by Amy Lake
“I’m sorry,” she said, with a small laugh. “So what now?”
“Now?”
She looked at him, directly. The sight of her beautiful eyes, the intelligence and humor in her expression, nearly undid him.
Miss Asherwood smiled. “Yes, now. Am I free to continue on to find Marguerite? Or shall I be interrogated?”
Something of the way she said this last brought fire to his soul, but Lord Blakeley allowed himself only a good-natured chuckle. “Touché, my dear. I will talk to Monsieur Berard in a moment, and in the meantime I have taken the liberty of hiring a . . . vehicle to transport us to the chateau.”
Miss Asherwood frowned, hesitating. “Thank you, no,” she replied finally. “I’ve arranged for a carriage, and I’m quite capable of proceeding on my own.”
“A carriage?” He laughed. “Are you aware,” he asked her, “that the Berards are under the impression that you wished to purchase a map?”
She was silent, obviously confused, and then he saw understanding dawn in her eyes.
“Oh, dear.”
“Just so. Madame is quite upset that she cannot think of where to purchase one, especially since you drew the item you wished so clearly, even marking in the towns of Calais, Doullens, and Amiens.”
* * * *
Elizabeth looked doubtfully at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or not for the clean clothing that Madame Berard had given her; an old servant girl’s dress that had evidently been sewn for a woman slightly larger in the waist—and considerably smaller on the top—than Miss Asherwood. French servant girls were intended to be decorative, it seemed. Lizzie tugged at the bodice, but there was no hiding the considerable expanse of bosom on display. The rest of the ensemble—a long skirt of grey gingham, with an apron and a jumper bodice over the low-cut blouse—was unobjectionable enough.
Lord Blakeley had insisted on the outfit, after a brief, intense discussion with the innkeeper and another man, whose name Elizabeth was never told.
“And leave your jewelry with the Berards,” Blakeley said.
She was wearing only a few rings and a gold brooch, given to her by Sir Terence, that she intended to give to Marguerite.
“Why?”
“Miss Asherwood, I don’t have patience for argument,” was Blakeley’s only reply.
Which was hardly satisfactory, but since with his lordship’s help the journey to Beauvoir was being accomplished much more quickly, and with vastly less effort than she could have managed on her own, Elizabeth was willing to accede. She was a proud and independent woman, but she was not stupid.
Lizzie took a last look in the mirror, happy that she’d been able to wash her hair; this was another consequence of having a bit of extra time that morning while his lordship made arrangements. They would leave in an hour, he had said. And she could not regret the fresh change of clothing. Miss Asherwood hadn’t anticipated caring much about her personal appearance during what was to have been a short sojourn in Picardy. But now she found herself caring very much, and she wondered what Lord Blakeley would think of her present neckline.
She loved the man. Seeing him sitting quietly at the Berards’ breakfast table had been the greatest shock, and the deepest pleasure, of her life. Miss Asherwood did not want to think of the pain she would experience seeing Lord Blakeley at a ball, or a musicale, perhaps, after her marriage to Lord Winthrop.
Or—and she winced at the thought—seeing him after his own marriage, which would surely happen someday.
But she could not focus on herself, today. Today they must find Marguerite.
* * *
Chapter 56
Miss Forbes-Treffy Is Ill
Lord Winthrop was restless and unhappy. He had not yet, as it happened, left for France. There had been a traveling carriage to arrange—single young gentlemen in London did not necessarily keep such a conveyance at their disposal—and clothing to pack, although Geoffrey, of course, did nothing of the latter himself.
And he did not want to go. Miss Asherwood, thought Lord Winthrop, already had one male to attend her. She hardly needed a second. Strangely, the thought of Elizabeth being accompanied by Peregrine Blakeley no longer particularly upset him, although he did worry that her reputation might be irretrievably compromised if word got out.
