Ridley shook his head. “Not just yet. You intrigue me. What’s your name?”
“Allegra…” she hesitated. She’d be safer if no one knew she was a Baniard. “Mackworth,” she finished. That had been Great-grandmama’s name.
He smiled, his eyes narrowing. “Well, Allegra Mackworth, go back to the Hall with Briggs and wait for me. I’m not done with you yet.”
He was not about to be reasonable. Allegra glared at him. She hated his smirking face, the pale, cold amber of his gin-glazed eyes, the cruel sensuality of his mouth. And her back had begun to throb and she was faint with hunger and John Wickham was dead. She groaned. “Godamercy, what do you want of me?” she said wearily.
His lecherous glance flickered over the exposed skin of her neck and throat and came to rest on her mouth. “I can think of any number of things,” he said. His voice was thick with drink and lust.
“Curse your soul!” she cried, and raised her hand to strike the ugly smile from his face. But her strength gave way; her arm dropped to her side. She blinked in desperation, fighting the waves of dizziness and nausea that threatened to overcome her.
“Here you are, miss. Lean on me.” Briggs put his strong arm around her waist, supporting her when she would have fallen.
Ridley laughed. “Always the gentleman, aren’t you, Briggs? You would have taken Crompton’s challenge, I have no doubt.” He laughed again as Briggs clenched his jaw and said nothing. “Ah, well. Let me see if I can persuade Crompton to my views. Take the creature home.” He sniffed in distaste. “And, for God’s sake, see that she has a bath!”
Chapter Three
Allegra dropped onto the seat of Ridley’s carriage and closed her eyes. She felt wretched, her strong spirit beginning to fail her. She was near to swooning from hunger, and her limbs shook uncontrollably. Her back still stung from Crompton’s lash and she ached with weariness. Worst of all, her mind was beginning to wander, playing tricks with her reason. Godamercy, now she even fancied that she could smell food!
“Here, Miss Allegra.”
She opened her eyes as the carriage started off. Ridley’s steward, Briggs, sat opposite her, smiling. In his hand he held a meat pie, wrapped in a snowy napkin. “I didn’t think Sir Henry would miss it from his table,” he said.
She was too overwhelmed with hunger to do more than nod her thanks. She snatched the pie from him and devoured it in a few frenzied seconds, scarcely stopping to chew—or even to breathe—in her haste to fill her empty belly. She was breathless by the time she had swallowed the last crusty bite and sucked the gravy from her fingers. She drew in a gasping breath and leaned back in contentment, smiling her gratitude at Briggs. “Thank you, sir.”
“There will be more food for you at the Hall, of course,” he said. “But I thought that a little prologue would not be amiss.”
For the first time, she examined him with care. A very agreeable-looking young man, with soft gray eyes and a serious, thoughtful mien. Like his master, he wore his own hair—dark blond—tied neatly behind, but his clothing was of plainer stuff, as somber and restrained as his expression. Except that he lacked a white collar, he looked like a country parson. “You’re the kindliest man I’ve met since I came to England, Mr. Briggs,” she said.
He seemed pleased at that, but without conceit. “I thank you for the compliment, miss. You’ve come from the tropics, I should guess. Your dark complexion…” He paused delicately. Englishwomen guarded their fair skins from the sun.
“I’ve come from the Colonies, yes,” she replied. That was enough for him and his master to know for now. She stirred in discomfort and felt a trickle down her back. “I fear I may have bloodied your coat,” she said.
His jaw tightened. “Sir Henry is a savage.”
She laughed dryly. “Sir Henry is a proud man, and I had just tossed half his dinner in his face. I scarce know if his anger was for the loss of his pride, or the loss of his meat. Don’t grudge the man his full measure of wrath.” She laughed again—a deep, throaty chuckle. “Besides, he gave My Lord Ridley the opportunity to play the part of a knight-errant.”
Briggs frowned. “Play? His Lordship saved your life.”
“Nonsense,” she said, and accompanied the word with a snort. “Sir Henry eats too much for his own good. He could scarcely move. I warrant the man was like to have died of apoplexy ere he could deliver the next stroke. Let alone kill me with blows.”
