by Lavinia Kent
She remembered sweeping all the papers off the top of Foxworthy’s desk and stuffing them in her reticule. She’d dumped everything on her bed at Masters’s house and fished out the needed papers, turning them over to Violet.
It would not make sense for the whispering man to be after those papers. Why would he want papers proving Masters was innocent of treason? Why would he want papers involving Masters at all?
There had to be something else. She tried to remember what she’d seen as she tossed things aside. There’d been other papers, but it truly had been rubbish, if she remembered correctly. A couple of unpaid bills from a tailor, an IOU from a game of hazard, some lady’s florid love letters written in purple ink—they had at least been educational, if a little strange in tone—and some scraps of paper used to scribble sums, nothing that was worth anything.
The IOU perhaps?
No, it had been for less than fifty pounds.
Perhaps the scribbles were a secret code? She could have built quite a drama with that as the plot. If that were the case, however, Foxworthy would probably not have been using them to blot spilled ink.
The love letters? Love letters could be used for blackmail, but surely she would have remembered if there had been anything truly scandalous in them. The most exciting thing about them had been the bright purple ink.
Could she have missed anything? Probably. But what did it matter now? The papers were tucked away at Masters’s house, if they had not been thrown away. The maid who had cleaned up after she left might very well have seen them as rubbish and tossed them aside. For that matter Masters might have just thrown all her belongings into the streets.
There was no hope there. She didn’t know what they wanted and even if she did, she’d have no way of retrieving the papers.
There seemed to be no possible solution but flight and even that did not seem possible. If only she had somebody to help, just one person on her side.
Could Mr. Smythe be that person? What would she need to do to make him so?
“Do you see this? How am I supposed to travel with wrinkles in my skirt? I told you yesterday to be sure everything was ready. I cannot believe you pressed this at all. What did you do last night, flirt with stable hands? It’s almost ten, time for us to be on the road. I will be forced to travel looking no better than a servant.” The woman who said the words was as young and sweet-looking as any Mark had seen the last month—or at least since he’d kissed Isabella last night. The voice, though—the voice could have belonged to a fishmonger’s wife. Hell, it could have belonged to the fishmonger himself.
The poor maid to whom the comments were addressed bent her head and mumbled words of apology.
The woman was having none of it. “I don’t care what time we arrived or how many other tasks you had to do. You should not have slept until my clothing was ready. You’re lucky I don’t dismiss you on the spot. If I did not have such a tender heart I’d leave you in this godforsaken little town and just be done with it. The kitchen maid could do a better job than you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wattington,” the maid whispered. She turned to go.
Mark’s head came up. This was Mrs. Wattington, Isabella’s employer? She didn’t look old enough to have a baby. He’d pictured a full-figured merchant’s wife, not this slip of a girl. Still, based upon the voice, appearances could be deceiving.
“I did not dismiss you.” Mrs. Wattington reached out and grabbed the poor girl by the collar.
He stepped forward reflexively. His boot bumped into a coatrack, causing it to smack against the wall.
Mrs. Wattington turned, her mouth open, ready to berate him—then she stopped. Her eyes swept from the toe of his polished Hessians to the well-shaped felt of his hat. A slow smile spread across her face.
She stepped forward, lowering her eyes and then raising them in a gesture surely designed to enchant. She repeated the move. There was temptation to ask if she had something in her eye.
“Forgive my boldness,” she said, stepping even closer. “I know it is not done to speak without proper introduction, but I fear nobody in this hamlet has the manners to accomplish even such a simple task so I must take it on myself. I am Mrs. Wattington, wife to Mr. Henry Wattington. Perhaps you’ve met my husband. He travels only in the best of circles.” She batted her lashes again.
“Strattington, at your service.” Mark gave the barest nod. He was tempted to cut her, his uncle probably would have. A duke would never speak to such a—a— He didn’t even have a word to describe such an obvious social climber.
“The Duke of Strattington, I thought it must be you. Poor man forced to dine alone each night because there is not suitable company along the road. I would have thought there would be more people of our class coming to London for the coronation, but alas, I seem to always be forced to dine with only myself for company.”
If she moved her lashes any faster he’d be able to feel a breeze.
“Personally I find no company better than my own.” There, that sounded like a duke.
“But food is always better shared.”
What was there to say to that? He certainly did not intend to eat with the woman. “I find myself occupied the next several nights. Perhaps you should see if the Duke of Hargrove is free. I am told he is now traveling this road also.”
It was an evil thing to do to poor Hargrove, but the other man was sensible enough to travel at a decent speed and must be far ahead of Mrs. Wattington’s meandering pace. Mark certainly was not going to miss a chance to spend time with Miss Smith in order to eat with Mrs. Wattington.
“Excuse me. My carriage is ready.” He nodded a last time to the woman and strode through the door without looking back.
Eleven hours later Mark had only one thought. The hay was not fresh. He walked through the inn’s stable and pulled in a deep breath. Normally he would not have stabled his horses in such a place, but there was not much choice in the village that Mrs. Wattington had chosen as their stopping point.