As Miss Perrin had warned him. Penelope and Lord Winthrop had spoken the previous night, at one of the Spencers’ musicales. After expressing surprise that he was still in town, she said, “Geoff, you must not say anything, you know.”
Of course he knew.
“Not even to the viscount.”
Gods. The viscount! Did Miss Perrin think he would really tell his friends that his fiancé was in France on the arms of another man?
And then Penny had looked at him curiously. “Are you going?” she finally asked. “Are you going to France?”
“Yes,” he’d answered. “Yes, of course.”
Of course he was going, although there was almost nothing he’d prefer doing less. Geoffrey could just picture the happy scene as he retrieved Miss Asherwood, with Lord Blakeley looking on.
In amusement, no doubt. Geoff had always suspected that men like Blakeley found men like Lord Winthrop amusing, which galled him. Why should an acknowledged rake have anything to say about a young man of substance and good reputation?
So Lord Winthrop was not in the best of spirits, but in truth, none of this was the real cause of his current anxiety. He had expected to see Miss Forbes-Treffy at the musicale last night, but she had not appeared. After spending an hour watching the doorway, while trying to pay some attention to the soprano of the evening, who was truly dreadful, Geoffrey finally overheard one of her friends saying that Miss Forbes-Treffy had not been feeling well that day, and had taken to bed with the headache.
Geoffrey felt he could not leave for Dover before ascertaining that this young lady was entirely better, which should be possible that very evening, at the Pinkleys’ ball.
* * *
Chapter 57
The Hay Rick
There was no getting around the fact. It was a hay rick.
Miss Asherwood stared at Lord Blakeley’s promised conveyance and fought with her first reaction, which was disbelief. The rick looked sturdy enough, but it was old, the paint was peeling from the sides, and it smelled faintly of cow.
She finally grinned at him.
“Excellent,” said Lizzie. “Shall we go?”
Lord Blakeley helped Miss Asherwood up to the seat, satisfied with both the vehicle, which looked appropriately shabby, and his companion. The horses he had chosen were a potential problem, as they would never pass for a couple of old drays. But it could not be helped; they needed reliable animals.
He was not really worried about the journey to Beauvoir, although both Monsieur Berard and Adrien Comptain—his two best contacts in Calais—had confirmed that there were an increased number of patrols, particularly in the section of road closest to Calais. As he and Dewhurst had suspected.
“Irregulars,” said Comptain. “And probably not all of them organized by the government.”
Petty thieves, in other words, out for what they could get.
“Although,” added Berard, “’tis true that the state of affairs is worse in Paris.”
In later years, this summer would be known as the beginning of the real Terror in France; it was something Blakeley could not have anticipated.
At any rate, the only other hitch—thought Peregrine to himself—was the sight of Miss Asherwood’s décolletage, which he strongly suspected would drive him half mad before they were five miles out of Calais. But there was no help for that either. She could not wear her English day gown, which looked like it belonged to the aristocrat that she was, no matter how dirty its hem. Madame Berard had given Elizabeth an old shawl, which Lord Blakeley thought he might have to ask her to use, despite the warmth of the day.
Peregrine himself was wearing clothes to match the hay rick and
with straw hats for the both of them, the picture was complete.
“If we are stopped,” Lord Blakeley told Miss Asherwood. “Say nothing.”
She looked worried.
“There will be no problems,” he reassured her. “But—”
“Yes, I know,” said Elizabeth, with a sigh. “My French is unconvincing.”
Peregrine laughed. “Your French is non-existent,” he corrected.
She smiled at him, and his heart caught in his throat. They would spend one night on the road, at an inn he knew in Lillers, and he wanted her so badly that he didn’t know how he could bear it.
* * * *
He hadn’t asked her about Lord Winthrop, thought Elizabeth. About her engagement. They had been traveling for several hours, chatting comfortably about a thousand different things—the types of birds one saw in France, the variations in weather and crops, the French postal system, the historical developments in its government—but not a word about their personal lives.
