by Deborah Hale
Felicity grasped the bell pull and jerked it vigorously.
“What you propose is out of the question, Mr. Greenwood. Now, please, please go.”
She heard rapidly approaching footsteps out in the corridor, then Thorn’s voice. “Very well. I’ll leave.”
Whether those words were addressed to the servants or to her, Felicity could not be sure.
While she waited for the commotion in the corridor to subside, she took a seat at her dressing table and began to do her hair. Beneath her hairbrush, folded in a neat, prim rectangle lay a length of starched white lawn.
Thorn’s neck linen.
Felicity’s fingers trembled as she fondled the cloth. One of her maids must have come across it while tidying the bedroom.
This was the first time Thorn had left so much as a collar button or a watch fob behind to betray his presence. In the early days of their liaison, he’d been fastidious about undressing. With far fewer garments to shed herself, Felicity had taken pleasure in watching and admiring him as he removed his clothes.
As time had passed, they’d become increasingly eager. Helping one another out of their clothes had become a tantalizing prelude to lovemaking.
Stroking her cheek with Thorn’s cravat, Felicity detected no cloying whiff of sweetwater, only the bracing scent of plain soap and the subtle musk of a man. As vexing moisture rose in her eyes, she dropped Thorn’s cravat and swiped the sleeve of her dressing gown across her face. All the while, she chided herself for turning into a sentimental fool.
This was no time to mope and moon over Thorn Greenwood. If she must surrender to such nonsense she would wait until later, when it would not be so bothersome. At the moment necessity demanded she act decisively and keep her wits about her.
A tentative tap sounded on the door.
Felicity started, her heart hammering.
“Mr. Greenwood,” she cried, “must I have my butler summon the constables and swear out a complaint against you?”
“The gentleman’s gone, ma’am,” came an apologetic squeak from Hetty, her lady’s maid. “He left real peaceable like. I saw the light under your door and wondered if you might be needing me, ma’am?”
Shaking her head over her mistake, Felicity rose from the dressing table and unlatched the door.
“Thank you, Hetty, I could use your help. I expect this disturbance has already roused the entire household. Will you kindly advise Ned and Mr. Hixon to ready the big carriage and make their personal preparations for a journey north? I mean to leave within the hour.”
The girl regarded her mistress with bulging eyes. “Will you be gone long, ma’am? Do you need me to pack your bags? Should I make ready to come with you?”
Felicity considered the idea. “I…think not.”
If it had been Alice, her former lady’s maid of over eight years service, she would have accepted the offer of company in a trice. Since Alice had left her employ to marry a prosperous young butcher, Felicity had made do with Hetty, a willing little creature, though inclined to prattle.
In brief spells it was rather diverting, but to be shut up in a carriage for hours at a time with such a one held little appeal for Lady Lyte just then. She would much prefer to be alone with her thoughts and her plans for the future.
Besides… “I should not be gone long. A day or two at most, I expect. Surely I can manage without a maid for that interval.”
A look of relief eased the girl’s features as she smothered a yawn. “If you’re certain, ma’am, I’ll just go deliver your message to Ned and Mr. Hixon.”
She bobbed a curtsy and set off down the hall. Before Felicity could close her door, Hetty spun around again.
“Should I tell Cook to brew you a cup of tea before you set out, ma’am? Or make you up a basket of sandwiches and such for the road?”
At the mere mention of food, Felicity’s stomach revolted.
“For the men,” she ordered. “Nothing for me.”
Slamming the door shut, she dove for her washstand and retched into the basin until nothing more would come.
Spent from the effort, she wetted the edge of a towel in the tepid water from her ewer and hoisted herself into the chair before her dressing table. As she dabbed her cheeks with the damp towel, Felicity contemplated her pale face in the looking glass with dismay and wonder.
After twelve barren years of marriage and widowhood, Providence had played a fine joke on her. Her meticulously regular courses had suddenly ceased far too early for her age, and she woke every morning bilious. Before the summer waned, her belly would begin to swell.
