The Crown disagreed. They usually did, the pricks. Unless, of course, Lord Kelso had a more pressing reason why he wished to discontinue his service? Had he sustained an injury which would make it impossible to continue his duties? Was his sanity slipping? Had he recently married?
Fortunately, outside of the possible broken ribs, Spence was in perfect health. And as far as being mad, who else would take a job such as this? That left the final option. Marriage. Not something he particularly wished to do, but if that was the price of his freedom, so be it. He would have to find an insipid virgin to marry. The very thought of having to bed such a creature was enough to keep Spence in the service of the Crown. But once he married, Spence would be free to do as he pleased. He could take a mistress, or possibly two. Gamble until the wee hours without worrying someone would slide a blade between his ribs, and drink himself senseless.
Perhaps he’d even stop thinking of the young boy grieving his father.
The matron and her daughters, who he’d noticed earlier, were studying Spence with barely concealed interest. He wasn’t unaccustomed to female attention. He winked, sending both girls into a fit of giggles followed by a pinking of their feminine cheeks. Their mother discreetly lowered her lashes and pursed her lips, pretending disapproval.
Spence allowed himself a small smile. A harmless flirtation with virgins possessing disastrous overbites was a small, enjoyable thing. It made him feel normal. More like the rake he’d once been rather than the hardened man he’d become.
Spence did adore women, just not untried virgins. Virgins typically desired affection and an entire host of other emotions Spence couldn’t provide. Seduction of a virgin was a task best left to gentlemen far more patient in the bedroom than himself. He preferred women who possessed a decided lack of inhibitions and were less likely to faint at the sight of a naked, male body.
Flicking a pile of crumbs off the table, Spence caught the eye of the barmaid, a harried looking lass who bustled about the room distributing food and large mugs of ale. While he waited for her to bring him some of the meat pies making their way through the tables, he studied his fellow diners. There was nothing remarkable to his discerning eye, only the usual collection of dusty humanity one found at any coaching inn.
His gaze stopped at the table hidden in the far corner of the room.
A stunning woman dressed in widow’s weeds sipped at a cup of tea while a burly footman, more ape than man, stood at attention behind her. The widow was beautiful with a manner only women born to such a life could affect. A black lace veil fell from the fashionable hat perched atop her elaborate pile of white-blonde hair. There was something cold about the widow, an icy demeanor he picked up on from across the room. She was waving, her fingers fluttering out gracefully to the young woman before her. A nun.
The nun didn’t respond to the widow though the graceful column of her neck appeared strained and her shoulders tight. Her gaze remained fixed on her food.
Nuns, especially those tucking into meat pies, weren’t a common sight in coaching inns, though small convents had begun to pop up in out of the way places. Spence didn’t have a problem with the papists, or any religion, really. One had to believe in God to actually have an issue with the way a person worshipped. Still, a nun was an oddity.
The widow hit the table with her fist.
The nun jumped up in her seat and raised her head.
The taut line of the nun’s mouth couldn’t begin to hide her deliciously plump lower lip. A white scarf was tied over her head, covering her hair which only served to emphasize the exquisite bone structure of her face. Her profile reminded him of a cameo. A deep breath strained the gray material of the gray sack of a dress she wore across the mounds of her breasts.
Spence was a great admirer of bosoms. He had an inkling hers was magnificent.
As if sensing her bosom was being ogled, the nun turned her head in his direction.
Christ.
Once upon a time, Spence had visited Italy, staying in a villa facing the Mediterranean Sea. Lovely country. Beautiful women. He’d awoken every morning to the stunning blue water stretching across the horizon.
The nun’s eyes were the same glorious color, a deep, fathomless cerulean Spence was certain he could lose himself in. Defiance flashed, along with a very un-nunlike recklessness as she stared back at him. A challenge.
Desire sparked and slid down the length of his thighs. His gaze moved down the line of her neck and across her breasts before returning to her lips and finally meeting her eyes once again.
Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks as if she’d suddenly realized how inappropriate his attention was.
Dear God. He’d never despoiled a nun. Even he had boundaries. The twitch of his cock disagreed. If ever a nun needed to be debauched, it was the this one.
“Anything else, my lord?” The barmaid laid down a plate with two meat pies, crusts flaky and hot. She wiped a sweaty bit of hair from her forehead.
“No thanks, love.” He tossed her a couple of coins.
The barmaid smiled at the casual endearment, clutching the money in her hand, and wandered off amid the shouts of travelers trying to gain her attention.
Though he was starving, Spence’s attention was drawn away from the steaming meat pies and back toward the widow’s table. The seat where his blue-eyed nun had been sitting was now empty. The massive footman had disappeared as well. Only the widow remained, her gloved fingers stroking the rim of her cup as she looked out the window.
The nun wasn’t any of his business. God knew, Spence had his own affairs to deal with, but his curiosity was piqued. Clearly, his little nun didn’t care to be in the company of the widow, as evidenced by their terse exchange and the nun’s body language. The footman guarding the table—he had an oddly lustrous head of hair and features women might find appealing—reminded Spence of the thugs in St. Giles. An air of desperation had hovered about the nun’s shoulders as she’d picked at her meat pie.
Spence shook his head and bit into the flaky crust of his own meal. Nuns weren’t his business, no matter how lovely and desperate they appeared to be. One more task, a small errand to tidy things up, needed completion before he could return to London and request his freedom. By this time next week, Spence expected he’d be knee-deep in innocent debutantes looking for a wealthy husband. He’d choose one blushing virgin, marry her quickly and end his servitude.
He finished his meal with relish, wishing he had time to tarry a bit longer and have an ale or two, but timing was everything. There was an errand to run. Tossing a handful of coins on the table Spence carefully made his way to his feet, ignoring the ache in his side, and left the common room.
4
Gustave stuck to her like a burr under a saddle, albeit a large, frightening one.
Elizabeth saw to her needs, the giant footman lurking just outside, affording her little to no privacy. And no opportunity to escape him. As he tried to herd her back to the table where her mother sat, Elizabeth clasped her hands and lowered her eyes, asking in the most obedient tone she could muster under the circumstances, for a stroll through the inn’s small gardens. She’d seen the garden from the corner of her eye while pretending to eat and listen to her mother regale her with the benefits marriage to Langford would bring, most of which only benefited Mother. Elizabeth’s role seemed limited to attending events with her mother and wedding Langford. She’d been thinking of how to elude Gustave when her mother had slapped a fist on the table to gain Elizabeth’s attention; then she’d looked up and seen him.
Appraisal from those of the male sex was not unknown to Elizabeth. Even in the small village next to St. Albans she’d attracted some attention, though she’d never encouraged such a thing. Such notice made her think of flirtation. Then touching. All of which caused a spiraling panic. But Elizabeth had decided something during the kidnapping of her person from St. Albans. She would no longer be a slave to fear. She’d glared back defiantly at the gentleman, feeling a sl
ow burn down her breasts as he had regarded her.
“Lady Elizabeth, your mother is waiting.” Gustave interrupted her thoughts, clearly annoyed at having to follow her about.
“I need to stretch my legs. Please?” She blinked at the footman as if she were about to begin sobbing at any moment. “A moment, only.” Elizabeth didn’t think Gustave would be suspicious at her request. During their short acquaintance, she’d ascertained Gustave had all the brilliance of a wet biscuit, no matter that he could probably snap a man’s neck with one hand. “Only a brief walk.”
Gustave crossed his massive forearms, but reluctantly nodded.
Elizabeth wandered aimlessly around the gardens, pretending to be fascinated by the splattering of untended blooms and weeds. The only notable thing about the garden was its proximity to a thick patch of woods. The trees and underbrush stretched around in a semi-circle encompassing the stables, courtyard and inn, providing excellent cover for her escape.
