Nearly a Lady

by Alissa Johnson

  Thomas jerked his chin in Gideon’s direction. “Who’s that, then, Freddie?”

  The tall man in the next cell smirked. “What’s the matter with you, Thomas, don’t you know a lord when you see one?”

  “I know a mark,” the boy answered with a grin. “He a nob like you, then?”

  “No.” The man crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s not like me.”

  “Aye!” someone called jovially. “He’ll no have his neck stretched for one—!”

  “Shut up, MacCurry!” several people—Winnefred included—called at once and without much heat.

  Winnefred turned to Gideon. “Lord Gideon Haverston, may I present Thomas Brown.” She gestured at the boy, then motioned to the tall man in the other cell. “And Connor . . . er, Connor . . .”

  “Connor will do,” the man finished for her.

  She gave him an annoyed look. “Fine. Connor Willdo. That’s Michael Birch in the chair, and the gentleman sitting on the pile of straw is Mr. Gregory O’Malley. Gentlemen, this is Lord Gideon Haverston.”

  Gideon noticed she reserved the honorific for the elderly gentleman on the straw but refrained from commenting. He nodded his head in acknowledgment but kept his eyes on Connor. Of all the men in the hall, Connor struck him as the most dangerous. And the most out of place. Gideon had expected to find a man like all the others in that wing of the prison—poor, coarse, and rough of manner, but Connor had the speech of an educated man and the fashionable, albeit worn, clothes of a gentleman.

  Gideon wondered if he was a man of good birth fallen on hard times, or if he’d stolen the clothes off someone’s back.

  Michael Birch leaned back in his chair. “Lord Gideon Haverston, is it?”

  “Yes,” Winnefred answered. “He is the brother of my guardian, Lord Engsly.”

  “Guardian,” Conner repeated and flicked pale blue eyes at Gideon. “Bit late, aren’t you?”

  “Very,” Gideon replied, uninterested in defending himself to a stranger. He gave Winnefred’s elbow a soft nudge toward the next cell. “Don’t you have a lesson?”

  “Wait, lass.” Gregory held his hand up, then moved to dig through his pile of straw. “Wait. Look what I made for you.”

  He stood up with a helping hand from Connor and stepped to the bars to present Winnefred with a small wooden carving of a woman with a young toddler on her hip. Gregory had captured perfectly the sleepy contentment of a well-loved child, but it was the woman who drew the eye. She held the child close, his head against her shoulder, her hand upon his hair in a gesture of love and protection. But her eyes stared at something in the distance. There was worry there, disappointment, and the very beginnings of fear.

  “It’s beautiful,” Winnefred whispered. Gideon took hold of it through the bars and handed it to her. She held it carefully and turned it over in her hands. “Magnificent. You’ve outdone yourself, Gregory. Mr. McKeen would be a fool to pay you anything less than a half pound for this. Her face, her eyes . . . who is she? Is she real?”

  “Sure and she’s real. It was Connor who was noticing her first. Staring out the window of a Saturday, not bothering to tell the rest of us there was something worth looking at. Sweet on her, our Connor.”

  Connor acknowledged the small joke with a half smile that neither admitted nor denied the truth in what Gregory had said.

  Gregory snorted, then winked at Winnefred. “And that’s the most you’ll be getting out of Connor on the matter.”

  “Is she the wife of one of the guards, do you think?”

  “She’s not, no. She visits the debtors’ wing. Bringing the boy to see his da, I think.”

  “It’s a fine piece,” Gideon commented. And it would have taken a fine knife to fashion it. He took the carving from Winnefred and put it in her empty basket. “You’ll want to begin your lesson with Thomas if you mean to be done before dark.”

  When she nodded and murmured an agreement, he took one of a pair of chairs by the hall door and set it in front of Thomas’s cell for her, then he settled into the other chair to wait and watch.

