She narrowed her eyes at him. “You walked all this way to have a conversation with me.”
“No. There’s the view as well.” He lifted a stick and tossed it into the water. “As I said before, it’s pretty here.”
“It’s pretty at the Friar’s House.”
He looked back at her. “You’re not at the Friar’s House. I enjoy our conversation, although I realize it is a bit one-sided.”
She lowered her arms and moved closer to him, toeing a white pebble half buried in the ground. “How so?”
“You never tell me about you.”
Her body tensed again, and her look turned wary. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“I suppose I shall have to share my news, then.” He crouched beside the water and watched it ripple by. Had it been his imagination or was that the flick of an orange tail? A fish? Overhead, birds chirped, and he imagined he might find a frog if he searched hard enough.
“What is your news?”
“The committee has decided,” he said with an air of exaggerated pomp and circumstance. “I am to judge the Hemshawe Fair Wine-Tasting.”
“That is quite an honor.”
“One I don’t particularly want. After all, someone will win and everyone else will lose, and I do so hate to make enemies.”
“Oh, not to worry. The worst the losers will do is mutter about you behind your back.”
“That’s not my only concern.” He lifted a long stick and poked it into the water, testing the depth of the stream.
“Oh?”
“I must admit that I have a prejudice.” He could see her smiling at him, the look on her face one that said she thought he was quite amusing. He was glad he could amuse her. He liked to see her smile. “I think all British wine is rubbish.”
“Perhaps you should have informed the committee.”
“I tried, but Miss Gage shot daggers at me with her eyes every time I opened my mouth.”
“She terrifies you, does she? All six stone of her.”
“Clearly, Wellington is fortunate I was not at Waterloo. The battle might have gone the wrong way.”
She perched daintily on a log that looked as though it had been dragged near the stream for precisely that purpose. “You’re wrong, you know.”
He stood. “Wellington could have used me at Waterloo?”
“No.” She laughed. “I suspect Wellington never missed you. You’re wrong about British wine. You may accuse me of prejudice, since my father has his own vineyard, but I would argue our pinot noir is as good as, if not better than, any other you’ve tasted.”
“That was rather forcefully stated.”
“I have strong opinions about wine.”
“A promising quality in a woman. Be careful, Miss Martin. I just might fall in love with you.” He’d been teasing her, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. This wasn’t some courtesan who could laugh about love. This was a country miss who probably fantasized about marrying the man of her dreams.
To his surprise, she laughed. “Oh, I have no fear you will ever fall in love with me, Mr. Lochley. Or I you, for that matter.”
To his further surprise, her words annoyed him. Of course, he would never fall in love with her, but why wouldn’t she fall in love with him? Wasn’t he handsome enough? Wasn’t he charming? Hadn’t he made her laugh?
“I do think you might fall in love with our wine,” she went on, unaware of his thoughts. “I’d bring you a bottle, but I don’t want to influence the wine-tasting outcome. It’s a very important event for the vintners in the region.”
He hadn’t thought of the tasting in those terms. Of course it was important to these people, whose livelihood partially depended on the sale of wine.
“I shall endeavor to do my best to judge,” he said, solemnly—only mentally adding the worst of the worst.
“Would you like to taste one of our ales?”
“You brew ale?”
“Of course. Many people in this area do. In fact, my father’s family has been brewing ale since the days of my great-great-grandfather. The family has only been making wine for a hundred years or so.”
The wine must be tolerable if people had bought it for the last hundred years. Of course, he’d tasted awful wines from vineyards even older.
“I’m no great judge of ale, but I’d be honored to taste your family’s. Shall I call on you and your father?”
“No!” She cut her hand across her body, her face draining of all color. “You cannot.”
“I haven’t been in Hemshawe long, but I wasn’t aware calling on a lady was a scandalous tradition in this part of England.”
She sighed. “It’s not. I-it wouldn’t be a good idea. I’ll bring the ale here. Will you meet me again?”
She was arranging a rendezvous with him in the woods and eschewing a traditional visit? What could he say? He’d never enjoyed the ritual of the drawing room. On the other hand, he had the feeling she hid something. Was she wretchedly poor? Did they have a mad old aunt hidden in the cellar?
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” she said. “I have to go into Tunbridge Wells with my mother. The day after.”
He inclined his head. “I am yours to command.”
“I should return.” She bobbed a curtsey that looked out of place among the trees and beside the stream bank. “Good day, Mr. Lochley.”
“Good day.”
And then she was gone, and she hadn’t even tried to kiss him.
* * *
She hated summer. It seemed half of London poured into the countryside, and those who didn’t venture to Brighton or Bath came to Tunbridge Wells. The shops and streets were busy with tourists, and she and her mother had to fight through the crowds. Her mother’s shopping had taken longer than expected as a result, and it was almost time for dinner when they reached their last stop.
It was the apothecary’s shop, where her mother often stopped to buy salves and tonics for her husband’s weak knee. It often pained him when there had been more rain than usual or when he’d been on his feet too much.
“If you don’t mind, Mama, I will wait out here.”
