by Deb Marlowe
“Erratic?” she asked, gripping the seat tight with both hands.
“Creative,” he countered with a quick grin.
She sat back, holding her silence as he drove, while sunlight sparkled off of windows and bits of harness in the street and off of the water that was never far away. She sparkled too, bubbling inside with curiosity and excitement. Danger loomed, tangible and real, she knew, but it felt so much easier to face with Aldmere at her side. So large and capable, he was. He shifted through the traffic with the ease of a jarvey, the length of his thigh pressing repeatedly against hers.
And for some inexplicable reason, she thought of her mother. Of how differently the course of her life might have gone, had her mother lived. She might have had a normal Season, met the duke under vastly different circumstances. Perhaps they might have driven out together for pleasure instead of in pursuit of a missing nobleman and a List that labeled her a whore and threatened to steal her prospects.
“Three carriages back,” he said abruptly. They were following traffic onto the Westminster Bridge. “A carriage, pulled by a grey and a black. I’m not sure, but I think it’s been keeping pace with us. Watch it, will you?” He eyed her askance. “But without being obvious about it? Act natural.”
“Natural? Look about you, Aldmere. This isn’t Hyde Park. I don’t see any other young couples in open vehicles.”
“It cannot be that unusual. Surely there’s something ahead,” he gestured ahead, to the opposite bank. “Some shopping to be had. Ah—there’s a silversmith’s. Perhaps we are a young, newly married couple, come to furnish our house.”
She laughed. “I give fair warning then. If we are forced to stop and masquerade then I will be ordering the gaudiest silver pattern available. And lots of it.”
“I shall buy you the most expensive set to be had, should we get out of this unscathed,” he said seriously. “Listen to what happened this morning.”
Knuckles whitening, her grip on the basket tightened as he spun his story. A sigh escaped her as he finished.
“Well, that’s one mystery cleared up. Now we know what hold Marstoke had over your brother. Somehow Lord Truitt foiled that abduction and the marquess’s plan for a connection with the Grand Duchess.”
“That’s one thing I don’t understand. The lady has been in England for months. Since March, isn’t it? She’s been to countless ton parties and court functions. She would have been easily accessible to someone of Marstoke’s rank.”
“You forget about Marstoke’s notion of the game. He likely wanted a deeper connection, or perhaps a good excuse to meet privately with the Duchess.” Brynne paused. “He mentioned her to me once, I am sure. Yes, the very night . . .” she flushed and paused. “The night we met,” she hurried on with a lift of her chin. “He asked me to discuss something with her.” She searched her memory. “The princess! He ordered me to turn the conversation to the Princess Caroline, to speak of her plight and how cruelly the Regent treats her. I was supposed to mention how all of the people’s sympathy lies with her.”
In a moment of shared revelation and clarity, they each straightened and turned toward the other. “Brougham!” they said in unison.
“Tru was hoping to send a message, choosing that particular alias to announce himself at the print shop. A message for me? Perhaps he’s hoping that I’m looking for him?” His mouth turned down. “Though it’s more likely it was meant for someone else. Tru would not have expected that I would even have noticed that something was amiss.” He glanced at her. “I likely would not have, were it not for you.”
“Nonsense.” She didn’t care for the bitter self-deprecation in his tone. “His servant was hard on my heels. You would have learned about your brother’s disappearance with or without me.”
“But would have I acted on it?” He shook himself and pulled the team in as traffic began to slow. “Enough moroseness. Now, Brougham. Tru chose to announce himself as the Princess Caroline’s advisor. The radical Whig who champions her in the papers and to the people.”
“And Brougham’s successful too. Even the Prince’s attempt to leak those damaging investigations against her last year rebounded upon him. All of those allusions to parties and men and even a secret child, and still the Regent came out looking like the villain. The people love her, sympathize with her and cheer wildly when she’s seen in public.”
“And look how they respond to the Prince Regent. Even now, he’s escorting the foreign dignitaries about England, celebrating the end to so many years of war, and his people jeer at him. They throw roses at the Tzar, and their hearts at Blucher, but they laugh at the prince. And still, when you mention the Princess Caroline, they grumble about how he has isolated her and how he keeps her daughter from her.”