Briggs shook his head. “Don’t you know of the Black Act? Well,” he went on as she looked perplexed, “I suppose not, if you’ve been in America. It was passed last year. To stem the tide of poachers in the land. Under the Black Act, poaching is against the common good, and a hanging offense now.”
She stared in astonishment. “But there have always been poachers! No less than highwaymen and thieves. And a fair sight less threatening to the common good.”
“But of late there have been whole gangs of men abroad,” Briggs elaborated. “They break into enclosed parks and invade private forests to spirit off deer and game. They even took to wearing disguises, blacking their faces, so as not to be recognized. That didn’t sit well with our esteemed minister, Walpole, and his friends. It was decided that poaching should become a capital offense, at least when committed by armed felons in disguise.”
Allegra nodded in understanding, aware at last of the danger she’d been in. “Felons in disguise, you say. And that would include women dressed as…?”
“Young lads,” he finished. “Aye. Even though the purpose of your disguise, I should guess, was to ensure your safety. You see my point. But for Lord Ridley’s intervention with Sir Henry you had more to lose than merely the skin off your back.”
From one dilemma to another. Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “And now Lord Ridley expects me to pay for my life with my virtue?”
Briggs cleared his throat and stared down at the buckles on his shoes. “I’m sure His Lordship has no such thought,” he said, reddening.
“He must expect something in return. To let Sir Henry shame him like that. The ‘coward of Baniard Hall.’” Allegra frowned. The juxtaposition of the two words—coward and Baniard—seemed an affront to her family’s proud name. “Is he?” she demanded of Briggs. “A coward?”
His cheeks were now a bright red. “Lord Ridley is a man of many fine qualities,” he said.
“But is he a ‘white-livered’ coward, as Sir Henry said? Is he truly afraid to duel?”
“His Lordship…disdains to accept any challenges,” he said stiffly.
“You’re a very loyal man, Mr. Briggs, as well as a kindly one. I wonder you lower yourself to work for such an unworthy master.”
“There is much in His Lordship that is admirable. And a man has a duty to himself—once he has been employed—to render service to the best of his ability.”
“Are the rest of the servants at Baniard Hall so loyal?”
He scowled. “’Tis not in their natures, alas. They serve because they are well paid, and leave when they weary of…life at the Hall. But I was born a gentleman.”
“And will remain so, I think. No matter your straitened circumstances.”
He searched her face, his expression shrewd and filled with understanding. “As you were born…what, Miss Allegra? Surely not of common stock, for all your rags.”
She sighed. “I was born to suffer, Mr. Briggs.”
“At least until Baron Ellsmere is dead?”
She compressed her lips. “Pardon me, but that is none of your affair,” she said softly.
He ducked his head, acknowledging her gentle rebuke. “And your name, Mackworth?” he said at last.
She shrugged. “Not my own, of course. I took it from a gravestone in a churchyard. It has a nice sound to it.”
They rode in silence after that, climbing slowly to the long Shropshire ridge known as Wenlock Edge. Briggs watched Allegra all the while, as the carriage rocked and creaked its way through the hills. But it was a look of such benign good will—wit
hout a hint of disapproval or lechery—that Allegra soon relaxed and gave herself up to her musings. She wondered if the Hall had changed, if there were any servants left who had served the Baniards. She hoped not. It would only make matters more difficult for her, to be recognized. And eight long years, after all. Surely Wickham would have replaced every servant loyal to the Baniards. As for Ridley’s people, she had the impression from Briggs that they stayed for only a short time.
At last they reached the crest of the Edge and the gates of Baniard Hall. Humphrey, the gatekeeper, opened for them, then gaped in astonishment to see Allegra within the carriage. She ignored him, leaning forward to peer out the window as the carriage swept up the long, gently curving drive. They emerged from the trees, and Allegra held her breath for a moment, filled with cold dread and heart-stopping anticipation.