Her mother opened her mouth to protest and then gave an understanding nod. The apothecary’s wife was one of those nosy women who always asked pointed questions about the time Caro had been away. Caro was well aware most of the people who knew her believed she had gone away to birth a bastard. How she wished that were the truth of it. The apothecary’s wife was one of those who probably started the rumor, and she was always looking to add fuel to the speculation.
Caro didn’t understand why, after three years, the people in the village could not find anyone or anything else to gossip about. She supposed that was the curse of the country—nothing very exciting or different ever happened. Until a cow birthed a calf with two heads or the Americans invaded, she was destined to be the topic of discussion.
Her mother opened the door to the shop, and the bell tinkled. Caro positioned herself and her basket off to the side so as not to impede anyone walking by. Across the street was a small shop that sold ices and other confections. She used to go there with her friends when they met in Tunbridge Wells or before attending a public assembly.
Looking across, she saw many ladies in fine gowns milling about outside. She knew Miss Peterson and Miss Rogers and had once called them friends. She’d heard there would be an assembly tonight, and she supposed the ladies were meeting beforehand to discuss the festivities. Most of the other ladies were a few years younger than she, the younger sisters of her friends. Her friends had married by now and had babies or moved away.
Not that they were her friends any longer. Miss Peterson and Miss Rogers and every other friend had abandoned her when she’d returned from London and the rumors began. She spotted Miss Gage and her companion, but the young woman was entering the shop and didn’t see her. Probably for the best, else Miss Gage would be called to task by the matrons who charged the
mselves with keeping the social order.
A group of gentlemen dressed in their finest passed by her, chatting loudly. From their swaggers and the slight slur of their speech, they’d obviously been drinking. They weren’t too deep in their cups yet, but she stepped back and out of their way. To her dismay, the group of five or so paused in front of the apothecary, where they spoke in hushed tones.
She could imagine the topic of their conversation—they probably hoped to acquire French letters—and she lifted her baskets and moved around the side of the building so as not to be embarrassed if they realized she might have overheard.
She’d just set her baskets on the ground again when two men rounded the building and stopped before her. They were both in their early twenties and wore evening dress with beaver hats perched atop their heads. They were clean-shaven, though one of them had a set of curly mutton chops decorating his cheeks. The other was fair-haired with a tight mouth that seemed to sneer.
“I told you it was her,” Mutton Chops said in an upper-class accent. He pointed his walking stick at her. “You probably don’t recognize her with her clothes on.”
An icy blade seemed to cut into her lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe.
“She was one of Rosie’s?” the one with the sneer asked.
“No, she was at the Den.”
No, Caro thought. No, please, no.
“Oh,” the blond let the word drag out. “What’s your name, gel? Seems it was something like Carlotta or Charlotte.”
Caro shook her head, trying to look past them and hoping against hope her mother had emerged from the shop. But she knew it was futile. The apothecary’s wife loved to talk, and she would keep her mother inside at least a quarter of an hour.
“Can’t you speak?” Mutton Chops asked, poking her with the walking stick. Caro shoved it away.
“Oh, this one has claws,” the blond said with a sneer. “It must be one of the girls from the Den. Why don’t you come with us and show us your claws in private?”
Her throat felt as if it had closed up, but she managed to squeeze out two words. “Go away.”
“Go away?” Mutton Chops asked. “Why would we do that when we’ve just found a bit of fun?”
She cleared her throat and tried to swallow. “You are mistaken. I don’t know you.”
But she did know them. She couldn’t remember them clearly—there had been too many men—but she knew their breed, their ilk. They were like fat cats who had found a juicy mouse to bat about. They would not allow her to go. She realized they’d been moving closer to her, and she’d been moving back, and the shop and her mother were becoming farther and farther away. She could not allow them to corner her alone and out of sight, or they’d surely have their fun until they grew tired of her and tossed her a few coins.
She couldn’t allow that to happen. Never again.
“I think you do know us, little wench. I recognize those blue eyes and that sweet mouth. Show me what you can do with that mouth.”
“Stop.” She held up a hand. “I don’t know who you think I am, but you are mistaken. I live with my family in Hemshawe. I’ve never been to London.”
The men exchanged glances. “How do you know the places we mentioned are in London?”
She’d made an error, and it was her last hope. Now the men advanced on her, the blond pushing her up against the wall and tearing open her cloak. “Look at those tits,” he said, fondling her.
She slapped his hand away, and he laughed.
“Let’s see what else she has to offer.” Mutton Chops lifted her skirts with the end of his walking stick.
“Get away from me!” She kicked out, narrowly missing the fair one’s balls.
“Oh, you’ll pay for that, bitch,” the blond said. “Hike her skirts up,” he told his friend. “I want her first.”
“No!” She fought him, using all her strength to try to free her arms, but he was too strong. She kicked and writhed until Mutton Chops smashed the walking stick into her legs and then her belly.