“Brougham likely does have sympathy for her, but I’ve spent time around him. He’s brilliant and ambitious, a political man, through and through. He plans on becoming Prime Minister and he surely sees her as his best weapon against the Regent.”
“Marstoke is ambitious too,” the duke mused. His shoulders went back and his face darkened. “We suspected he meant to use the List for political purposes, and perhaps that is it! Perhaps he seeks to model Brougham and court public opinion, to use it to mold events to suit his purpose.”
Brynne gasped. “Court public opinion? With the List? That’s how he’s going to use it?” Aghast, she clapped a hand to her mouth. “But to include the Princess Caroline in the Love List, to label her—” She couldn’t finish, the thought was so unbelievable.
“A whore? Just as he’s labeled you?” She sat so close she saw his jaw clench, felt the tension radiating off of him. “The people will be in an uproar, fighting mad at the Regent, fiercely protective of the slandered Princess.” He looked over at her. “I don’t exaggerate when I say there could be riots in the streets. God, Marstoke is bloody, diabolically brilliant. In one step he plans to ruin you, to cause considerable damage to Hestia, his oldest enemy, and now to stir the populace against the Prince.”
“That’s why he can’t let it be known that he’s behind the Love List! It’s treason, Aldmere,” she said, her voice nearly strangled by grief and fear. “Treason that all will believe was written by a close friend of the Regent’s.”
“By Truitt,” he breathed.
She felt, rather than saw, all of his muscles spasm at once. The bay on the left jerked his head up in protest.
“We have to find your brother,” she whispered. “Quickly.”
“Check behind us,” he said grimly. “Is that hack still there?”
Trying for nonchalance, she glanced about, then back. She moaned. “Still there, and only two spots behind us now.”
He cursed long and hard. “Hold on,” he ordered. “I’ve had enough of this
Thirteen
Is there anything as painful as a first broken heart? I indulged in all the drama one might expect from an adolescent girl. My mother threatened to take me home.
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
The message could not have echoed any louder, Aldmere thought. The realization tasted bitter at the back of his throat. Or perhaps it could have, had Fate sent lightning bolts or screeching furies after them, instead of mere men in an anonymous carriage, but he wasn’t going to put her to the trouble.
He glanced over, knowing that he’d been weak, that he’d allowed Brynne Wilmott to lead him astray. A delicately curved figure, a fey smile and a spirit pluck straight through to the backbone—he’d drunk it all in and let it steer him right off of his prescribed path. Now here they were, a mere twelve hours past the time he’d decided to stray, and their already urgent and precarious situation had suddenly become a matter of kings, blackmail and treason.
Remarkably, he couldn’t regret it. Their acquaintance had been short, but he knew with certainty that leaving the girl out of this would have been a cruel blow. He watched her grip the seat, so dainty and determined at once, and vowed that this time would be di
fferent. Forewarned was forearmed and this time he was horribly aware of the depths to which the Fates were willing to play. He would do what it took to fight back, to prevent another tragedy, to make sure she lived through the consequences. And Truitt, too. He’d be twice damned if he allowed Fate to win again.
He shifted the ribbons and gripped her hand for a moment. “I should likely apologize for involving you further in this mess.”
“Don’t waste your breath,” she answered with a grin. “If you hadn’t brought me along, I’d be following behind.”
He bit back a laugh, wondering if Marstoke truly understood what he’d lost, then he took up both ribbons and blessed the foresight which had led him to spend a fortune on his magnificent, matched bays. For today he would ask for a return on every last groat.
At a pace too quick for the congested streets, Aldmere abandoned his southern route and took a hard right onto St. Albans, back towards the river. The carriage followed—and the race was on. He charted a dizzying course through Lambeth, taking abrupt turns that had him wincing and worrying about his cattles’ tender mouths. Peters, the old groom who had taught him to drive, would be rolling in his grave, but Aldmere refused to let up.
