“Missed me, have you, Tony?” she murmured. Her hand lifted slowly.
“Guh . . . er . . .” Edelston reddened, staring for a moment like a startled doe into her amused, knowing blue eyes. Then he collected his wits and reached into the inner pocket of his coat for the locket.
The pocket was empty.
His fingers thrashed about in the pocket’s recesses. It was truly empty. Excruciatingly, resoundingly empty.
“It was here, I swear, I never remove it from here, it must be here, my pound note is missing, too,” he muttered insanely.
Cordelia froze, and then turned slowly and fixed Edelston with a long blue stare, which terrified him. Edelston had been on the receiving end of this particular utter absence of expression several times before, and each time it frightened him in a way he didn’t fully understand. It was as though Cordelia had left her body completely, leaving behind a stranger comprised of indifference so absolute she seemed capable of anything.
He patted at his other pockets in an agitated fashion and made a show of glancing around at the ground near the bench, but he knew it was useless. For as long as it had been in his possession, he had kept the locket in his inner overcoat pocket.
He finally stopped searching and squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief. It was gone.
Cordelia and Edelston lifted their heads from their respective torments when they heard the crunch of footsteps in front of them. It was Gilroy the footman, looking reddened and mussed and nearly as agitated as Edelston.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Lord Edelston, Your Grace, but have you seen Miss Rebecca at all today, Lord Edelston?”
Edelston frowned. “No, Gilroy. I thought she was dressing for luncheon.”
“She seems to be . . . well, sir . . .”
“What is it, Gilroy?” Edelston’s voice had gone weak with dread.
Gilroy capitulated with a sigh. “’Twould seem that Miss Rebecca is missing, Lord Edelston. And Sir Henry would like to see you in the house at once. If you would, sir.”
Edelston’s ears began to ring. He found he lacked the breath to stand up.
“Come, Tony, let’s go see what this is about, shall we?” Cordelia said sweetly. She looped her arm through his and nearly pulled him off the bench. Side by side, they followed Gilroy into the house.
From the back of a horse, the road leading away from Rebecca’s father’s estate had always seemed a civilized thing. The cart, however, revealed otherwise; it lurched over countless bumps and pebbles and ruts with a sadistic thoroughness. Before long, Rebecca was convinced that by the time they reached the village her bones would be jellied inside her skin and her teeth would be rattling around inside her mouth like dice.
And Connor’s admonishment not to breathe had proved unnecessary. Breathing had ceased being an attractive pastime once she realized that whatever had occupied the cart before her—dead cattle? rotten turnips?—had generously left behind its essence.
In the cart, she measured the passing of time by the increasing warmth of the sun seeping through the canvas that covered her. Mercifully, after about what Rebecca estimated to be hours and hours, Connor pulled the gray to a halt. The cart lurched and squeaked as he swung down from it, and she heard his boots crunch toward her.
“Rebecca?” he whispered.
“Who else? The Duke of Wellington?” she said crossly, and the canvas lifted from her head to reveal Connor’s white teeth shining down at her like a bright crescent moon.
“Bit of a bumpy ride, eh, wee Becca? It’s smoother up top, but seeing as how we’re spiriting you away, I thought it wisest you should ride like cargo.”
She never could stay cross with Connor. She smiled back at him. “Where are we?”
“Come,” he said, and extended his hand. She gripped it; his hand was warm and rough, dark hair curled at his wrist. With a start she realized she had probably not held his hand since she was twelve years old. The sensation was both new and strangely eternal, and she felt a peculiar impulse to examine it the way she would any newfound treasure. But Connor gave a pull, and Rebecca’s protesting bones and muscles were soon in an upright position on the ground in back of the cart.
In front of them was a little cottage, clean but weatherworn, and a woman stood in the doorway. The woman ran a hand through her dark hair, which was pulled back and fastened into one long braid that trailed over her shoulder, and then rubbed her hands down the front of her apron.
“Ye caught me at me chores, Connor Riordan,” the woman said in a mock scold.
“Aye, my timing is always excellent, eh, Janet luv? This is the friend I told you about. Miss Rebecca, Miss Janet Gilhooly.”