She coughed and would have bent in two if the blond one had loosened his grip. Instead, his hand dove into her bodice, ripping the material and exposing one breast. He squeezed her hard, while the other rucked up her skirts.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Caro’s head jerked up at the new voice, coming from the direction of the apothecary shop. The light was dimmer here on the side street, but she would have sworn it was Lochley and his friend Gage.
“Find your own whore,” Mutton Chops said. “This one’s ours.”
“I suggest you unhand the lady now,” Lochley said, his voice tinged with malice, “or you’ll never have need of a whore again.”
Caro lowered her head, allowing her tousled hair to cover her face. She was equally relieved and humiliated to see him. Tears stung her eyes at the shame.
“This isn’t a lady,” the blond said, holding her wrists fast to the wall.
“I beg to differ. I know the lady, and this is the last time I will ask you to unhand her before my friend and I inflict bodily harm.”
“You don’t know her very well,” Mutton Chops said. “She works at The Pleasure Den in Drury Lane—or at least she used to. I don’t remember her name, but I remember rogering her.” He gave her a once-over. “I remember it well.”
Caro closed her eyes. She wished she were dead. She wished a hole would open up and swallow her so she did not have to stand on the street with her breast and all of her sins exposed to four virtual strangers.
But that was not the worst of it. The worst of it was that Lochley was one of the men, and now he saw her for who and what she really was. He’d walk away from her in disgust. Or perhaps his honor would compel him to help her, but there would be no more afternoon talks by the stream or sweet kisses when they parted.
A long, long silence descended. “Be that as it may,” Gage finally said, “the lady does not look like she is interested in your rogering at the moment. Release her, or I will be forced to take action and summon the constable to take you into custody for accosting a woman on the street.”
With a grimace of disgust, the blond released her. Caro immediately crouched down, pulling her dress up to cover her breast and closing her cloak. She huddled against the wall, her head turned toward it.
“She’s not worth this much trouble,” the blond said.
“Have her if you want,” Mutton Chops said. “There are plenty of whores in this town if you know where to look.” The two men strolled away as though they had not just destroyed her life.
Chapter Five
* * *
Lochley stood rooted in place, unable to fathom what he’d just heard. Caro had been a whore at The Pleasure Den? He knew she had a secret, but he could not believe that of her. Surely, she would deny it.
“Miss Martin,” Gage said, offering her his hand. “May I help you to your feet?”
She swiped at her eyes and accepted his hand. “Thank you.” She stood. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”
Lochley had been waiting for her to deny the men’s claim about her past, but he knew now a denunciation would not come. He felt he should say something, do something, but he couldn’t seem to make his feet move or his mouth speak. She glanced at him, then lowered her eyes again.
“You deserve my kindness and more,” Gage said. “Are you in town alone? Can I take you home?”
“My mother,” she whispered. “She’s in the apothecary shop.”
“I’ll fetch her.”
“Wait!”
He paused and looked back.
“Please don’t tell her what’s happened. Please. She has been through enough. Tell her I feel unwell.”
Gage gave a curt nod and started toward the shop again.
Caro gave Lochley another look and then moved past him, back toward the abandoned baskets Gage had noted before they’d both seen the two men cornering a woman. Of all the women Lochley might have expected to see with her sk
irts half raised and her bodice pulled down, Caro Martin was one of the last. He’d been furious when he saw who the men had trapped, so furious he’d felt a cold seep in and a deadly calm settle over him.
But the fury had fled with the shock.
“Now you know the truth about me,” she said.
Lochley turned to look at her, aware he hadn’t spoken a word since the revelation. He should say something, but he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what he thought or felt.
“I know you’ll never speak to me again.” She bent and lifted the baskets. “I won’t embarrass either of us by acknowledging you the next time we meet, but I would ask one boon of you—and it’s not for me—for my family. I’m the one to blame, not them.” She placed the baskets on her arm.
Lochley nodded, acquiescing to her request, even though he hadn’t heard it yet. He knew her enough to know she wouldn’t ask something of him he couldn’t give.
“When you judge the wine-tasting, please don’t hold my sins against my family. Judge the wine fairly. I swear, I haven’t tainted it too.” Her voice broke on a sob, and he stepped forward. He didn’t know if he intended to take her into his arms or to finally speak, but he never had the chance to find out. Her mother’s voice floated to them.
“Caro? Are you there? Mr. Gage says you are unwell.”
“I’m here, Mama. My head felt dizzy for a moment.”
“I knew you didn’t eat enough this morning.”
“Fortunately, Mr. Gage and Mr. Lochley happened by. I don’t know how to thank you, gentlemen.” She gave them a pleading look, begging them with her eyes to go along.
“It was our honor to assist you, Miss Martin,” Gage said.
Lochley had a moment to thank the heavens Gage was with him. He managed to nod his agreement.
“May we see you ladies home?” Gage asked. “I have my carriage. Lochley can stay with my sister and Mrs. Clotworthy until I return.”
“That’s not necessary,” Caro said quickly.
Her mother gave her a dubious look. “You are white as a sheet, Caro. We cannot walk home. Mr. Gage, if you would be so kind, we will accept your offer.”
A Gentleman For All Seasons Page 14