They pulled ahead, the carriage was falling behind, but still back there, gleaming black with shining brass fittings. And so he held his breath and urged his team into an alley, where the larger vehicle could not hope to maneuver. The narrowed space spooked the cattle. Ears and flanks twitched at harsh echoes, the brush of brick walls against the wheels and the crunch of garbage underfoot. But his team held steady. Their pursuers fell behind, and were lost.
Still, Aldmere was taking no chances that their route could be predicted and intercepted. He skirted Vauxhall, taking random turnings until they hit the thoroughfare of Kennington Lane, and then followed the flow of traffic north again past Kennington Cross. A couple more spontaneous choices of smaller avenues, then at last he turned south once more onto Kennington Road.
“Keep watch behind us,” he warned Brynne Wilmott. She’d kept silent and tense beside him all this time. “We’re exposed here, and likely to be so for the next stretch.”
The Common stretched out on their left in a lush swath of green. Ahead on the right sat the familiar sprawl of The Horns tavern. A wave of nostalgia struck. He ignored it, intending to speed right by, until a squat, solid figure stepped out from the main entrance, his pipe clutched in his hand. The solitary man rocked back on his heels and puffed out a cloud of smoke.
There was no conscious decision. Without thought, Aldmere found he’d pulled the team into a sudden, gravel-spitting stop.
Alarm and annoyance faded from the other man’s face as their eyes met. “Well! And I knew it was to be a banner day, but I never thought it’d be due to a glimpse of yourself!” The narrowed eyes twinkled in just the way he remembered. “Welcome to you, your Grace!”
“Bunter.” He greeted the innkeeper with a long look and a nod.
“Gad, but it’s been an age and past since last we’ve seen you at The Horns. Not like the days past, when young Lord Truitt was mad for cricket and you were popping down to Clapham every chance.”
“I’m glad indeed to be back, sir, but the lady and I are in a spot of trouble.” He glanced at his passenger. “Miss Wilmott, if I may present my old friend, Mr. Bunter?”
A twitch of his brow told Aldmere that the innkeeper recognized her name, but the pleasantries were exchanged ordinarily enough before Bunter turned back to him.
“I have a hard time imagining the trouble you can’t deal with yourself, your Grace, but you know you can always count on me to help.”
“Thank you. We’ve a carriage trailing us. Black, unadorned. In good condition and being drawn by a black and a grey. I’ve lost them for now, but they appear determined. As you can imagine, I have no wish to disclose my destination to whomever is following.”
The older man shrugged. “Easily solved. Just pull around—”
“Jeremiah Bunter!”
The innkeeper grimaced at the call, but Aldmere bit back a grin as a broad face emerged from a high window. “I smelled that smoke! Bad enough that you forget the anniversary of our nuptials! Three and twenty years and I cannot keep you from your pipe, but when you cannot even stay at the desk—Oh!” The harangue ended as abruptly as it had begun. “Your Grace! How wonderful to see you again!”
“And you as well, ma’am.”
“You stay there! I’ll be right down.” She pulled her head in as she spoke.
“Don’t you listen to her,” Bunter ordered. “Pull that rig around to the stables and tell Robert I said to tuck it in at the mews next door. They’ve the room and Hopkins owes me a favor besides. The pair of you can wait in our own parlor until whoever’s behind you has lost the scent.”
Relief settled over him. “Thank you.” He gathered up the ribbons, but stalled as Brynne Wilmott placed a hand over his.
“Wait.” She smiled down at the innkeeper. “Thank you, sir. And perhaps you’d like to give these to your wife?” She handed over the basket full of dazzling tulips. “Three and twenty years deserves a bit of something special, I’d say.”
Bunter’s face lit up, but Aldmere’s brain suddenly whirled into motion.
“Ahh, now that’s an armful of beauty . . . and likely a year’s worth of good graces.” He watched the girl’s face. “Are you sure, Miss?”
“Of course.” She glanced in his direction. “If his Grace doesn’t mind, that is.”