Janet and Rebecca took the measure of each other. Janet had fair skin and large dark eyes set beneath stern straight eyebrows and a wide, generous mouth bracketed by faint grooves. She was very pretty, and older, Rebecca decided, easily thirty or so. Her dress was a clean but faded gray, like the outside of her cottage.
“’Tis jus’ like ye not to run off wi’ an ugly lass,” Janet said at last to Connor, who burst out laughing and had to be heartily shushed by Janet.
“Come inside, the two of ye, for ye haven’t a minute to spare. You can hire a coach going north in St. Eccles, but best ye get there before the sun is too low in the sky. We’ll get yer clothes and a cuppa and then off wi’ ye.” Janet stood aside and made sweeping motions with her hand to usher them into the cottage.
Rebecca felt suddenly shy and very young in the face of Janet’s brisk competence and wondered how on earth Connor knew her.
“Connor first,” Janet said. She pointed to a stack of clothing folded neatly upon the table in her main room. “Use me bedchamber to dress, Connor. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Rebecca stood awkwardly in the center of the main room watching the back of Janet as she whisked cups and saucers down from a shelf.
“Sit, Rebecca,” Janet commanded, and pulled a chair out from the table. Rebecca, grateful to be given anything at all to do, did as she was told.
“Now, lass,” Janet said kindly and matter-of-factly, “dinna bother to be shy. ’Tis glad I am to be helpin’ ye. I gave my youth to a brute of a man because me family said I should, but every breath I took I was sorry for it. We was married for ten years. He died under the hooves of a mule and dead drunk he was at the time, and it’s been a hard but better life since. He left me wi’ no children, but the house is mine, the mule and the chickens are mine, this little bit of land is mine, and nobody owns me. Life is hard for women, Miss Rebecca, as you’ll learn, and we are rarely free, but if we are offered freedom I say it is worth the price.”
As if to demonstrate the price, Janet stretched her hands out in front of her and smiled upon them; they were gnarled and rough, laced with scars, the nails ground short. They were twenty years older than her face.
Dumbfounded and drunk on the first dose of adult honesty she’d ever heard except from the mouth of Connor Riordan, Rebecca stared, half in envy, half in revulsion, at those hands, hands that could plow and bake and sew and carry and suffer and decide. It was heady. Just as she’d suspected, life was messy and fascinating and had very little to do with everything she’d lived up until today. Suddenly she wanted to know every bit of it, and her fatigue dropped away.
“Edelston said he suspected he might wish to beat me rather frequently. But he is writing poetry to me. And he is a baron,” Rebecca began guiltily. For some reason she wanted this woman’s absolution. She wanted to hear Janet’s thoughts on shucking a marriage and an ostensibly very comfortable life for one of near reckless uncertainty.
“Prisons can be made of velvet,” Janet said with a dismissive snort. She was already convinced of Edelston’s lack of worth. “If ye’re lucky, love and respect can grow in a marriage, but a man rarely sees the need in that, ye ken? If he can do what he likes, what need has he to learn to love his wife? He can go about his business, gaming and womanizing and whatnot, pleasing himself. His wife is his property and broo
dmare.” She stopped to see if Rebecca was blushing and laughed to notice she was not.
“I know what a broodmare is,” Rebecca confirmed firmly.
“I hear tell there is such a thing as love, though, Miss Rebecca,” Janet said, “and God willing, love will find ye someday and ye will be able to keep it without too dear a cost.”
Rebecca nodded. She thought of Mama and Papa. Not a grand love story, that one. More a story of tolerance and practicality. Rebecca suspected she was destined for something altogether different, something she was by no means able to define yet.
“And where exactly would Connor be takin’ ye?” Janet asked her.
“I . . . I don’t know yet. He would not tell me.”
Janet’s eyes went troubled for a brief moment. Rebecca blushed, because her answer sounded hopelessly naive even to her own ears. “Away” had seemed a sufficient destination not more than a day ago.
“Rebecca, Connor is a rare man, but no man alive deserves that sort of trust.”
“And are you filling wee Becca’s ears with your usual revolutionary talk, Janet?” Connor said, emerging from her room.