Escape had become imperative. Each stop brought Elizabeth closer to London and her mother’s machinations. McMannish may be looking for her, but it was unlikely Sutton even knew she’d gone missing from St. Albans. Her brother certainly didn’t know about the death of Herbert Reynolds, or he would have come for her. Rescue would arrive too late. If Elizabeth was to escape, she must do so on her own.
Conveyances of every kind packed the inn’s courtyard, including a large public coach. She’d seen the coach empty, and the occupants stream into the inn’s common room. Elizabeth surmised she could reasonably squeeze herself in amongst the other travelers with no one the wiser. If she could evade Gustave’s watchful eye she could run into the woods, and double back along the courtyard to make her way between the horses and sneak inside. Before she’d left the common room, Elizabeth had watched as the driver had made his way to the public coach in preparation for continuing the journey. She had little time to spare before implementing her plan.
Her palms began to sweat. Elizabeth hastily clasped them in front of her, rubbing them absently against her skirts. She had to avoid returning to her mother.
I need something to distract Gustave.
Elizabeth spied a stone bench, partially hidden by a large wax myrtle.
Perfect.
“I must say my midday prayers.” She moved toward the bench, kneeling in front and clasping her hands over the cold stone. The wax myrtle leaves were fairly thick and partially obscured the footman’s view of Elizabeth.
Gustave made a derisive grunt. “You’ll be praying a lot more once you meet the duke.”
She pushed down the sudden rise of panic at his words. Elizabeth bowed her head in a semblance of extreme devotion and focused on the matter at hand instead of what awaited her if her escape plan didn’t prove successful. Mother claimed Langford’s last two wives hadn’t been sturdy enough, though she was certain Elizabeth would be.
Elizabeth didn’t intend to wait around to find out.
Small stones littered the ground, cutting into her knees even through the wool of her novice’s dress. She stole a glance at Gustave from beneath her lashes, willing him turn his back to her. A moment was all she needed.
A commotion sounded from the direction of the stables—two men, voices raised in the throes of an argument. The disagreement grew more heated as Elizabeth pretended to pray, until a woman’s voice joined in, sobbing and pleading for the men not to fight over her.
Gustave’s head swiveled in the direction of the stables.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered between her clasped hands. Encouraged at Gustave’s interest in the fight and not in her, she began to chant and sway before the bench as if in the throes of prayer.
The footman snorted in disgust.
Elizabeth prayed even louder, her voice rising and lowering as she chanted. The sound of footsteps shuffling met her ears.
Gustave had completely turned his back on her and was slowly moving in the direction of the stables. Fists hitting flesh met her ears as the two men came to blows, along with the cheers of spectators. The woman still pled for an end to the fight.
Elizabeth stood as quietly as possibly. She started singing, something else she didn’t do well. The nuns at St. Albans had compared her voice raised in song to the sound of agitated goats.
The footman was completely ignoring Elizabeth now, all his attention taken by the growing spectacle in front of the stables.
Elizabeth didn’t wait. She ran.
Entering the tree line, she scrambled into the undergrowth, ignoring the vines and thorns grabbing at her skirts. Carefully picking her way through the brush so as not to make a sound and alert Gustave, she waited until the garden was out of sight before sprinting across the thick layer of fallen leaves covering the forest floor.
The sound of the men fighting became muted as she moved around the inn. Hopefully it would be a few more minutes before Gustave noticed Elizabeth was no longer praying.
She crept forward. Thankfully, her mother’s coach was parked some distance away with no sign of her driver in sight. The public coach sat directly across from her. A stream of passengers came from the common room and moved in unison in the direction of the vehicle. Elizabeth was just about to run across the courtyard when twigs snapped behind her.
Gustave was in pursuit.
Her mouth went dry, her heart beating so hard she heard the blood pounding in her ears. She had no doubt she would be punished for escaping Gustave.
Then I best not let him catch me. The thought spurred her on.
