A Fine Gentleman

by Sarah M. Eden

  The man didn’t even like her. But he was helping her.

  Perhaps England truly was different.

  o

  Mrs. Brown was asleep, leaning against the coach window, her mouth agape. The vicar was snoring. Mariposa’s breathing had long since grown rhythmic with sleep. Jason seemed to be the only person in the mail coach still awake.

  It was a shame to wake Mariposa, really, but it was imperative that he know where they were headed. He doubted the mail coach would let them off at the doorstep of whichever family member Mariposa was chasing down. Would she trust him with even that bit of information? She had insisted she trusted no one.

  He bent closer to where she rested against his shoulder, whispering quietly enough to not wake their traveling companions. “Mariposa.” He repeated her name again before she began to stir.

  A look of confusion slid momentarily across her face before she seemed to piece the puzzle together. “I fell asleep,” she said quietly as she sat upright.

  “And, you will notice, I did not leap from the coach at the first opportunity.” The quip earned him a smile.

  When, he wondered, had he turned into a jester? He was not usually so quick to tease, at least not lately, provided one did not count London street children. Perhaps his veneer of solemn respectability was not quite as all-encompassing as he’d believed.

  “I need to ask you a few questions while we do not have an attentive audience,” he said.

  Her gaze slid around the coach, taking note of the sleeping passengers, before returning to Jason’s face. She fiddled nervously with the edges of her bonnet resting on her lap. She would simply have to find the strength to trust him at least a little if they were to accomplish her goal and do so without destroying both their reputations.

  “Your abuela said you were bound for Scotland,” he said, measuring his words carefully so as not to make her think he would be forcing confidences. “Will the mail take you as far as you need to go, or must you change routes at some point?”

  “The directions I have indicate a location not far from Haddington,” Mariposa said. “But I don’t know the area well.”

  Haddington? He hadn’t been there in years. “My”—Jason caught himself before saying father—“brother has a hunting box ten miles from Haddington. He is there now, in fact, with his wife.”

  “One of your brothers is married? This must be a recent occurrence.”

  Jason nodded. “Two of them are, in fact. Both very recently. Three, if Crispin is included in the count.”

  “I thought Crispin was always included in the count.” Mariposa obviously understood that Crispin had long been an honorary member of the Jonquil family. “Which two were recently married? No, let me guess.”

  Jason leaned back a little, watching her. How well had Stanley described them all? Could she really sort it out on her own?

  “Philip.” She spoke with inarguable confidence in the accuracy of her first hypothesis.

  “Correct,” Jason answered. “And who else?”

  Her brows drew in; her finger tapped against her lower lip. She looked entirely adorable. Reminding himself that she was also exasperating, Jason put a little more distance between them, trying to appear unaffected.

  “Harold and Charlie are both too young,” Mariposa said. “Stanley would not have married, knowing he was returning to war. That leaves only Layton and Corbin.”

  She seemed unable to decide between the two. Her knowledge of his siblings was impressive. Just how many conversations had she had with his younger brother?

  “There was no mistress of Havenworth when I was there,” she said. “And though there were many guests, there were not enough to indicate a wedding. The rest of your brothers would have been present if one of them was to be wed.”

  Jason nodded in appreciation of her logic. He had always suspected she was sharp witted.

  “Then it must be Layton.”

  “It must be.”

  “He is healing, then.” She pressed her hand to his arm, a look of earnest relief on her face. “Stanley said he had become a recluse after losing his wife—his first wife, I suppose I should say.”

  “He was fortunate enough to meet a lady who guided him through his grief. He is, I fear, almost nauseatingly happy.”

  The slightest reddening of her eyes gave Mariposa’s emotions away. Heavens, was she on the verge of tears over a gentleman who was not even her own family, whom she had likely never before met?

  “I am so very pleased to hear that.” The slightest quaver shook her voice. “Your family must be so relieved.”

  “Stanley truly did tell you a great deal about us, didn’t he?” Jason shook his head in amazement.

  A haunted look entered her eyes. “He needed to talk, especially after Orthez.”

  “And you stood his friend.”

  “Stanley stood my friend as well. I lost most of my family in one way or another during the never-ending war. Somehow he knew how much I needed a family to belong to. He let me share his. He allowed me to pretend to be a Jonquil.”

  “Which explains why you took me to task for my lack of brotherly sentiment.” Things were beginning to make more sense.

  “Stanley needed far more than an army sawbones.” Mariposa’s gaze took on the vagueness of one lost in memory. “The war was destroying him in more than merely physical ways. I do not imagine that has changed. I had hoped he was receiving support from his family.”

