Chasing the Heiress

by Rachael Miles

  He offered her a slow smile and another wink. “Ah, this should be easy.”

  “Rose was not typical,” Lucy warned, shaking her head as she silently read over the list. “Perhaps we should work one together before you begin.”

  “No, just read the first,” Colin said smugly. “I’m sure I can decipher it.”

  “Well, then, here it is. ‘An article of food and a vessel.’” Lucy raised her own eyebrow in challenge.

  “Hmmm.” Colin put his hand to his chin and frowned.

  “Would you like me to read it again?” Lucy grinned at Jennie.

  “No. But can you give me a hint. Food covers considerable ground. And I’ve never played these games before.” Colin let the emphasis fall on the word these.

  Lucy rolled her eyes at him, then turned to Jennie. “Do we wish to allow Somerville a hint?”

  “Of course, miss.” Jennie’s hands moved in a steady rhythm, as she knitted a blanket for William. “But we get a hint to hold in reserve as well.”

  “That seems only fair,” Colin conceded. “I like to hold things in reserve. What is my hint?”

  “The food is something that comes from a cow.” Lucy gave him a bright, devious smile.

  “Milkweed!” Somerville announced proudly.

  “No, sir,” Jennie corrected, her attention focused on her knitting and not on her companions. “‘Weed’ is not a vessel.”

  “Cowslip?” Colin proposed with a shrug, letting his gaze rake across Lucy’s body.

  “Have you no better answers, Somerville?” Lucy shook her head, both at the answer and at his sensual invitation. “Jennie, can you solve it?”

  “Oh, yes, miss.” Jennie finished another row and shifted her yarn. “Buttercup.”

  “Excellent, Jennie. Now it’s your turn. Here’s the clue: ‘Part of the body, a consonant, and comfort.’”

  “Why couldn’t I get that one?” Colin raised his hand in mock exasperation. “I’m good at body parts.”

  Both Lucy and Jennie ignored him.

  “That’s easy. Heartsease.” Jennie beamed at her good luck. “My mother used to grow them each spring.”

  “Can I have an easier one?” Somerville leaned forward to take the magazine, but Lucy held it out of his grasp. Even so, his hand brushed her knee and lingered.

  “How about this one?” She moved her leg out of his reach. “‘Vessels and a vowel.’”

  “Let’s see. Vessels. Vessels are ships, so my possibilities are boat, canoe, bark, dinghy. . . .” He counted off the words on his fingers.

  “It’s a flower,” Lucy reminded him. “Remember: they make the puzzles backward. They have a word, then they create the enigma for it. So, start from the flower names, not the clue. What flowers have names of vessels in them?”

  Colin began to list flowers randomly. “Violet, rose, woodbine, clematis, poppy, cornflower, pansy, sunflower, iris.”

  Jennie snickered.

  “Would you like to concede, sir?” Lucy offered, placing her hand on his leg, and feeling a surge of warmth in her belly.

  “Concede?” He looked at her hand, then met her eyes. “Why?”

  “You named the flower, but did not realize you had the answer.” Lucy removed her hand to her lap.

  “How do you know I named it?” Colin objected. “We have no solutions.”

  “Yes, sir, but both Miss Lucy and I have washed dishes,” Jennie interjected.

  He thought back over his list. Which flower could also be a dish? Dishes. Pans. Pans plus a vowel to be a flower. “Pansy? Surely not! That’s silly. . . .”

  “Yes, it’s a vessel and a vowel,” Lucy indulged him, patting his leg as if he were an obedient dog. “Would you prefer some other game?”

  “Perhaps.” Colin rubbed his face with one hand. “What do they offer?”

  “Anagrams,” Jennie read aloud the next section heading. “The category is painters and sculptors.”

  “Then let’s do those.” Colin brushed his hair back from his forehead. “My experience with flowers seems to be sadly lacking. But I get to choose for you.” He held his hand out for the magazine. “Here, this one is perfect: ‘I call my angel O.” He mouthed, My angel, to Lucy.