Infinitely generous man that he was, Thorn Greenwood had granted her the dearest desire of her heart, and one of which she had long despaired.
A child.
But in doing so, he had made it necessary for Felicity to cut him out of her life.
Chapter Three
If she thought she could get rid of him that easily, Lady Lyte had better think again!
As Thorn Greenwood rounded The Circus, he cast a glowering glance at the darkened windows of the New Assembly Rooms, long since deserted of ball-goers. After the mauling his pride had taken over the past two days, he was tempted to curse the place where he’d first set eyes on his troublesome mistress.
Where would he and his sister be now, Thorn wondered, if he hadn’t let Ivy coax him out to that first ball of the Season?
If some magical being from a nursery tale had suddenly materialized and offered him the chance to go back and relive the past two months differently, Thorn wasn’t certain whether he would accept or refuse.
True, it had vastly complicated his life and it had all ended on a sour note. While his affair with Felicity Lyte lasted, though, it had been very sweet indeed.
“Quit your mooning, man,” Thorn muttered to himself. He must think about raising the blunt he’d require for a journey—all the way to Scotland if need be.
His steps slowed from the indignant stride that had carried him away from Royal Crescent. A mild night breeze wafted up the gracious hills of Bath from the River Avon. It carried the aromas of fine cooking from the kitchen windows of many a fashionable town house, as well as the music and laughter from a number of private parties winding to a close. The air of conviviality and careless wealth mocked Thorn’s predicament.
Refusing to entertain regrets, he studied the problem with the same resolve he’d brought to bear on the calamity of his family’s fallen fortunes. If one thought hard enough and ruled out no potential solution as too difficult or distasteful, almost any dilemma admitted of a solution. Thorn had more experience than most men of his age and class in learning how to salvage something satisfactory from the bleakest of prospects.
As he wandered down Gay Street and turned onto George, Thorn mulled over the problem in his deliberate, methodical way. Raising one possible solution after another, he weighed each in turn, discarding the unworkable, then proceeding to the next.
He still had a few items of value he could part with to finance his journey, though most would be worth far more to him in sentiment than to a prospective buyer in gold. As his footsteps echoed on the cobbles of Milsome Street, Thorn cast that idea aside. The pawnshops on this busiest of commercial thoroughfares would be locked up as tight as all the other places of business. If he did manage to rouse some broker at this hour, the man would hardly be disposed to cooperate.
Reason counseled Thorn to go home, assemble his valuables, get what sleep he could wrest from the night then set out in the morning. The thought of Ivy and young Armitage gaining a greater lead spurred him to action now, as did the notion of Felicity trundling along dark and deserted highways in a fine carriage with only an ancient driver and a juvenile footman for protection.
Thorn cast his mind upon another prospect.
“Of course.” He chuckled to himself when it finally occurred to him.
He might be short of cash, but he was still comparatively wealthy in a man’s most precious asset—friends. If only
he could get word to his brother-in-law. Merritt Temple had horses, carriages and funds he would have put at Thorn’s disposal in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately Merritt’s country estate lay many miles to the east. A detour in that direction would result in an even worse delay than waiting for the pawnbrokers to open in the morning.
Surely there must be a friend in Bath to whom he could appeal.
Weston St. Just! If any man owed Thorn assistance in his present entanglement, surely it was the fellow who had introduced him to Lady Lyte in the first place. Thorn’s stride picked up speed and purpose.
Finding himself near his own doorstep, he ducked inside long enough to scribble a note to their housekeeper saying he and Ivy had been called out of town and might not return for several days. When he emerged once again onto the dark stillness of the street, he turned south toward Sydney Gardens. St. Just kept elegant premises nearby.
Thorn had no worry of waking his old schoolmate at such a time. On the contrary, his concern was whether such a notorious night owl as Weston St. Just might not return home for several more hours. Fortunately, a light burned in the sitting room window and a young footman wasted no time answering Thorn’s knock.
