No, not “Miss Bainbridge” anymore. Whatever propriety insisted, he and the youngest Bainbridge had passed from formality of address to . . . something else that still confused him.
Chilcott and Miss Morrow had vanished too. With Philo nowhere around, Meric headed up the hill to his house. Not until he reached his front steps did he open the message and read it. Then he read it again, scarcely able to believe that she suggested he meet her ten miles away. No matter that she assured him she would be well chaperoned, it all seemed shockingly improper. On the other hand, it would be private, away from prying eyes and the possibility of him encountering those who would know him in an instant. Possibly those who would know either of them in an instant. They would be all right if properly chaperoned.
At that moment Chilcott arrived in the street leading one horse, a groom behind him leading two more. “Ready, my lord?”
“You know.” Meric’s words held no question. Of course Chilcott knew.
But he nodded as if Meric had asked a question. “Mon amie will be there to make us respectable.”
Ah, his friend. His lady friend. Miss Morrow.
But ten miles on a horse . . .
Meric suppressed a groan and descended the steps to mount. “Philo coming along then?”
“Yes, my lord. He said he will not allow you out of his sight, as you seem to get into trouble when he is gone and he does not wish to inherit.”
“How benevolent of him.”
Philo was certainly not responsible for his accident with the carriage, but the missing French prisoners might be another matter. Philo wasn’t much fond of England and might decide to earn a little of his own money helping England’s enemies. If it were so, Meric would find out immediately if he had to lock his younger brother up for days until he confessed. Yet even if he did, it didn’t answer the problem regarding who had tried to kill Meric and who had falsely accused his father of murder.
Maybe Honore had gained some useful information. She had better have found out something to make this journey worth the discomfort of riding on a horse for an hour and a half. She was probably in a cozy carriage.
But she was not. Wearing a veil over her face, she arrived behind the Ashmoor party with Miss Morrow in the back of a dray wagon along with its barrels of provisions for the inn. The instant the drayman lowered the back of the wagon, she leaped to the ground and held up a hand against anyone speaking to her, then slipped inside the inn.
Meric followed. Bowing with perfunctory courtesy, the landlord showed Meric and his companions into a private parlor.
“I have ordered some refreshment,” Honore said from across the room. “Do, please, be seated, gentlemen.”
Meric remained standing and propped one shoulder against the mantel. He didn’t speak until the landlord left. “Why this clandestine meeting if I was to meet you in the market?”
“To throw anyone watching us off the scent.” Honore’s smile flashed through the gauze of her veil. “We know we have a traitor in our midst, do we not?”
“I know no such thing.” Meric glanced at the other three occupants.
Miss Morrow flushed but met his gaze.
“How does that help if it is one of us here?” Philo asked.
Honore toyed with the hat ribbons beneath her ear. “Elimination, Mr. Poole. If this news gets out, then we know it is one of you.”
“Me?” Philo shot up from his chair.
“Down, boy,” Meric drawled. “She is being general.”
“I suspect she means me.” Chilcott’s mouth worked as though he struggled against either smiling or frowning.
Miss Morrow ducked her head so her hat brim hid her face more completely than did her filmy veil.
“It’s all nonsense.” Meric made his tone harsh. “Like schoolchildren playing games in the woods.”
“This is no game.” Honore took a step toward him, holding out her hands palms up. “You came too close to dying, and so did I. French prisoners are escaping from Dartmoor, going free to kill Englishmen, and only an Englishman can be helping them.”
“Or an American,” Philo said.
“Or an American,” Honore agreed. “Though I—”
The door opened to admit two maids with trays of coffee and viands. No one spoke until the food trays stood on a table and the maids departed. Then they talked only of serving matters for several more moments.
“What news I have,” Honore said at last, “is so miniscule it emphasizes to me that we have to do something drastic, something daring, or we will learn nothing until perhaps it is too late to prevent a disaster like a fatal fall off a cliff or a few drops of poison in someone’s soup.”
“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” Chilcott said.