  Jennie produced a slip of paper from her reticule and a stub of a pencil and began to tease out words from the riddle. Within minutes, however, her face turned an awkward green. “Oh dear, Miss Lucy, I feel somewhat ill.”

  “Put the paper away, and look out of the window.” Lucy reached in her bag and pulled out a small handkerchief. In it was a handful of freshly picked peppermint leaves. “Chew on this, but don’t swallow. It should help to soothe your stomach.”

  Lucy turned her attention wholly to the wet nurse, leaving Colin to wonder what painter’s name could be made from I call my angel O.

  * * *

  It had been hell with a queasy Jennie in the carriage.

  They had tried everything. Sit facing forward. Sit facing backward. Windows open, windows closed. Beside the window, in the middle, beside the other window. Nothing worked.

  She apologized profusely and constantly. Then, when William awoke, she felt uncomfortable feeding him with Colin present. Since they could not stop the carriage safely, Colin covered his face with a handkerchief and turned his body to face the wall. Within minutes, his side ached.

  Finally, miraculously, Jennie had fallen asleep.

  Since neither he nor Lucy wished to risk waking her, neither spoke.

  Lucy had ended up where she had begun—across from him, facing back. And he’d spent the last two hours watching her with lidded eyes, and imagining the best way to remove her clothes. But he’d learned one thing at least during their ride: Lucy’s tenderness to others was as natural to her as his own stubbornness was to him.

  Chapter Twelve

  The hunting lodge was more than three hundred years old, a survivor of the Catholic suppression. During the Commonwealth, the hereditary owners had been killed and the house seized by the government; during the Restoration it had been bestowed on one of the king’s favorites, who had never taken up residence, and then passed through the hands of several of his heirs without one even investigating the property. Eventually, in the last generation, the father of one of Colin’s associates had won it in a bet.

  Lucy had suggested—and Fletcher and Bobby had agreed—that, for the porter’s sake, she and Colin should pretend to be lovers, a man and his mistress, escaped to the country for a tryst. It was a situation entirely to his liking. He would have to—for the sake of the ruse—keep her close. And he already knew he couldn’t get enough of her, of her bright mind or the feel of her lips.

  Before they approached the caretaker’s gate, Jennie moved back to the outside seat with Fletcher. Inside the carriage, they covered the sleeping infant’s basket with a blanket.

  Finally, he was alone with Lucy, but with no time to enjoy the privacy. “We need enough of a distraction that he lets us pass by quickly without discovering the child. Could you set the basket under your skirt a little to hide it from view?”

  “Would this do?” She moved toward him, then crawled into his lap, her legs on either side of his hips. She pulled her skirt free so that it covered their legs, then undid the pins in her hair, so that it fell around her face in heavy curls.

  He felt himself stiffen and hoped she would not notice. “I suppose we can make it work.” He cleared his throat. “But, when he stops us, turn your face away from his lamp, as if you wish not to be recognized. That will protect you from view.”

  When the gatekeeper came to the carriage door, Lucy turned her face away, but began kissing his neck on the far side, mumbling in an accent he had not heard, but which sounded decidedly lower class. “Come on, guv, ya promised Ivy a bit o’ fun.”

  She began to unbutton his shirt, laughing as if she were drunk. He groaned without thinking.

  The gatekeeper turned away quickly, opened the gate, and let them through.

  Lucy looked up, smiling, then
slid off his lap onto the seat beside him. “I doubt if he’ll bother us now. Did you see the look of horror on his face?”

  “I doubt if we will see him all week. And if we do, I find it hard to believe he will dare look either of us in the eye.”

  “Perfect. Exactly what we wanted.”

  * * *

  They waited in the carriage while Fletcher and Bobby lit the lamps in the entry; then they hurried Jennie and William through the door. Colin was tired, but wished not to show it. The first priority was to settle the baby safely into his new lodgings.

  In the middle of the house, hidden in the twists of the staircase, was a well-appointed priest hole, exceptional for its size. One entered a small room large enough for two men to sleep comfortably, and then climbed a ladder to a platform wide enough for a third man as well. With rock walls, the hiding place was silent, conveying sound neither from the house nor to it.