  Winnefred, he soon discovered, was a natural teacher—patient and encouraging. And Thomas was an exceptional student—interested, eager, and clever. Very clever, Gideon amended. For having only a handful of lessons under his belt, the boy had an impressive grasp of the written word.

  He enjoyed watching the two of them, and because he did, he made no move to hurry her along as the thin beams of light from the windows stretched across the cell floors. It wasn’t until that light begin to grow orange that he reminded Winnefred of the time.

  She looked up from her work with Thomas and blinked as if she’d forgotten where they were. “Oh, yes, of course. Just . . . Just one more moment.”

  Winnefred handed a small stack of papers and a book back to Thomas and bent her head in the manner of someone about to begin a discussion of considerable import. Gideon listened to her explain her upcoming trip to London. “Please tell me you’ll go to Murdoch House if you’re released in my absence. I’ll make certain the staff expects you. There’s work for you there, Thomas, and a safe place to stay. I’ll be back in the summer and we can begin our lessons again.”

  The boy lifted a shoulder, a perfect mimic of Connor’s casual disregard, but even in the dim light of the prison, Gideon could see the flush of pleasure on his face. Murdoch House would have another mouth to feed soon enough.

  Winnefred appeared far less sure of it. After trying and failing to gain a promise from Thomas, she walked away from the cell and said her good-byes to Connor and his men with a line of worry across her brow.

  Gideon knocked on the hall door and bent to speak softly in Winnefred’s ear. “You needn’t worry over Thomas. He’ll come to Murdoch House.”

  She looked both hopeful and skeptical. “Do you think so?”

  “Wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

  The heavy door unlocked with a click and swung open. Winnefred held her peace until they were on the other side, following Mr. Holloway through the shadowy halls of the prison once again.

  “But why wouldn’t Thomas say so?” she eventually whispered.

  “Because he is a boy in the company of men.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” She pondered that for a while before asking, “Do you think Connor will stand in his way?”

  He shook his head. “He isn’t dangerous to you, or to Thomas.”

  She didn’t look surprised at his change of opinion so much as she did curious and expectant. “Oh, what changed your mind?”

  “I think he took his men in out of charity.”

  “Gregory and Michael are not charity.”

  “They’re certainly not highwaymen,” he countered easily. “Gregory is an old man and Michael Birch looks as if he couldn’t climb atop a horse if his life depended on it.”

  “I was hoping you would notice that.” She looked decidedly smug. “Told you they weren’t guilty.”

  “Of that particular crime, anyway.”

  Winnefred decided to ignore Gideon’s last comment in favor of relishing her small victories as long as possible. Thomas would come to Murdoch House, and Gideon had admitted—more or less—that she’d been right about Connor and his men.

  She was smiling to herself as they stepped out of the prison into the dying light of the setting sun, and still smiling when Gideon assisted her into the carriage.

  He climbed in behind her, settled himself on the seat, and quite out of the blue, asked, “Did you bring Gregory a knife?”

  “What?” She put a hand out to the wall to steady herself as the carriage began to fight its way down the rutted road. “Where did that question come from?”

  “Curiosity. Concern. Take your pick. Did you bring him the knife he used to carve that figurine?”

  “No, of course not. I did see him with it once, though, and agreed to not say anything if he promised to keep it on his person at all times and only use it for his carvings.” She shrugged. “I bring
him the wood, and Lilly and I sell the pieces to Mr. McKeen in Enscrum. He has a small shop on the square.”

  “And what does Gregory pay you for your trouble?”

  “It isn’t any trouble.”

  “I thought so,” he murmured. He studied her, his dark eyes unreadable, until she fairly squirmed in her seat.

  “What?” She gave a small, uneasy laugh. “What is it?”

  “How is it you came by Claire?”

  She couldn’t begin to imagine what Claire had to do with anything. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You have a goat you neither milk, breed, nor show any intention of eating. In essence, a completely useless animal. Why?”

  “Claire is not useless,” she retorted. “She . . . grazes on the lawn. Keeps it quite tidy.”