The woman must really hate to travel.
His ears still rang with the sound of her voice as she’d berated the maid. And he’d been sure she was about to strike the poor girl when she’d grabbed her by the collar. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done then. He’d stepped forward without thought, only knowing he hated the abuse of authority. He hated the thought that Isabella worked for such a woman.
Mrs. Wattington had changed soon enough when she’d seen him, however. The saccharine voice that had leaked from her lips then might have been even worse than the tone she’d used with the maid.
Being the duke was not always a pleasure.
Would he ever stop thinking of it as being the duke and start thinking of it as being himself?
He remembered his uncle’s humorless stare and doubted it. He was learning to act the duke, but he doubted he’d ever actually manage to be the duke.
There were some advantages, though. Mrs. Wattington had let the maid go with hardly another glance once she’d seen him. If only he could protect Isabella as easily.
He strolled to the stall holding his gelding and stared at the great horse. Achilles had been with him since before France and while the horse had not come to war with him, he owed the horse far more than his life—he owed him his sanity. Achilles listened without judging, something very rare in Mark’s life since the death of first his cousin and then his uncle—even Douglas judged him. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes often enough. He whistled quietly and Achilles wandered over, almost as content with a scratch as a carrot.
The horse kicked at the straw beneath his feet, impatient for more attention.
The straw was not fresh.
The thought returned and with it the true motivation behind it. It was true that he would not normally have housed his horse, or any horse, in such conditions, but he accepted the realities of life. The straw did not trouble Achilles. Mark smiled as the horse nudged him again. No, the truth was he’d been thinking about Isabella—and not ju
st about the need to protect her.
Achilles shoved his face harder toward Mark and Mark gave him one last good rub between the eyes.
He looked out the door at the nearly empty yard and then back at the equally empty inn. It was impossible to imagine a tryst of any kind in such conditions. He shook his head at his own thoughts. Isabella had not indicated definite willingness for any further relations and, if he was honest, if she did he would not care where they were. The condition of the straw would not matter in the slightest if she was smiling up at him.
And damnation, he should not be having such thoughts anyway—the rule was kisses, kisses only. He could not afford more than that.
A noise near the door drew his attention.
Isabella shivered as she stepped into the yard. She hadn’t been sure she would come until the moment she stepped out the door. It had been the hardest day of her entire life as she pretended that nothing was wrong when all she wanted to do was run and hide. Only she didn’t know where to hide. The one thing that she did know was that she had to do something.
And so she was here, creeping through the darkness looking for the one thing that made her feel safe, Mr. Smythe. If only she could find a way to keep him with her forever, to feel safe forever.
She stepped toward the stable, her eyes darting around. “Are you in there, Mr. Smythe?” Isabella was relatively sure it was Mr. Smythe she had seen entering the stable, but she would hate to be mistaken and end up with the duke. There was something so similar about them, but it had definitely been Mr. Smythe’s loose-hipped walk. She didn’t know what she’d say to a duke besides “Yes, Your Grace.” Once she would have known how to flirt and what to say, but not any longer. Flirtatious gestures were not taken well when coming from a servant—or perhaps they were taken too well.
Which was ironic given that she was trying to decide if she could persuade Mr. Smythe to help her by flirting with him. She was steeling herself to try almost anything. Only somehow it was all different with him. She didn’t need to think and plan, although she did intend to try a couple of the things her sister had told her about. She’d seen Violet spin men in circles until they didn’t know which way was up. Could she do the same?
Could she make him help her, make him stay with her?
Pulling her cloak about her shoulders, she moved through the dark doorway. There was a light farther back, near the far stalls. It must be Mr. Smythe. Drawing in a deep breath, she considered. She released her cloak, let it slide open.
The first step was to make him want.
The second was to make him want more.
The third was to test what he was willing to do.
The fourth was to make him want even more.
The more he wanted, the more she held back, the more he might be willing to help her. She hadn’t decided just what she wanted yet, but she could figure that out once she knew he was on her side.
It should have felt cold-blooded, but when she thought of Mark cold didn’t enter into it.
Mark. It was the first time she had allowed herself to call him that in her mind. After their kiss last night it felt strange to think of him as Mr. Smythe or even just Smythe.
A shuffling from behind had her turning. “Mr. Smythe?” It was too soon to say his Christian name aloud.
All she saw was darkness. She shivered, peering into the darkness.
“Mr. Smythe,” she called out again.
No answer.
Could she gamble that Mark would help her, protect her, if—if she slept with him? That was what she was considering, wasn’t it? She was thinking about more than simple flirtation.
She swallowed as she let the thought form.
No, she wasn’t sure that she could go that far. It was too risky and she had always wanted to wait for love. Surely she could persuade him to help without actually seducing him.
Besides, what would happen if she failed? She shivered to even consider the possibility. If she had sex—she forced her mind to form the word; if she was going to consider it she had to at least think it—with Mark and then he abandoned her, what then? She would be even worse off than she was now.
And what was the best thing that could happen?