  For security’s sake, Colin decided that it would be best for Jennie and her charge to spend their nights secure in the hole, safe from any intruders. To enter the hole, one walked into the back of the large fireplace in the main hall. Once a fire was lit and the stones warmed with the heat, the hole was impossible to enter. A moderate fire gave the hiding priest warmth, but a larger fire or one maintained too long would suffocate anyone in the hiding place. Colin showed Jennie the escape route and made her practice the trick until Fletcher and Bobby returned from one of the bedrooms with several blankets to make a soft mattress. As soon as they set the blankets onto the platform, making Jennie and the baby a safe haven, Jennie climbed the ladder, and they passed William up to her. Fletcher and Bobby took the bottom portion of the room.

  But that decision had pleasant consequences. Once the door was sealed behind their companions, Colin and Lucy would not be interrupted easily. Often, Colin and his men stayed in the two priest holes, invisible to anyone chancing on the lodge. But to give their story of being lovers credence, he’d decided to make use of the bedrooms.

  With their companions settled for the night, Colin raised the lantern to show Lucy the way to their rooms on the second floor. The walk was dark, and she tucked herself under his arm, both to share the lantern and to give him more stability on the stairs. Somehow, she seemed to know when his side ached.

  “I’ve chosen rooms at the end of this hall. They share an interior door, but as long as the porter stays in his lodge, we should have little need for additional subterfuge. But we should leave the inner door unlocked, in case you or I have need of the other.”

  He opened the door and showed her the accommodations. A hearty fire—lit by Fletcher—burned warm in the gate. Lucy’s bag sat on a low bench near the dressing table. The fire was the only light.

  “Let me take off my overcoat, then I’ll light your lanterns.” But as he reached his arm back to release it from the coat, his face—even in the near darkness of the room—blanched white.

  “There’s no need. Besides, you are in pain. Let me help you.” Lucy began to help him remove his coat, and his thoughts turned to the last time she had removed his clothes. “Let me care for you while we’re here. A field nurse for a wounded soldier.”

  “All this way, I was desperate to move, to get out of the carriage, but now, I find I’m already worn.” His voice carried his frustration. “Yet I have no desire for more sleep. All I’ve done for the last week is sleep.”

  She looked around the room. “I have an idea. Rest here.” She pulled the chaise in front of the fire and led him to it. Following her instruction, he collapsed into the chaise.

  She pulled an armchair to his side and took his hand in hers. They sat before the embers of the fire for some time, talking at first, but soon lapsing in a companionable silence. At some point, Lucy came to lie in front on him on the chaise. Her back against his chest, they lay next to one another watching the fire and commenting irregularly on their past lives. They focused primarily on their shared experiences on the Continent, not the war itself, but more human things, the taste of bread from the portable iron stoves, the color of the water in winter, the sound of the troops waking in the morning.

  He’d wished to sleep, but he found himself unwilling to give up these moments of peace. He’d had so little peace since Brussels, but he pushed the thoughts aside. He would not let anything ruin this respite.

  She had fallen asleep before him, and he lay behind her, smelling the hint of her soap, the scent of lemons, and he wondered how she found lemons out of season.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, he awoke when the sun was already high in the sky. Lucy had at some point covered him with a blanket and drawn the curtains tight, but he could see a strong line of bright sun on the floor beneath the curtains.

  His side ached, but somewhat less than it had the day before. He moved gingerly, testing how far he could reach without pain. His shirt untucked, he adjusted his braces. The motion made his wound ache, but not with the breath-stealing pain as it had before. He regarded his coat but thought better of putting it or his boots on. Luckily, he still wore his socks—or his feet would simply have to be cold.

  He knew the house well, so he could have found the kitchen without trouble. But the smell of bread baking led him easily on. He arrived in time to see Lucy, her hair tucked unsuccessfully into a maid’s bonnet, using a peel to remove two loaves of bread from an oven built into the fireplace.

  Fletcher and Bobby were seated at one end of a large harvest table, eating a small feast: eggs, a portion of ham, cheese, apples, and pears.