The women gawked at him. Gone were his grimy rolled shirtsleeves and work trousers, the scuffed boots, the uniform of a groom. In their place were close-fitting fawn-colored trousers, a coat of fine dark brown wool open over a waistcoat striped in deep gold and cream, and an almost-new pair of boots, polished to a glow. A conservatively tied silk cravat, whiter than summer clouds, billowed beneath his chin. In one hand he held a pair of brown kid gloves; in the other a round, flat-crowned hat.
“Ye look like a bloody lord, ye do,” Janet drawled, but her eyes had gone soft.
“Thanks to your skill with procurement, Janet,” Connor said, his own eyes soft.
“Ah, but I did it wi’ yer coin. I canna take credit for it all,” Janet replied, and Connor laughed.
Rebecca was flabbergasted by the change in Connor. He looked more at home in the fine clothes than Maharajah did in his own skin, his long elegant body almost insolently regal as he stood holding the hat between both hands. The stripe in his waistcoat picked out the gold flecks in his eyes and set them dancing; the soft folds of the cravat emphasized the bold lines of his jaw and cheekbones. It was faintly disturbing, because although Rebecca knew the clothes were meant to disguise him, in some strange way they seemed to reveal him instead.
“Wee Becca, from this point on I shall be known as Mr. Jonathan Hazelton, Esquire, a solicitor, and you shall be my shy and very, very quiet nephew . . . Ned. Aye, I think Ned would suit you.”
“I’m to dress like a boy?” Rebecca’s interest was piqued. Connor had known this portion of the escapade would appeal to her.
“Yes, for the duration of the coach trip, ye shall be a boy. Now be a good lass and follow Janet into her bedchamber to get dressed up.”
In a few minutes, Janet had divested Rebecca of her gown and shift and had helped her into a pair of light-colored trousers (a bit too large, but this worked in their favor as it muffled the unmistakably feminine curve of her hips), and a loose white shirt. Janet clucked worriedly over the healthy size of Rebecca’s bosom, but once Rebecca had slipped into the overlarge coat that had been acquired for her, she decided the whole ensemble provided adequate camouflage.
“But now we must do something wi’ yer hair,” Janet said musingly. “Connor, will ye bring me sewing basket, please?”
Connor, aka Mr. Hazelton, Esq., appeared obligingly in the doorway a moment later with the basket.
Janet fished about until she found her scissors and then seized a hunk of Rebecca’s hair.
Both Connor and Rebecca let out dismayed squeaks.
Janet let the scissors fall to her side. “Oh, fer heaven’s sake, the two of ye, we canna let her out the door like this. The lass has more hair than will fit into a cap. It will tumble out if she so much as sneezes.”
“A little of it, then?” Rebecca said bravely.
“Three inches or so,” Janet said speculatively. “We can stuff most of it up into your cap that way, then club the rest and tuck it in your shirt collar and pray no one looks too close at ye.”
Rebecca nodded stoically and closed her eyes. Snick, snick, snick. A soft rain of wavy gold and red and copper fell to the floor at her feet. Janet swept the shorn hair into the corner and then deftly bundled the rest of Rebecca’s hair under the cap.
“Ye’ll do. Now let’s ’ave our tea and then off wi’ ye both.”
She ushered Rebecca out of the room in front of her and followed close behind. Connor lingered a moment in the room. When Janet and Rebecca were safely in the kitchen, he bent to select a copper curl from the small soft heap of swept-up hair and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.
“My thanks for the offer of tea, Janet, but I think we must be on our way,” Connor said when he was once again in the kitchen.
Janet did not reply; she went very still and stared up into Connor’s face, smiling faintly and sadly. He met her gaze for a moment, then tore his eyes from her.
“Come now,” he said, motioning for Rebecca to precede him out of the door of the cottage. “You’re a young man, wee Ned. I canna be assisting a great lad such as yourself into the cart. You must do it yourself.”
Rebecca made a face at Connor to illustrate how weak a challenge this presented to her. Somewhat reluctantly, she left the warmth of Janet’s kitchen, Connor and Janet close behind her.
“Good-bye and good luck to ye, Miss Rebecca. I hope the future brings ye naught but kindness,” Janet said.