She doubted that he would leave the duke and take her away, but could he be persuaded to give her the money she needed, or perhaps to even find a place for her to stay?
That was the most likely scenario, that he would give her money. The idea was distasteful, but perhaps necessary.
No, she was not going to think that way. She wanted to be with him, to feel safe—not just to take his money.
Another sound brought her thoughts back to the moment. Her head jerked up and she stared more deeply into the darkness. And then she felt it, that prickle on the back of her neck, the sensation of being watched. Was somebody there? A movement near the inn caught her eye and she peered in the blackness. A cat. It had to be a cat.
Since the meeting with Blue Coat and the Whisperer—were they one and the same?—she acted like she needed eyes in the back of her head, always glancing about. It was only when she was near Mark that she let down her guard.
Mark. Was he the answer to her problems? The thought surfaced again.
A step sounded in the dark stable, a definite step, a definite movement toward her. She stepped back into the stable. “Mark?” Her voice shook with nerves.
There was a man. It was hard to see. Was he coming her way?
She edged back. He couldn’t see her, identify her, could he? Between her cloak and the darkness of the stable she must be nearly invisible.
“Mr. Smythe, please answer. Are you in here?”
And then there was the sound of footsteps from within, slow, steady steps she already recognized.
“Yes, I am here. Why don’t you come in and meet one of my friends?” His voice was so calm, so reassuring.
She glanced back at the yard. There was nothing there. It must be her harried imagination.
She gave herself a little shake and focused on Mark’s words.
A friend?
That gave her pause. He’d never wanted to introduce her to anyone before, and with her probably silly, but ever growing, fears, she wasn’t sure she wished to meet anyone new. Maybe it was Douglas? Perhaps Mark thought they needed a proper introduction, although he hadn’t seemed happy that they’d talked before.
And why now? Why when it would interfere with her plans? And that wasn’t even considering the possibility of danger. She glanced back at the stable yard.
“Are you coming, Miss Smith?” Mark’s voice called out from the dim stable.
Isabella pushed her shoulders back and entered. Mark was alone. What was he talking about, a friend? All she could see was a great black stallion. Well, not quite a stallion—some things were more apparent when one drew closer. “You wanted me to meet someone?” she asked.
Mark smiled, one of the warmest smiles she’d yet seen cross his face, and the sense of safety she’d come to depend on settled about her. “Yes.” The horse leaned over the edge of the stall, setting his head on Mark’s shoulder and nuzzling at his ear. “This is Achilles. We’ve been friends since I was a boy.”
He wanted her to meet his horse? Isabella found her own smile spreading to meet Mark’s. She’d never been introduced to a horse before, at least not since Masters bought her first pony. “He’s very beautiful, quite the charmer. Was he in the army with you?” She strolled over and laid her hand on the velvet nose. Achilles snuffled against her.
“No.” His voice was gruff.
“Oh, you had another horse? Did something happen to him?”
Mr. Smythe stopped at that and turned back to her. “No. Do I look like I had the wherewithal to buy a cavalry commission?”
Not knowing why he’d taken her question so badly she looked about. “No—I suppose it’s merely that I found you in the stables—and then there’s Achilles, whom you’ve had since you were a boy. I assumed you knew your way around a horse. I never did
understand how the army worked, or the navy for that matter. I suppose I was always more interested in dresses and pretty bonnets. Even during the war I found the whole matter dull. I suppose I was still too young to really understand, or at least to want to.”
Her words seemed to calm him.
“So you weren’t cavalry?”
“No, I was infantry—right in the thick of it all.” He too lost his smile, but he did not seem displeased, only somber. “My poor mother worried endlessly, convinced I’d never make it back or that if I did I’d be missing a piece. I can’t say she was wrong to worry. From all I saw I probably should have suffered some wound. I was grazed a few times, but my luck always held.”
“Does that mean no interesting scars?”
His eyes flicked over her as if judging the intent behind her words. “No, no interesting ones from the war. A mark across one shoulder and another across the small of my back, hardly more than scratches. If you want interesting scars you’d have to ask about the time I jumped from the vicarage roof.”
She pressed her lips shut tight, lowered her face, and tried to look innocent. She was not going to ask. She was not—at least not yet.
Mark stepped toward her, letting the subject drop. “I was worried you might be scared. I know not all women like horses.”
“I started riding when I was in short skirts, although my pony would barely have reached Achilles’ thighs. I would admit it’s been a few years since I’ve been mounted, but I imagine there are some things one never forgets.”
At that Mark gave her the strangest look, his glance focusing first on her lips and then moving down her body. His eyes flared with heat and she could read intent in his gaze.
Her mouth dry, she swallowed and tried to answer his look.
Chapter 8
Her gaze stayed fastened on his eyes as she tried to understand what he had reacted to. It took only a moment for comprehension to arrive. Since I’ve been mounted. Oh. She had not meant that at all—although she would have if she’d thought of it. She could not remember another instance when everything she said seemed to cast other allusions—at least when she didn’t mean it to. This seduction thing was easier than she’d anticipated.