The public coach sat on the other side of the courtyard. A cluster of carts, horses and coaches stood between Elizabeth and her goal. If she could only get across the courtyard, she could use the other vehicles as cover while she made her way to the public coach. She was dressed as a nun. Someone was bound to show her a kindness which would gain her a seat on the coach. Saying one more prayer of deliverance, Elizabeth ran out of the woods and into the tangle of horses and coaches.
Elizabeth shushed the large animals, moving carefully between their legs. She’d no desire to be trampled to death. A thin man with bright red hair headed in her direction, destined for the vehicle she hid behind.
“Bollocks.” She’d never actually cursed before herself, but she’d overheard McMannish when he’d stepped in a pile of manure. Fleeing from her insane mother and Gustave seemed the appropriate time to begin swearing.
She squatted to peer beneath the coach.
“Bollocks,” she said again beneath her breath.
The red-haired driver had stopped moving and now stood between Elizabeth and the public coach. He’d paused to watch Gustave, who was barreling into the courtyard like an enraged bull. Elizabeth was trapped. The driver wouldn’t fail to see her if she moved past him. Nor would Gustave.
The footman was stomping toward her, fists clenched. He was panting with rage, as he squinted into the mass of coaches. “Don’t make things worse than they are,” he snarled.
Elizabeth hardly thought it possible for her fate to be any worse than the one already stretched before her. The public coach was rapidly filling with passengers, but there was no way she could get to the vehicle without being seen. The only other option was to climb into the coach she was now squatting behind and take her chances with the owner.
“Bollocks.” The word rolled off her tongue, helping to steady her.
She looked upward and said a prayer the coach would be that of the older woman and her daughters Elizabeth had seen earlier in the common room. Opening the door of the coach she climbed inside the dark interior. The coach was empty. No books or other personal effects, just a battered valise and several neatly folded blankets.
Elizabeth chanced a peek out the window.
Gustave was stalking the perimeter of the inn, his eyes never leaving the line of vehicles. The driver from her mother’s coach, a rotund man with a scar on his forehead, had joined him. They would find her if she didn’t hide.
Quickly, Elizabeth pulled the shades d
own on the windows, praying the driver wouldn’t notice. The blankets smelled of mothballs but were thick and heavy. No matter what Mother liked to infer, Elizabeth was slender and could make herself tinier still. Squeezing herself back into the far corner of the seat, she covered herself with the blankets, careful to shake them out around her. Hopefully, with the dark interior, Elizabeth would appear to be nothing more than a pile of blankets if one didn’t examine too closely.
Boots crunched outside the coach. The knob rattled before the door was flung open.
Elizabeth shut her eyes and held her breath.
5
Bloody hell, his side ached. If that secretary of McDonnell’s were in front of him now, Spence would dispose of the man all over again. One ale hadn’t been enough to dull the pain in his side, though it wouldn’t have been prudent to drink more. Besides, scotch was his beverage of choice, something the common room lacked. His ribs were cracked at the very least, but he didn’t dare take the time to visit a physician to have them wrapped properly.
One more errand to run for the Crown. Only one more.
Porter bowed and greeted him. “My lord.”
“Porter.”
Spence took a good look at the driver’s arms, which were no bigger than Spence’s wrists, wondering how the driver managed to handle a team of horses. Porter didn’t look strong enough to lift a feather, let alone the reins. He’d be lucky if the driver’s arms didn’t snap as he drove Spence to London. He eyed his driver with no small amount of suspicion. Porter had been waiting for Spence at the correct location, asked no questions and knew the exact location of the next ‘errand’. But Porter didn’t seem to be a typical hire of Feathersmith, Spence’s contact at the ministry. Usually, their drivers were more…capable in appearance.
The moment his boot touched the floor of the coach, alarm bells rang, and a slow prickle ran up his arms. The coach appeared empty except for the pile of blankets pushed into the corner on the seat across from him. The smell of mothballs coming from the ancient wool filled the coach. His gaze alit on his valise which sat in the exact spot he’d left it, untouched.
Still Wicked Page 4