  He didn’t bother responding to that bit of nonsense. He just looked at her in silence until she caved.

  “Oh, very well. We found her on the road to Enscrum. I imagine she belonged to a farmer passing through on the way to market, but no one returned to claim her so . . .”

  “She’s old, isn’t she, no longer capable of breeding?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you keep her.”

  “She has value to me.”

  She was a little afraid he would poke fun at her for the sentiment, but he merely nodded and said, “You’ve an extraordinary capacity for sympathy.”

  It was dizzying the way his mind jumped from topic to topic. “No different than any other’s.”

  He tapped a finger against his leg, thinking. “You’re right.”

  “I am?” She frowned at him, uncertain if she was pleased or disappointed to have won the argument so easily.

  “It isn’t your sympathy that’s unusual,” he explained. “It’s your empathy.”

  Suddenly, she regretted having argued against his sympathy theory. “I did not empathize with a goat.”

  “The fact she was a goat had nothing to do with it. It was the fact she was lost.”

  “I’ve never been lost,” she replied, deliberately misunderstanding his meaning. “I have a superb sense of direction.”

  “There are different kinds of lost,” he said gently. “Even a superb sense of direction will get you nowhere if you have nowhere to go.”

  She knew he was speaking of her life immediately after her father’s death. She wished he wouldn’t. She was no more comfortable receiving sympathy from him than she was speaking of her own. “I had Murdoch House.”

  “Only after my father refused to take you in.” He surprised her by chuckling softly and turning his eyes to the window. “I wonder what it would have been like, had my father kept his promise and cared for you himself.”

  “I’m sure the results would not have been the least amusing.”

  “A young girl with a penchant for bringing home every stray, wounded, and lost human and beast to cross her path? It would have had its moments.”

  “I don’t bring home every stray I come across,” she argued, mostly because she wanted to be done with the subject of being lost.

  “Not for lack of wanting.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I wanted to drop you in the loch.”

  His gaze snapped away from the window. “Beg your pardon?”

  “The night we dragged you out of the stable, I suggested to Lilly we drop you into the loch.” Strictly speaking, she’d said it was a pity they’d missed the opportunity to send Lord Gideon Haverston to the bottom of the loch, but that was close enough.

  He ran his tongue slowly across his teeth. “I stand corrected.”

  “To give your argument due, you weren’t lost, exactly, and you weren’t livestock.”

  If he had a comment for that, she would never hear it.

  The carriage suddenly jolted violently, knocking her to the floor, and for a split second, it felt as if the whole of it would tip on its side. But after a few terrifying heartbeats, it slammed back down to the road and came to an abrupt stop.

  Gideon’s strong hands wrapped around her arms and pulled her up. “Winnefred. Winnefred, are you hurt?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Her knees stung a little from hitting the floor, but other than that she felt fine and oddly calm. “You?”

  The moment he nodded, she reached for the carriage door and threw it open. “Bess! Peter!”

  “Here, miss!”

  Bess’s voice came from the other side of the carriage, and Winnefred’s calm disappeared in an instant. Bloody hell, the girl had been thrown from the top of the carriage.

  “Oh, no.” She scrambled for the door, but Gideon was the first to reach it and Bess.

  She was sitting up, which was a relief, but her face was pinched with pain, and her hands gripped her leg above the ankle.

  Gideon crouched down in front of her. “Here now, let me see.”

  “’Tis nothing,” Bess said between gritted teeth. “Twisted my ankle, is all.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but let me see anyway.” Gideon gently brushed her hands away. Winnefred saw that his own hands were steady, and his voice was reassuring, but his face was pale . . . much too pale.

  “Gideon, are you certain you’re unharmed?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t spare her so much as a glance; his attention was focused entirely on Bess. He inspected the ankle carefully, poking and prodding every inch of the injury. “Just a minor sprain,” he finally pronounced, and Winnefred could have sworn she saw the color flow back to his skin. “A very minor sprain. You should be back on your feet in a day, two at most.”