  “Did we bring this much food with us? I would have expected the larders to be empty.”

  “They were.” Lucy set the bread on the table. “When you said we’d be here for a day or two, I remembered how easy it was to miscalculate the length of a siege.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Lucy shrugged. “I asked Nell to include some staples.”

  “What staples?”

  She motioned at the smaller basket—“Flour, leavening, sugar, salt, coffee”—then at the larger—“fruit, eggs, milk, cheese, butter, ham, and beer.”

  “I’m afraid to know how much my portion of the bill was. It was likely exorbitant.”

  “Yes.” She smiled, a dazzling smile that caught his breath. “But we won’t starve.”

  Colin began to object, to say he hadn’t brought her along to act the servant. But Fletcher interrupted him.

  “You could do worse, sir. These are some of the best eggs I have had in some time.”

  Bobby chimed in. “And the bread, sir. Have some of the bread. And Miss Lucy says there will be biscuits later—with red currants, oats, and walnuts. Never tasted such a thing, but if Miss Lucy bakes it . . .” The boy grinned at Lucy adoringly.

  “You should be careful, Bobby. If Cook discovers you’ve been unfaithful to her cooking, you might lose your kitchen privileges.” Colin took an empty chair to Fletcher’s right, as Lucy uncovered a plate set aside for him. “Where’s Jennie?”

  Fletcher answered first, “In the priest’s hole with William. Girl says she feels safest there, a little warm cave of her own.”

  “Bobby took her a tray about an hour ago,” Lucy added. “We decided you needed sleep more than food.”

  Fletcher pushed the loaf of bread across the table. “And don’t be worrying: the porter knows to guard the front gate now that you are having a ‘house party.’” Fletcher winked at Lucy, and she flung an apple at him, which he caught deftly. “And me and Bobby have been walking the back and side all morning.”

  Colin took his first bite, then another. “If this is the sort of food you had during a siege, I wish I’d been with your regiment. Ours was hard tack and soda water.” He liked the flush at her cheeks each time they complimented her. Who had valued her so little that easy compliments had such an effect? “I’m thinking of a walk in the gardens this afternoon. Care to walk with me?”

  Before Lucy could answer, Fletcher raised his voice two octaves, teasing Colin with
glee. “Oh, my dear sir, however can I repay the compliment of your company? I would be delighted, just delighted to stroll through the garden, clinging to your strong powerful arm. Perhaps I might even trip a little over some small twig so that you might have to crush me to your manly chest to keep me from falling and doing myself harm.”

  Lucy picked up another apple, letting it bounce in the palm of her hand threateningly.

  “I don’t mean you, miss. I’m only mimicking the young ladies ‘his lordship’ seems to attract—empty-headed things not worth the cost of their clothing.”

  Lucy leaned forward on the table, one arm bent forward in front of her body, the other holding the apple up to her mouth. She took a bite, the red flesh crunching beneath her teeth. Colin found himself unable to look away. “And does his lordship like such women?” She took another bite, meeting Colin’s eyes as she ran her tongue across her lips to catch the juice of the apple.

  Bobby answered quickly, “Only the pretty ones, miss. But none were as pretty as you, nor as smart.”

  Neither Bobby nor Fletcher seemed aware of the sensual dance between her and Colin. She looked like the temptress Eve in the garden, and Colin wished to follow her into any sin. She took one last bite; then she tossed the half-eaten apple to him. He caught it easily, then met her eyes and, with deliberate care, finished it. She did not look away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The man known in the underworld as Charters sat planning his next move, and the next, and the one after that—moves as far out as his mind could strategize them. It was a complicated game, like chess but with money, commodities, and people as his pieces. Pawns, all of them—even the queen. He laid it all out, strategies and tactics, but never tactics without strategy.

  He’d suffered a setback in the Wilmot affair, but the papers he’d sought had not been found by anyone else either. He had to assume after so many months that he was safe, his secret covered by the blood of the men he had killed. Lady Wilmot was safe from him as well, her alliance with Forster too dangerous a challenge.