When the boy ushered Thorn into his friend’s presence, St. Just looked mildly surprised to see him. Perhaps mildly amused, as well. “What ho, Greenwood? Has the beauteous Lady Lyte put the boots to you so soon?”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you.” Thorn knew all too well of St. Just’s insatiable appetite for gossip. “I received my marching orders from her two days ago.”
“The little minx!” His host gestured for Thorn to take a seat. “I must say, though, I envy you even a few weeks of her company.”
St. Just lifted his snifter of tawny liquid and nodded toward a side table arrayed with a decanter and more glasses. “Care to drown your sorrows?”
After his unsettling confrontation with Felicity, the offer tempted Thorn sorely. Perching himself on the settee opposite his host, Thorn shook his head. “I daren’t.”
St. Just cast him an indulgent look. “Of course, you never drown your troubles, or run away from them, or any other such cowardice, do you? Always look ’em squarely in the face and soldier on.”
“Tiresome, isn’t it?” Thorn wondered how the pair of them had remained civil, let alone friendly, all these years with such contrary temperaments.
Felicity might have done better to take St. Just as her lover, instead of merely using him as a go-between to approach his less suitable chum. Besides the classical masculine beauty of a Greek statue come to life, Weston St. Just had an easy agreeable way with women that made them flock to him like bees to a tall fragrant flower.
“Tiresome? On the contrary, dear fellow.” St. Just lounged back in his upholstered armchair and sipped his drink. “I tire of most people in no time, for the majority of them are like me—duplicitous, idle, selfish. Salt of the earth folk like you baffle me at every turn. I live in constant anticipation that you may slip from the straight and narrow into some diverting orgy of wickedness.”
“I thought I had.”
“With Lady Lyte, you mean?” St. Just shrugged. “A tantalizing little stumble to keep me on my toes, but far too discreet to tarnish your honor. Now, do tell me what brings you here at this hour? In the case of ninety-nine men out of a hundred, I could guess at once, but you persist in confounding me.”
“It’s my sister, Ivy. She’s taken it into her head to elope with young Armitage—Lady Lyte’s nephew.”
“Has she, by George?” St. Just sat up a little straighter, his dark languid eyes glittering with something like interest. “I wish I had a scapegrace little sister to get up to all kinds of mischief and keep me productively occupied rescuing her bacon from the fire.”
“I’d offer to lend you mine,” growled Thorn, “but I wouldn’t trust you within a mile of Ivy.”
He related the rest of his predicament. How Felicity had insisted on pursuing the young lovers without him. His desperate need to get ahold of a good horse and some money to finance his journey.
Whenever he was tempted to resent St. Just’s ironic amusement over the whole situation, Thorn did his best to conceal it. If he wanted to be on his way tonight, this man was his most promising source of assistance.
“I suppose you’ll expect me to keep all this lovely gossip to myself, now that you’ve confided in me.” St. Just drained his glass and rose from his chair none too steadily.
Thorn leaped to his feet. “It wouldn’t do me much good to fetch Ivy back from Gretna only to have her reputation ruined by word of all this leaking out. Then I’d be obliged to wed her off to Armitage in order to satisfy honor. For all you prattle on, Wes, you’ve always been a good friend in the pinch. What do you say? Can I count on your discretion and your assistance?”
“As to the first,” St. Just raised his hand, “I swear on my rather dubious honor.”
“As to the second,” he turned out his pockets, “I’ve just come from a monstrous night at the tables. I won’t tell you how much I lost or you’d be scandalized. Enough, I fear, that I couldn’t lend you a brass farthing until I have an opportunity to meet with my banker upon the morrow.”
“Damn!” The word was hardly out of his mouth before Thorn started to cudgel his brains for someone else who could help him.
Weston St. Just pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Unless…”
“Unless?” prompted Thorn. The word had a hopeful sound, but the tone in which his friend had said it made him uneasy somehow.