Baniard Hall. The place of her birth, her happy childhood. It sat in the middle of its park, commanding a view of the hills; for all the splendor of its setting, it was a modest old manor house of soft, honey-colored limestone and gray granite columns and pediments. The tall windows glinted like golden coins in the afternoon sun, and a thin wisp of smoke curled from the kitchen chimney. The lawn was a smooth green carpet, and the gardens stretched into the distance, their beds bright with summer flowers.
Allegra bit her lip as the carriage crunched over the gravel of the drive and swung around to the back of the Hall. No matter how hard she stared, her eyes absorbing every detail, it was just a manor house—beautiful, old, serene. Familiar, yet strangely distant with time. It stirred no painful memories. Moved nothing within her heart and soul. It was all she could do to remind herself that she’d lived here once.
She didn’t know whether she was glad or sad. The memories had kept her hatred alive for all those years; now she felt oddly bereft. But perhaps the still-fresh recollections of her misery in Carolina would serve as well to strengthen her resolve against Wickham. She mustn’t forget her duty to the ghosts.
There were clacking geese in the enclosed yard near the kitchen entrance, and several tethered mastiffs began to bark as the carriage came to a stop. A groom opened the door and grinned when Allegra stepped out. “Here’s a draggle-tailed package, or I’m hanged.” He raised a questioning eyebrow as Briggs followed. “And His Lordship?” he asked.
“Take a horse and fetch him at the Thistle and Rose.”
The groom snorted. “Is he still able to sit a horse?”
Briggs scowled and his voice dropped to an angry growl. “Do you have the courage to suggest the contrary to his face? If not, do as you’re told, and hold your tongue.” Ignoring the groom’s mumbled apology, he took Allegra by the elbow and led her into the house.
An elderly woman in a starched cap bustled toward them, her mouth set in a hard line. “Mr. Briggs, you really must try and speak to His Lordship. Margery has been in tears for half the day, and threatening to quit, because of something Lord Ridley said to her this morning.”
Briggs sighed. “Then let her go. We’ll find another.”
“But she’s the third laundry maid in a month!”
Briggs puffed in exasperation. “Mrs. Rutledge, you’re in charge of the house servants. Surely you can find a laundress who doesn’t take offense at the thoughtless ravings of a man who…” He stopped, seeming to remember his position. “His Lordship isn’t always himself,” he went on more calmly. “The servants should be made to understand that. ’Tis their place to respect the master, not to nurse their grievances. In the meantime, promise Margery half a guinea as a sop to her pride. And begin to train another girl in case she leaves anyway. Now…” He gestured toward Allegra. “His Lordship wishes this girl to be properly tended. See that she’s fed and bathed. And find clothes for her.”
“A girl?” The housekeeper smiled, a malicious smirk. Her glance took in the shirt-sleeved Briggs and Allegra—in her tattered masculine clothing—still wrapped in the steward’s coat. “It has been an interesting day for His Lordship, I take it, Mr. Briggs,” she purred.
“See to your duties, Mrs. Rutledge,” he said stiffly, and hurried away.
The housekeeper scanned Allegra from the top of her head to the dusty toes of her shoes. “You’re a pretty one, I’ll say that for you. Despite your browned skin and dirty face. You’ll clean up right well. His Lordship has a good eye, whatever else one can say of him.” She motioned toward an inner staircase. “Well, come along, girl.”
The implied meaning in the woman’s words touched the very core of Allegra’s fear. “I’m not here to be His Lordship’s whore,” she said defiantly.
The housekeeper shrugged her indifference. “You could do worse. His Lordship, at least, is generous with his money.”
But not nearly generous enough to buy his servants’ loyalty, thought Allegra, hearing the sharp contempt in the housekeeper’s voice.
Mrs. Rutledge led Allegra down a flight of stairs, past the kitchens and the large servants’ hall, and settled her into a small, simple parlor. She summoned two young housemaids and gave orders in a crisp fashion. In a few minutes, Allegra was seated at a table in the parlor, enjoying her first full meal since she’d left the Carolinas. While she ate, the maids brought in a tub filled with lavender-scented water, lit a small fire in the grate, and fetched a simple blue gown, a petticoat, shift, and stays. They helped her to undress, clucking in dismay at the sight of her back, the two long whip strokes that made an ugly cross.