  Bess nodded and adjusted her skirts. “Aye, my lord. The pain’s easing already.”

  Winnefred blew out a hard breath of relief and took stock of their surroundings. The horses and carriage were still on the road and looked remarkably untouched, as if they’d simply come to a calm and steady stop and were merely awaiting their master’s order to start again.

  “What the devil happened?”

  Peter gestured at something behind her. She turned and saw a deep, wide rut stretched halfway across the road.

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Peter offered to Gideon. “We were set to miss it, but Samson there threw a shoe, stumbled, and pulled right into it. There weren’t time to stop.”

  Gideon stood and gave Peter a quick, hard pat on the shoulder. “There’s no blame in a thrown shoe. Let’s see how he fares.”

  Winnefred peered over Gideon’s shoulder as he inspected the horse’s leg. “Is he injured?”

  “No. Just has a bit of bruising, I suspect. Bad luck all around, eh, Samson? Free them of the harnesses please, Peter.” Gideon stepped back and looked to Bess. “Can you ride a horse?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He glanced at Peter, who nodded as he worked. “Aye. Well enough.”

  “Good. You’ll take Bess back to the house on Odin, quick as you can.”

  “Aye.”

  “Miss Blythe and I will walk with Samson.”

  Bess’s gaze shot from Peter to Gideon. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but Miss Ilestone is bound to have objections. It’ll be dark before you—”

  “Miss Ilestone may lodge her complaints with me upon my return, and after she’s sent for a physician for you.”

  “A physician? But it’s only—”

  “No arguments.” Gideon finalized the command by walking away to help unhitch the far horse.

  Bess stared after him, then sent Winnefred a pleading look. Winnefred shook her head. “You were thrown from a moving carriage, Bess. You’ll have to suffer being idle and spoiled for a few days.”

  Bess leaned forward to whisper, “But a physician, miss? It isn’t necessary.”

  She was inclined to agree, but since she wasn’t the one who would have to sit through the poking and prodding, it was easy for her to defend the idea. “Lord Gideon seems to think otherwise, and I trust his j
udgment.”

  Bess kept her peace until the horses were freed and she was set before Peter on Odin. She made one last attempt to argue for all of them returning together, but Gideon effectively silenced her by giving the horse a quick swat on the hindquarters, sending it off at a brisk trot.

  Chapter 13

  Gideon exhaled slowly. Bess would be fine. Her ankle might ache for a time, but she would heal.

  There had been a minute when he’d seen Bess on the ground that he had imagined the worst and had imagined himself responsible. A thousand recriminations had run through his mind. He shouldn’t have agreed to take Winnefred to the prison. He shouldn’t have agreed to take Bess along as well. He sure as hell should not have agreed to Bess riding up top.

  His reaction was irrational and he knew it. Horses threw shoes. Carriages fell into potholes and ruts. The top of the carriage was made to ride on. He hadn’t even been the one driving, for pity’s sake. But he’d not been able to completely shake his doubts until he’d assessed Bess’s injuries for himself.

  Winnefred stepped in his line of sight. “Are you all right, Gideon?”

  He forced aside his uneasiness and smiled at her. “Well enough.”

  “Is it your leg? Will the walk be too far?”

  “I can manage a couple of miles.” His leg would pain him for it later, but that too could be managed.

  “It’s only that, just now, you looked . . .”

  He grinned at her. “Lost?”

  “A bit, yes,” she replied with a smile of her own. “Shall I take you home?”

  “I’d be grateful for it.”

  He grabbed a lantern from the carriage, took hold of Samson’s lead, and set them off at a leisurely pace.

  Gideon had always found long walks to be beneficial for clearing the mind, and with Winnefred for company, the trip to Murdoch House proved to be twice as effective in lifting his spirits. Every time he looked over at her, his mood improved, and so he told himself it was only sensible that he look over as often as possible.