least she was alive.
He turned back to his horse, patting him on the neck. ‘She comes first, old fellow. I’ll tend to you as soon as I can.’
He left the stable and hurried up to the door of the cabin. He pounded on it, but there was no answer and the door was locked. He peered in a window, but the inside was dark. Reaching in a pocket inside his greatcoat, he pulled out a set of skeleton keys—what self-respecting spy would be without skeleton keys? He tried several before one clicked and the latch turned.
The light from outside did little to illuminate the interior of the cabin, but Marc immediately spied a fireplace and a cot with folded blankets atop it. It was enough.
He hurried back to the stable.
Apollo whinnied at his return. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer, old fellow.’
He lifted the woman again, her sodden garments making her an even heavier burden. She groaned as he put her over his shoulder and hurried back through the rain to the cabin door.
His first task was to get her wet clothes off. He placed her on the fl
oor where it would not matter if her clothes left a puddle. After tossing off his greatcoat, he worked as quickly as he could, cutting the laces of her dress and her corset and stripping her down to her bare skin.
She tried to cover herself, but not out of modesty. ‘Cold,’ she whimpered.
She was a beauty. Full, high breasts, narrow waist and long, shapely legs. He swallowed at the sight, but allowed himself only a glance before grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around her. He carried her to the cot and wrapped the second blanket around her.
By this time his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the room. He saw a stack of wood and kindling and a scuttle of coal. On top of the fireplace were tapers and a flint. He hurried to make a fire. When it burned well enough, he flung his greatcoat around him again and ran back out in the rain to tend to Apollo.
The stable was well stocked with dry cloths and brushes. He dried off the poor horse as best he could, covering him with a blanket. There was hay, which Apollo ate eagerly, and a pump from which Marc drew fresh water to quench Apollo’s thirst.
‘There you are, old fellow.’ He stroked Apollo’s neck. ‘That is all I can do for you. Soon the rain must stop and, with luck, we will be on our way before night falls. For now, eat and rest and I will check on you later.’
Marc ran back through the unrelenting rain to the cabin. He checked on his new charge. Her cheeks had some colour, thank God, and her skin seemed a bit warmer to the touch. Her features had relaxed and she slept.
He blew out a relieved breath and, for the first time, realised he, too, was wet and cold and weary. He stripped down to his shirt and breeches and pulled a chair as near to the fire as he could. He really ought to hang up their wet clothes to dry, but the warmth of the fire was too enticing. Instead he stared at the woman.
She was lovely, but who was she?
Hers was a strong face, with full lips and an elegant nose. Her brows arched appealingly and her lashes were thick. He could not tell from her clothing what her station in life might be. What sort of woman would be walking in the rain? She mentioned Tinmore Hall. Lord Tinmore’s estate? Perhaps she was in service there.