“’Swounds!” said one of the maids. “I knew His Lordship weren’t the kind of johnny you’d take to church of a Sunday, but I didn’t think he would do this. Not even him!”
“It wasn’t Ridley,” said Allegra. “It was Sir Henry Crompton.”
“Oh, that one,” said the other maid. She giggled wickedly. “Beg your pardon, miss, but you must have been trying to steal his food. That’s the only reason he’d be in a temper.”
The first maid laughed even louder. “My cousin Mary is in service to him. They all whisper in the servants’ hall that when Sir Henry dies, they’ll bank his coffin with cabbages instead of roses, and string garlands of sausages in the church!” She explored Allegra’s back with soft fingers. “Well, it looks fair to heal soon enough, miss. And we’ve all had our share of beatings. Into the tub with you, now. There’s only a few places where the skin is broke, so it won’t sting but for a minute.”
Allegra was grateful for their gentleness and thoroughness, for the comfort of surrendering to someone else’s care. And though they exclaimed at the odd contrast of her pale body with the deeply tanned skin of her face and forearms, they had the kindness to leave her to her thoughts, working mostly in a companionable silence that soothed and lulled her.
By the time she was bathed and dressed—her stays laced loosely so as not to press against her sore back—she was beginning to nod, lost in a drowsy haze. She sat on a stool before the fire, her eyes closed, while the maids dried and combed her freshly washed hair, which fell in dark, abundant curls almost to her waist. She drifted on a warm tide of ease and contentment. It was an unfamiliar luxury. Tomorrow she would think of Wickham and her duty. Tomorrow she would resume her journey. But today…She yawned and sighed, her head dropping forward on her breast. Today…
She was aware suddenly that the combing had ceased—and more than a few minutes ago. That the room was very quiet. Her eyes flew open and she jerked upright. Ridley leaned against the mantel, watching her through half-closed eyes. The servants were gone. The door was closed.
Ridley shook his head and smiled lazily. “Burn me, but you’re a fine-looking wench.”
She jumped to her feet and glared at him, her body tense with the wariness of a cornered animal. She wished that the maids had given her a handkerchief to wrap around her neck and shield her bosom. She was painfully aware that her full breasts—lifted and cradled by her stays—swelled enticingly above the frilled edge of her shift, the low-cut bodice of her gown.
Ridley was equally aware. His glance lingered on her
bosom for a long, slow minute while his sensual mouth curved in a smile of pleasure. Then he ran his eyes over her body, from top to bottom, and back again—a frank and open appraisal.
Allegra shivered. It reminded her of the auction block at Charles Town. She remembered how Ridley had stared when he’d stripped her in front of Crompton. “Vile man,” she muttered. “Plague take you and your wicked eyes.”
He grinned. “Nothing, I see, will daunt that passionate spirit. Barbara…the little maidservant who tended you,” he explained, “tells me Crompton’s whip didn’t do too much harm. Show me. Loosen your shift and turn around.”
“I will not!” She clenched her teeth in defiance.
The smile faded from his face. “I’m not in the habit of being disobeyed. Turn around, I say.”
Allegra swallowed hard. At this moment, she couldn’t imagine why they called him coward. Not when his very aspect was intimidating—the cold amber eyes, the set of his jaw. The sense that he was capable of sudden violence. Ah, well. If she had to fight him, it was sensible to choose her battles with care. And this wasn’t the time. She sighed in resignation, fumbled with the strings of her shift and presented her back to him.
He lifted her heavy curls from her shoulders, running his fingers sensuously through their length before tucking them to one side. He pulled down her gown and shift in back, the better to assess the damage from Sir Henry’s whip, and gently stroke the bruised flesh. His hand was warm and soft on her skin—more a caress than an examination.
Allegra found herself trembling, caught off guard by the strange feelings he stirred within her. It had been such a long time since she’d known a tender touch, a kindly hand.
His voice was soft behind her, as warm and unsettling as his touch. “It will heal without scarring, I hope. It would be a pity to mar such beauty. Scented velvet.” He bent and pressed his lips against her neck.
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