That was fine, she decided. ’Twould be prudent to keep the next two days separate from all other parts of her life. In the future, in fact, the less said about the specifics of this expedition the better, because she could only imagine Geoffrey’s reaction if he knew.
Occasionally the cart would lurch, or speed up at bit going downhill, and Lord Blakeley would put an arm around her waist to steady her. Her skin burned beneath his fingertips, even through the layers of fabric. Once a group of men approached on horseback, dressed in jackets that looked vaguely military. Blakeley grabbed her hand, and hissed in her ear.
“Look down. Say nothing.”
Lizzie felt his tension and waited, her heart pounding, until the men passed by.
“Who were they?” she asked him then.
“God knows,” he replied. “Soldiers of the revolutionary Tribunal, supposedly. Les forces irrégulières. They’ve increased patrols in this area.”
It suddenly seemed a very far distance from London indeed.
* * * *
“I will sleep on the floor,” said Lord Blakeley.
Oh, dear heavens, thought Elizabeth, who had blushed a deep red. She could hardly even look at the . . . the bed, although it was hard to avoid, since it took up over half of the space of the room.
She should have anticipated this. Of course they would need to stop for the night—’twas a good fifty miles to Doullens. And they could have arranged for a second room, as Lord Blakeley had assured her, but the inn had only two, and one was already let, a circumstance which had seemed to surprise him.
“Do not concern yourself, Miss Asherwood,” said Lord Blakeley, who seemed not at all discomfited by the room, the bed, or anything else. “You are engaged to be married. I would hardly be so importunate.”
It was the only mention of her personal circumstances that he had made all day.
* * * *
Lord Blakeley listened to Miss Asherwood’s soft, regular breathing, knowing that she was so close that he could nearly reach out and touch her. He longed to touch her. He longed for her with his entire soul.
Peregrine had not anticipated that he would get much sleep. Between the memory of that neckline, and the feel of her waist beneath his hands, he had expected to spend a restless night indeed. But what tormented him the most was not the idea of a beautiful young woman, engaged to another man, turning down his advances.
No, what tormented Lord Blakeley was the thought that she might accept them.
Peregrine had been with Elizabeth the entire day, seen her blushes, felt her response to his touch, and he did not consider that response unlikely. Even now they could be together on the bed, he could be trailing kisses across her breasts—
He could ruin her. He could ruin her with a whispered endearment, with the touch of one hand.
And there was even worse, he knew. Miss Asherwood’s body, enticing as it was, was not the whole of his problems, nor even the most important part. He loved her. He loved her so much that the thought of spending the rest of his life without her was agony to him. He would bring them back to England, he would obtain a special license, they would marry immediately, and Lord Geoffrey Winthrop would simply have to stand aside.
He would do no such thing.
His own status in London society was a matter of little importance to Peregrine. But Elizabeth’s reputation was a very different thing. Would she risk it? Would she want to? Even if he made her want him, here and now, what about for the rest of their lives?
* * *
Chapter 58
Waiting in Calais
Lord Winthrop, who was feeling extremely fatigued after his journey, hired a hack to take him to seventeen rue du Havre. Calais was not to his taste, the sea air had given him a headache, and he was anxious to find Miss Asherwood and be done with the whole sorry affair.
He had been rehearsing his first words to her during the entire trip from London, and was presently of two minds about the best approach.
Should he be conciliatory and reassuring? Or reproving and stern?
Elizabeth, my dear—
Miss Asherwood, I hardly think—
Or should he address Lord Blakeley first off? Geoffrey couldn’t imagine what he could say to the man. It would help, he thought wearily, if he could summon an appropriate outrage, but in truth, none of it—Elizabeth’s recklessness, Lord Blakeley, the illegitimate sister—seemed to matter much anymore.