“Got anything on you of value?” St. Just cast a glance at Thorn’s signet ring as if appraising how much it might fetch.
“This.” Thorn twisted the ring back and forth on his finger, a sensation he’d always found curiously comforting. “And my grandfather’s gold watch and fob. It’s no good, though. I thought of that already. The pawnshops are all locked up tight as drums until morning.”
“I don’t mean you to hock them, old fellow.” St. Just stretched his long graceful limbs as though he’d recently woken from a refreshing night’s sleep. “But how would you feel about wagering them?”
Thorn opened his mouth to protest, but his host cut him off. “One good hand at the game I left behind and you’d have blunt aplenty to see you to Gretna and back. Three good hands and you could probably finance a Grand Tour.” He ushered Thorn toward the sitting room door.
“I’ve never been a gambler.” Thorn protested. “You know that as well as anybody.”
In a sense, he’d taken a flutter on his liaison with Felicity Lyte—hoping to win a jackpot of pleasure. He’d dealt himself a hand believing he had everything to gain and nothing to lose. Too late he had come to realize that he’d bet on his ability to bed a woman without falling in love with her.
The stakes had been nothing less than his heart. And he had lost it.
Weston St. John paused at the doorway and regarded his friend. “You may try as hard as you like to play it safe, old fellow, but life is a gamble any way you look at it. You’re welcome to stay here the night, then roust me out at some uncivilized hour of the morning to see my banker. Or, if you’re determined to be on your way before sunrise, you can come along with me and risk your invaluables on the turn of a few cards. Which will it be?”
Rubbing the face of his signet ring, Thorn struggled with his decision. The watch was so old it showed only the hour, which limited its use in all but the most leisurely time keeping. The signet ring was older still. Both had passed down, father to son, through the Greenwood line to him.
He had slight reservations about leaving his watch and ring as security against a loan, to be redeemed at the earliest opportunity. To run the risk of losing them altogether…
Of course he would still be head of the family without these ancestral badges of authority. Yet somehow, deep in his heart, it felt otherwise.
Reason assured Felicity Lyte she was following the only sensible course of action open to her. Her heart
warned her otherwise, but she had learned long ago to place no trust in that capricious organ. Not even when her coachman agreed with it.
“Are you sure this journey of yours can’t wait until morning, ma’am?” Even Mr. Hixon’s massive hand could not stifle the great yawn that threatened to tear his face in two.
“I regret having to drag you out of bed at this time of night.” Keeping her tone polite yet insistent, Felicity resisted the urge to yawn in reply as Hetty helped her on with her cloak.
Even in May, the nights could be chilly, particularly when one would be sitting in an unheated carriage for many hours.
“I’m afraid this cannot wait. Is the carriage ready to go?”
“Aye, ma’am.” The coachman turned his old-fashioned tricorn hat around in his hands as he nodded toward the front door. “Where are we bound, if I may ask?”
“I hope to be in Tewkesbury by tomorrow evening.” Felicity made a few quick calculations, guessing when Oliver and Miss Greenwood might have left Bath.
She prayed her nephew had hired a post chaise, rather than relying on the faster stage coaches or, worse yet, The Royal Mail. “I hope we shan’t have to venture much farther than that before we can return.”
The coachman nodded, as evident eagerness to be out on the open road battled his fatigue. “At least we’ve clear weather and a good moon.”
He opened the door and held it for his mistress as she emerged onto the moonlit street. “What with leaving now, we’ll be through Bristol before even the market traffic. If we make good time, we should be able to stop at The King’s Arms in Newport for breakfast.”
“A capital suggestion, Mr. Hixon.” Felicity descended the front steps of her town house and climbed into her carriage.
They nearly always stayed at that clean, well-run inn on their way to or from Bath. If Oliver had hired a coach and spirited Miss Greenwood away some time after noon, they would almost certainly have spent their first night at The King’s Arms. Felicity could catch news of them there, perhaps even intercept them if they did not get back on the road at too early an hour.