Honore smiled. “Why do you think we are not considering a female here? Am I not suspect because of my past alliance with a traitor?”
How she managed to kick him in the middle from across the room, Meric didn’t know, but his gut sure felt like she had managed the feat. Or perhaps his conscience had kicked him in the middle.
“No one could suspect a lady like you.” Philo glared at Meric. “Can they?”
Meric sighed. “Not seriously.”
“Or Miss Morrow,” Chilcott added.
“Why not?” Miss Morrow’s tone held asperity. “I might wish to feather my nest for the day Miss Bainbridge no longer needs my services.”
“What is your information?” Meric let the question lash like a whip crack before an argument disrupted the meeting.
“It is very little.” Honore lifted her veil and raised a Shrewsbury biscuit to her lips, took a bite, and returned it to her plate, leaving a dusting of sugar behind.
Meric raised his hand as though he could reach her from a dozen feet away and brush the sugar away with his fingertips. Except he didn’t want to use his fingertips. He wanted to taste the sweetness . . .
He had no right to even think in that direction if he didn’t intend to offer for her.
He looked away. “You never know how the smallest seed will grow.”
“Quite true.” Honore licked away the sugary crumbs and avoided his gaze. “This made me think—but I am getting the cart before the horse. All I learned is the identity of one of the men you rescued that windy night. His wife thanked me with a loaf of bread, the kind I loved so well when I was a child and ran wild with the tenant farmers’ children.”
“I won’t ask,” Philo murmured, “how she knew Miss Bainbridge was involved, Meric, you dog.”
“I think,” Miss Morrow said, “some further explanations might be in order.”
“Not now.” Honore pulled her veil over her face again, then flung it and her hat aside and leaped to her feet. “It is unimportant, all that. Knowing the identity of one of two men who were out picking up contraband despite the weather is unimportant. They know nothing of French prisoners escaping.”
“But might know something of the murder blamed on my father,” Meric said.
“They might, but because of that murder accusation and escape, you, my lord, are going to get accused of these disappearances in a way your rank will not prevent, now that my brother knows you called on me last Sunday.”
“Why did you tell him?” Meric asked.
She glared at him. “Why presume I told him? Miss Deborah, though good-intentioned, cannot keep secrets from her fiancé. So now Beau thinks you must be . . . if you have taken interest in me . . .” Her lower lip quivered and she turned away. “So I have decided we need to earn the trust of Dartmoor prisoners and see if we can learn anything from them.”
“Why would they trust you?” Philo asked.
Honore smiled. “Do you all know that my brother-in-law was a prisoner in Dartmoor for a while?” She flicked a glance at Ashmoor. “Christien de Meuse, the man who is officially my guardian by my father’s appointment should I not be wed at his death. He said the conditions in Dartmoor are such that they will do anything, trust anyone they think will get them out of there befo
re the end of the war, especially the French. Some have been there since the prison was built four years ago, and who knows when the war will end? It’s been going on for twenty years already.”
“But Miss Bainbridge—” Chilcott stopped speaking and shook his head.
Meric stared at her. Chilcott and Philo stared at her. She gazed back at them with eyes as calm as an August sky.
“You want me to go make the acquaintance of Dartmoor prisoners, convince them I’ll help them escape, when I’m under suspicion?” Meric finally managed to get the words of incredulity past his lips. “My dear Miss Bainbridge, you must be mad.”
“Not at all.” She smiled. “I do not expect you to go. That would be madness. But they have a market every Wednesday, and I can go.”
23
Honore did not care that the others spent half of an hour trying to dissuade her from her chosen course of action. She intended to go to the prison. At present, she saw no other course.
“If we can stop whoever is taking French prisoners out of the country,” she pointed out, “we can stop the military from trying to blame you, Ashmoor.”
“Ashmoor, is it,” Philo murmured. Then he grinned at Honore.
She turned her shoulder to him and fixed her gaze on Ashmoor. “If we clear your name of these suspicions, then the old murder will not matter.”