  “His arm was still a little weak, but he seemed well enough.” Jason found himself suddenly reviewing every moment he’d spent with Stanley during his months on English soil. Was he indeed unwell?

  “Some wounds are not obvious, Jason,” Mariposa said.

  He sensed a pulling away, as if she once again protected herself against inquiry. I don’t trust anyone. Her earlier words echoed in his mind. He would do well not to press her too quickly for confidences.

  He decided to turn the topic. “You know that this journey cannot be accomplished in a day.”

  “The mail runs day and night,” she said.

  “Even so, from London to Edinburgh, the mail requires more than two days. A single day on a mail coach without even one member of your family would raise eyebrows. Two days and two nights would ruin you entirely.”

  “I am here with my husband. Is that not so, Mr. Jones?” Mariposa held his gaze.

  “You are willing to go through with this? Force us both into further dishonesty? Not to mention there is always the risk of discovery.”

  She nodded firmly. “Finding my family is the most important thing in the world to me.” The intensity in her tone grew with each word. “My mother needs me. And my little brother, my sweet Santiago—”

  “I thought they were dead.”

  Mariposa paled instantly, swaying slightly as if she would faint dead away. Jason reached out a hand to steady her. He’d hit upon something, something she was hiding.

  The sound of the guard perched on the back of the mail coach blowing his yard of tin woke the sleeping passengers, alerting all to the forthcoming stop.

  He’d learned from the driver during their last brief stop, during which Mariposa had dozed undisturbed beside him, that this was to be a slightly longer stop than usual. Drivers would be changed, as well as the team. It was also the final stop for their current guard—another would take his place. There would be a rare twenty minutes between arrival and departure. Those passengers continuing on were advised to quickly obtain food before reembarking.

  Jason intended to spend this time getting what information from Mariposa he could. There was a great deal she wasn’t telling him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jason handed Mrs. Brown out of the carriage before offering his hand to Mariposa. She took it, surprised at the tingling sensation that traveled up her arm at that simple touch. The inn yard bustl
ed as dusk approached. Jason pulled her closer to him as they navigated the crowd.

  “We only have a few minutes,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” she answered, keeping her own voice low.

  Mrs. Brown watched them with her ever-present look of misty-eyed approval. She, no doubt, found them quite romantic. Guilt began bubbling inside Mariposa. The kindhearted woman did not deserve to be so thoroughly deceived.

  Mariposa moved ever closer to Jason as he led her into the public tap room. There were so many people. Suppose someone recognized Jason. Or decided to accost her. She’d only barely escaped the last scoundrel who’d taken such an idea into his head.

  “A bite to eat, innkeep?” Jason kept his accent lower class, but the authority in his tone could not be ignored.

  “Aye,” was the reply, accompanied by a sharp nod. “My wife has a pot of potato stew simmerin’.”

  “Potato?” Mrs. Brown and the vicar both gasped, turning wide-eyed looks of concern on Mariposa.

  She knew her part. Blast Jason for that. She buried her face in his jacket and did her best to appear entirely undone at the thought of potatoes being chopped and boiled. And, blast him, she could feel Jason shake as he fought down a chuckle.

  “Not to worry, Mary.” He patted her back like one would an unhappy child. “I am certain we’ll find you a slice of bread or something.”

  Oh, he would not be allowed to skirt this new trouble so easily. She raised wide, puppy-dog eyes up to him and, just loudly enough for their traveling companions to hear, asked with a telltale break in her voice, “You wouldn’t eat the sweet, darlin’ potatoes in front of me, would you?”

  “Oh, Mr. Jones, do not subject her to that,” Mrs. Brown pleaded.

  Mariposa kept her mouth turned down but allowed her eyes, visible only to Jason, to brim over with mischief.

  Mrs. Brown’s concern did not abate. “The good vicar and I will eat at a table removed so she’ll not be upset.”

  “I’m certain we can find bread for both of us,” Mariposa insisted.

  “Of course,” Jason answered tightly. She could see tension in his jaw. For a moment, she feared she’d pushed him too far. Then she saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He was fighting a smile.

  Within a minute, they were settled at a small table in the far corner of the room with a large dinner roll apiece.

  “You, Mariposa,” Jason whispered, “are a chore. Do you know that?”

  “You are the one who told that ridiculous story about potatoes.”

  “It was turnips,” Jason reminded her. “The meddlesome vicar planted the idea of potatoes.”

  “I was the one attempting to be honest,” Mariposa said with a pointed look.

  He shook his head. “This has been a highly unusual day.”

  “I wish potentially dangerous journeys and run-ins with scoundrels really were so unusual.”