Lord Winthrop’s French, unlike Elizabeth’s, was adequate. He would never pass for a native speaker, but he was able to make short work of the situation at seventeen rue du Havre, to understand from the Berards that it was an inn, that they knew of no Monsieur Rabaillat, and that the young English lady was already on her way to chateau Beauvoir.
Very well, thought Geoffrey. He engaged a room for the night and—as Madame Berard served tea and a plate of brioches—considered what he was to do next.
’Twould be best, he decided, to wait here, in Calais. Assuming that their stay at the chateau was not extended, Miss Asherwood and Lord Blakeley would return soon enough. In the meantime he could unpack his baggage, and have a warm bath and a good night’s sleep. Lord Winthrop thought it would be preferable to deal with his fiancée . . . later. After a day or two of rest. Not that he wanted to stay any longer than needed in France but really, what was the point of taking off for rural Picardy, only to miss Elizabeth somewhere along the road?
* * *
Chapter 59
The Chateau Beauvoir
The next morning Lord Blakeley was gone when Miss Asherwood awoke. She looked around in alarm, confused for just a moment as to where she was, and what on earth she was doing there.
Oh. Yes.
Elizabeth stared down at the floor where his lordship had been sleeping, and repressed a sigh. She had thought . . . perhaps . . .
Don’t be ridiculous. Lord Blakeley would never presume.
Too bad, she found herself thinking, and blushed.
Miss Asherwood had removed her servant’s dress the night before, under the coverings, and was sleeping in a chemise. She dressed quickly now, watching the door.
She heard a soft knock, and Blakeley entered the room, carrying a tray with coffee and bread.
“No brioches?” she asked, smiling.
He laughed. “I’m afraid we are out, but perhaps mademoiselle would be interested in one of Picardy’s most delectable baguettes.”
“Truly?”
“No. But with luck it’s reasonably fresh.”
They shared breakfast in comfortable silence. The baguette was only adequate, the coffee a little less, but Miss Asherwood thought her companion made the most handsome peasant imaginable. His shirt was left open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up, and she saw that at least some English lords had muscled arms that would do a woodcutter proud.
And they were both sitting on a bed.
Marguerite, Miss Asherwood reminded herself. You are here for Marguerite.
They got an early start. The day wa
s a little warmer, and Elizabeth felt drowsy after several hours of travel. She found her head nodding, and once Lord Blakeley had to grab her to keep her from falling off the seat.
“Do you want to lie down?” he asked, nodding toward the back.
“In the straw?”
He laughed. “Yes. In the straw.”
“Perhaps not.”
Later Elizabeth awoke to find her head against Lord Blakeley’s shoulder, which was a little embarrassing, perhaps, but he didn’t seem to mind.
They reached Doullens by mid-afternoon and Lord Blakeley asked for directions to Beauvoir. Miss Asherwood, to his amusement, was nearly bouncing in her seat with excitement as the hay rick made its final, shaky turn onto the chateau grounds. But there they found a scene of confusion, a number of people outside the main doors to the house, all of whom seemed to be shouting at one another.
Lord Blakeley’s attention went immediately to an old man holding an antique musket, and he stopped the rick.
“Get down,” he said to Elizabeth.
“But—”
“Stand behind the rick. And don’t argue,” he told her, and although she threw him an indignant look, she obeyed.
As yet they were unnoticed. Peregrine saw a woman whom he might have taken for the comtesse, as her clothing was clearly of a better cut, except that her skirts were dirty and her hair down. Next to her was another woman, grey-haired, who had her arm around a boy.
Three men, including the gaffer with the musket, were speaking heatedly to a fourth, who was saying little.
And then Peregrine realized that the first woman had her arm around a young girl. He had not seen the child at first, but as he looked carefully he knew exactly who she was.
Marguerite du Merveille. The resemblance to Miss Asherwood was startling, except for the hair which, like that of the woman who held her, was a deep, shining black. He heard a cry from behind the hay rick, and realized that Elizabeth had seen the girl, too.