“The old murder,” Ashmoor responded, “will always matter so long as the majority of the county thinks my father committed it.”
Honore shook her head. “Most of the county does not think that, though. You are the one invited everywhere. You have been invited everywhere since you landed here.”
“Including a three-month visit to one of your cozy prisons.” Ashmoor’s mouth was set in a thin, grim line, and she wanted to smooth it with her thumb as he had touched her lips, soften it with a kiss . . .
Her insides quivered, and she rose to draw on her hooded cloak and veiled hat. “I am going to the prison if I have to go by myself. Miss Morrow?”
“Miss Morrow,” Chilcott exclaimed, “you will not allow her to go, will you?”
Miss Morrow smiled sweetly. “How do you intend me to stop her?”
“Why, you can . . . her brother will not . . . that is to say . . .” Chilcott spluttered to a stop.
“Have me dismissed?” Miss Morrow also rose and began to draw on her cloak. “I am shocked one of you gentlemen will not rise and assist us.”
Ashmoor shot to his feet. “I beg your pardon.” His ears reddened. “We are forgetting our manners in our shock. Miss Morrow, allow me.” She was closer to him, and he reached for her hat resting on a table.
Chilcott reached it first.
Philo reached Honore first. “We are a couple of colonial yokels, aren’t we?” He took her cloak from her hands and swirled it around her shoulders, then handed her hat to her. “I think you’re mad for this scheme of going to the prison market, even if ladies do go there, but you have such pluck, I wonder my brother can bear to so much as talk to Carolina Devenish.”
Honore fastened her cloak and adjusted her hat before saying, “She is a remarkably pretty girl.” She set her mouth tight so she did not curl her upper lip or gag on her prim way of speaking.
Philo laughed and turned to his brother. “Meric, you are a fool.”
“Probably.” Ashmoor’s gaze touched Honore’s face, met her eyes, dropped to her lips, then snapped back to her eyes. “You cannot do this for me, Miss Bainbridge.”
“I am not doing this for you, my lord. I am doing this for myself.” She flipped her veil over her face so it appeared as though she viewed him through green fog. “I hope one day I can say that I did not love three rascals in a row.”
Not waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and stalked from the room before anyone could leap forward and open the door for her.
As the portal slammed shut behind her, she heard Philo say, “She as good as accused you of committing some crime.”
“Wrong,” Honore murmured to herself. “I did not accuse him of a crime per se. I simply pointed out it was a possibility.” After all, she loved him. She could as easily have chosen a scoundrel three times in a row as she could be hoping that three times was the charm for her. She already knew it was not. He had made up his mind she was not good enough for him, that he could not accept her with her sullied reputation.
She wanted to be gone before the Ashmoor party exited the room, but Miss Morrow would not remain inside alone with the three men, and Honore needed to wait for the drayman to return with his wagon. The journey home would be slow, bumpy, and fatiguing. She had not ridden this many miles in over a year. The carriages or horses, however, had been out of the question.
Now she must work out how she would reach the prison. She could not find a farmer or drayman who would take her there. Again, if she used a Bainbridge horse or carriage, doubtless the head groom would tell her brother, who would scold, even forbid her the use of the horses also. That might make reaching the prison difficult. And Chilcott might tell Beau of her planned expedition. Or perhaps she should draw Deborah into the wild goose chase of a scheme. It was the equivalent of going someplace like Bartholomew Fair or to some other raucous entertainment, populated by the great unwashed rather than the haut ton.
Deborah would never go without a large escort.
The Ashmoor men did not wish Honore and Miss Morrow to ride home without escort, even veiled as they were. They crowded out of the private parlor as though all tried to exit the door at the same time, and surrounded Honore.
“It’s the least I can do for you after your help.” Ashmoor rested his hand on her shoulder and spoke quietly into her ear.
Honore shrugged off his hand. “I am not doing this for you, remember? And your brother is right. I have just about accused you of a crime.”