“Not at all. In fact, the lady has inspired a brilliant idea.” He leaned down. “I propose a trade, Bunter. I have a theatre box sitting empty this evening. I’ll arrange for you to have it. Take your wife into Town for a proper treat—and drive my rig when you go. If our pursuers happen to catch sight of you and your lady—and her tulips—heading back into London, so much the better.”
Bunter grinned. “Downright canny of you, your Grace, but what’s the trade?”
“A pair of mounts. Anything you have in the stable. They need only get us to Clapham and back.”
“Done!” The man grinned with the satisfaction of one who’s got the better end of a bargain. “Go on around back. I’ll meet you in the stable yard.”
Things were quickly arranged after that. Aldmere wrote up a note for Flemming and Bunter sent it ahead with one of his grooms. Soon enough, Aldmere and Brynne Wilmott were ushered through a close maze of hallways to a tiny parlor situated near the kitchens.
“How cozy!” Brynne Wilmott said to their host.
He had to agree. A simple room, it had obviously been furnished with assorted pieces taken from the rest of the inn. Yet it felt comfortable and lived in, as if the many contented and peaceful evenings shared here had breathed their essence into the very walls. A fire, burning low, enhanced the effect, as well as the pair of mismatched armchairs set close before it.
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Bunter answered from the doorway. She carried in a laden tray while her husband pulled a small table from the wall and placed it between the central chairs. “Now, you two just settle in and make yourselves comfortable.”
“How kind you are,” Miss Wilmott said. “Please don’t waste time waiting on us when you have a lovely evening ahead of you.”
“Aye, and I know who I have to thank for it, too.” Aldmere could not contain a flush as the older woman tossed him a saucy wink. “It’s not the best rooms that we usually put you in, your Grace, but this might make up for it.” She set the tray down and lifted a cover. “I still recall how you loved my receipt for beef and onion pie, and this one is fresh cooked, with the gravy still hot.”
He sniffed appreciatively. “I’d stay in the stables for a plateful of that.”
“Don’t tell her that or she’ll sit here all afternoon, just to listen to your praise,” her husband objected. “Go along and prepare yourself, my love,” he shooed her toward the door. “Now,” he said to Aldmere. “Only Robert knows you’re in here. I’ve given him the description
of your pursuers. He’ll watch and tell you if they pass by.”
“We won’t stay long, either way,” Aldmere assured the man. “Just long enough for them to lose our trail.”
“Stay as long as you need, and don’t worry, you’ll have the place to yourself. None of the rest of the staff will enter when they know we are gone. And Robert will ready your mounts whenever you wish to leave.”
“Thank you,” he said to Bunter. And he meant it.
“It’s a fair bargain we’ve struck,” the innkeeper answered. He paused on the threshold and grinned back. “But if you’d like to sweeten the deal, then a promise to come back sooner next time wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Done,” he answered.
“Now, I’ve yet to search out my own fancy togs,” Bunter said. “Until next time, then.”
The door closed and Aldmere watched it a moment, fist flexing and mind engaged in rapid calculations of how long they’d been off the road, the time it might take their pursuers to make their way through Kennington, and if they could possibly know where he was headed in any case.
“A lovely couple,” Brynne Wilmott remarked behind him.
He turned. “Indeed.”
Frowning, she searched his face. “Don’t fret. It’s a good idea. I don’t know who was in that carriage, but they gave no sign of letting up. And in a confrontation, I would only have been a hindrance to you.” She gestured toward the table. “We’ve a good chance now of avoiding them altogether. And in the meantime, you’ve tempted me into trying Mrs. Bunter’s pie. Won’t you join me?”
He hesitated, watching as she became absorbed in fussing with the dishes on the tray, setting out plates and serving slices of the still-steaming pie. Every small movement spoke of easy grace and homey comfort and he felt the ache of tension fade a bit.
This was Fate, taunting him again. The low fire, the simple furniture, the robust smells in the air. And this girl. This slip of a woman who packed so many wonders into a tiny, curvy frame. A will of iron, an enormous heart, a strong and flexible spirit that absorbed life’s blows and bounced back, looking for a way to keep others from suffering the same fate.