“Good luck to you, too, Janet. I cannot thank you enough for your help and your words of encouragement. I shall never forget it.” Something that felt dangerously like the beginnings of tears began to prick at her eyes.
“Oh, now, boys don’t cry,” Janet scolded. “Into the cart ye go.” Janet gave her a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek and an impertinent pat on the bottom.
Rebecca swung herself into the cart, marveling at the nearly sinful freedom the trousers afforded. No wonder men behaved as though they owned the world.
She turned to watch for Connor. To her astonishment, she saw him take both of Janet’s hands in his own and kiss each one lingeringly, with what looked remarkably like tenderness. Janet put her hands briefly on either side of Connor’s face, then dropped them back to her sides, and Connor took his leave of her.
The militarily efficient Sir Henry had assembled the servants, Lorelei, and Lady Tremaine in the parlor. Edelston’s first impression of the scene was of pale faces taut with a sense of impending tragedy. A movement caught his eye; Lady Tremaine was cruelly twisting a handkerchief between her two plump white hands.
“Ah, Lord Edelston,” Sir Henry began, “please have a seat. We were just discussing . . .” He stopped when he noticed Cordelia standing behind Edelston. Sir Henry regarded her unblinkingly for one rattled moment before arranging his features into something resembling a gracious welcoming expression. “And, Your Grace, what an honor and a pleasure. No doubt you are exhausted from your evening’s travel. Molly will show you to your room and see to your needs.”
Hearing her name, a tiny dark-haired maid snapped to attention in the corner of the room and, at a loss as to what to do next, dropped a curtsy. All the other servants, startled into motion by Molly’s sudden movement, began dipping and bending, too, although not one of them was entirely certain what sort of etiquette a duchess required, never having been in the presence of one.
“Oh, thank you so much, Sir Henry, but I’m not tired at all.” Cordelia remained rooted to the spot.
Sir Henry silently eyed the exquisite creature in front of him. Part of him wanted to bellow, “Begone, woman!” The other part of him, the pragmatic, bred-in-the-bone part, was aware that where there were duchesses, there were bound to be dukes and various other lofty titles, some of whom might be in need of a wife named Lorelei. He glanced at his own wife, who was giving him an imploring look that he was finding difficul
t to interpret. Did it mean, “Pacify the duchess, for God’s sake?” or did it mean, “Get rid of her while we deal with this mess?”
Meanwhile, Edelston’s nerves were twanging dangerously, and he feared they would snap at any moment if the matter at hand was not addressed promptly. He was quite certain that Cordelia would happily fence Sir Henry into the ground with verbal obtuseness if it took all evening, and he needed to put a stop to it. He cleared his throat. All heads swiveled toward him.
“The duchess is a dear family friend, and as such, my happiness is of great concern to her. Her discretion may be taken for granted.”
The statement rang by itself in the parlor for a moment. The problem of what to do with the duchess solved for him, Sir Henry ignored the lengthy formalities of introductions all around and leaped immediately to the business at hand.
“I would like everyone to tell me when they last saw Rebecca. She did not appear at breakfast, and she was not in her room when Lorelei looked in on her. Furthermore, we have already determined that her horse is in the stable, that she is not in the apple tree, and that she does not appear to be in the house or taking the air anywhere on the grounds. I think Letty may have something to share with us. Letty?”
“Sir, I sleep very soundly, sir,” Letty began hesitantly.
“And snores like a warthog, she does,” muttered Tom the gardener.
“Rebecca was gone when you awoke?” Sir Henry prompted impatiently.
“Y-y-es, sir. I thought she was out riding, see, sir. But then I noticed that some of her . . . well, some of her things are missing, sir. Clothing things.”
Sir Henry pursed his lips. “Gilroy?”
“I did not see Miss Rebecca today, sir, but I saw her twice yesterday. When yourself and Lord Edelston had gone to look at the greenhouse, sir, I took the opportunity to fetch the empty brandy glasses from the library. Miss Rebecca was in the library when I entered it. She exited in rather a hurry, which I thought was a bit odd, seeing as how Miss Rebecca always liked to pass a word or two. And then I saw her when I attended the family at dinner.”
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