“You know it’s not true.”
“I know I would rather it were not true. Ah, here is my conveyance.” She swept out the door.
Ashmoor followed. “I’ll help you climb up.”
Honore accepted his aid. Settled on the straw-stuffed bolster the drayman had produced for a seat, she leaned toward Ashmoor and rested her hand on his shoulder. “If you are lying to me, please tell me now.”
His eyes flashed, and he walked away without saying a word.
Not a denial of guilt. Not an admission either. As good as saying she must reach her own conclusion.
She rode home, not saying a word, not listening to Miss Morrow, and wishing she still prayed. No, that was not quite right. She still prayed. She simply did not believe any answers would come if she did not take drastic actions.
Going to the prison was not precisely a drastic action. Many ladies did visit the prisons with blankets and soaps and coin to buy the trinkets the prisoners made to sell or exchange for such luxuries as the means to cleanliness and warmth. Her brother would likely send her to Somerset or lock her up if he found out, though, which meant not daring to let Deborah know of the excursion.
But Deborah seemed determined to spend as much time as possible with Honore. She arrived on Monday with a plate of macaroons and cakes. On Tuesday she drew up outside the gate in a little dogcart Beau had purchased for her for tooling about the countryside. Miss Morrow had to stay home, for which she expressed a great deal of pleasure.
“I was thinking of baking apple pies, if I may be so bold.”
“I love apple pie. How many did you plan to bake?” Honore asked.
Miss Morrow blushed. “Three.”
“We cannot possibly eat all three if we do not wish to be as fat as Christmas geese, but—oh.” Honore laughed. “One for each of your suitors?”
Miss Morrow tossed her head.
“Then bake four and we will take one to the prison.”
On Wednesday, Honore and Miss Morrow rose extra early to take out two horses before Deborah could plan their day for them. First they made some calls on more of Honore’s childhood friends, cementing their loyalty to her. Then they start
ed for the prison.
They were halfway to the prison, riding cross-country on their mounts, their faces heavily veiled, when Honore realized the guards might not allow the pie inside. “We might be smuggling something inside it.”
“We are,” Miss Morrow said in her calm fashion. “Coins for bribing guards if we must.”
Dartmoor was bleak, with high, barren rock and scrub where the wind blew ceaselessly and always seemed colder than the rest of the county. Sheep and a few wild ponies wandered about the landscape, but few people ever ventured there except on business pertaining to the prison.
The Crown had built it four years earlier to house French prisoners. Now Americans joined the crowded facility, and the fortress appeared far older, bleaker, formidable.
“Odd to think my sister met her future husband here.” Honore poised outside the gates. They stood open so men, women, and children could stream in and out with baskets and small carts full of goods. The scene resembled the entrance to a country fair more than a prison except for the Somerset militia in their red-coated uniforms and bayoneted muskets.
Suddenly trembling, Honore dismounted, paid a waiting boy a shilling to watch the horses, and led the way to the gates.
“Whatcha got there?” One of the guards grabbed for the pie.
Honore smiled and held it out. “Just an apple tart, sir.”
“Dunno. Did you bake more into it than apples? Hee hee.” He stuck a none-too-clean finger through the golden top crust. His eyes widened, and he stuck in his thumb with a well-bitten nail and drew out one of the crowns Miss Morrow had included in the ingredients. “I think you can take it in to your sweetheart, though why you’d be wanting a Frenchie for a sweetheart rather ’n a good Englishman, I dunno.”
“Not a sweetheart, sir, just Christian charity.” Honore dropped him a curtsy he did not deserve, then she led Miss Morrow into the teeming prison yard.
“This place is teeming with vermin,” Miss Morrow muttered.
Indeed, the stench nearly knocked Honore back out the gate.
The appearance of the men brought tears to her eyes. Most wore little more than rags cobbled together with tied twine and rough stitching. Their hair and beards were long and unkempt. Worst of all, only a few men appeared to be eating enough.
A Reluctant Courtship Page 23