  Jason took hold of her hand. “Tell me,” he said quietly, gently.

  In whispers too quiet to be overheard, she told him of her home in Spain, of her family. She spoke of the war and her father’s death. She told him of their desperate trek across Spain and into France, of struggling to survive, of supporting a mentally broken mother, an elderly grandmother, and a very young brother. She spoke of Orthez and the end of the war, or at least what they all had believed was the end. Napoleon’s escape had changed that.

  “Then your mother and brother did not die in the war?” Jason asked, whispering to her as they made their way back out to the inn yard.

  “They disappeared.”

  Their conversation continued in low whispers.

  “And your father’s instructions to come to England brought you here to look for them?”

  She nodded.

  “But why did you not tell me this when you first came to my office instead of feeding me lies? If I had known your circumstances, I could have helped more. You had me looking for a solicitor.”

  Mariposa debated with herself. She hadn’t told him about Bélanger, the man who had necessitated her headlong flight from the Continent.

  “There is more, isn’t there?”

  She glanced up at him and saw frustration creasing his brow. Beneath the vexation was clear and unmistakable disappointment. If only he understood how difficult it had been to tell him as much as she had.

  “Please do not press me, Jason,” Mariposa said, stopping their progress to turn toward him, hoping he would understand. “I have already told you more than I have told any other person. Such confidences are extremely difficult for me.”

  “I have done my utmost to always be honest with you. Is that not reason enough to trust me?”

  She wished it were. “I don’t trust easily.”

  “I know.”

  They stood a moment, neither speaking, neither turning away.

  “Well, Mary,”—Jason raised his eyebrows at the humor of that pseudonym—“we’d best climb in. We’ve a long night of travel ahead of us.”

  “You aren’t going to change your mind and leave me to my own devices?” Mariposa had half expected him to turn tail after hearing her tales of woe.

  “You have asked me that before,” Jason said.

  “Perhaps your tendency to repeat things is contagious.”

  He allowed something of an obligatory smile at her quip. In the next moment, however, his expression turned serious once more. “Do you truly think I am going to abandon you?”

  Mariposa lowered her eyes when she heard the disappointment in his voice.

  “But, then, plenty of others have, haven’t they?” He took her hand in his once more. “We Jonquils have our failings, Mariposa, but we always keep our word.”

  With a sigh of relief, Mariposa closed her eyes. He would not desert her. For the first time since her father’s death, she had someone to rely on.

  “Seems a man ought to kiss ’is wife when she looks like that, guv.”

  Mariposa opened her eyes at the unexpected voice only to see a man climbing on top of the coach, probably their new driver. He was in his seat rather more quickly than Mariposa would have expected and turned to watch them expectantly.

  “Oh, do give the dear girl a kiss, Mr. Jones,” Mrs. Brown said from very near the coach. “She was so very brokenhearted about the potatoes.”

  Mariposa was grateful they’d conducted their conversation quietly. She’d been so engrossed in the discussion, she hadn’t realized how quickly their privacy had disappeared.

  “She didn’t set to caterwauling in there,” the vicar offered as he climbed inside the waiting mail coach. He somehow managed to make that sound like the veriest compliment.

  “A man who refuses to kiss his wife will seem very odd,” Jason whispered to Mariposa in warning. “And we do not want to attract undue attention.”

  “No, we do not,” Mariposa agreed, her voice strangled.

  Jason drew her slowly closer, his eyes studying her face as he did. Mariposa swallowed against the sudden moisture in her mouth. As the distance between them closed, she rested her free hand, palm open, against his chest. Even through his clothing she could feel his hammering heartbeat. It was every bit as fast as her own. But was that a good sign or bad?

  “You don’t have to do this, Jason,” she whispered, even as his face descended toward hers.

  “I absolutely have to do this,” was all he said.

  And with no more warning than that, he kissed her. She had always expected her first kiss to be enjoyable. She hadn’t anticipated it being shattering. From the moment his lips touched hers, there was not another thought in her head beyond the magical feeling of Jason holding her, the solidity of him next to her, the clean, crisp smell of him. She spared not a moment’s concern for the audience witnessing the encounter. All that mattered was that he conti
nued to kiss her.

  All too soon, however, he broke away. She was breathless, unable to do little more than simply gaze up at him. Jason did not, however, appear at all affected.

  “Coach won’t wait much longer,” he said as calm as anything, then guided her inside the coach. No mention of their kiss, no look of surprise or pleasure.

  Mrs. Brown smiled at them fondly. The vicar nodded, seemingly in approval. Jason settled in.

  Mariposa felt her heart dislodge from her throat and drop to her stomach. It was all part of this lie they were living. She suddenly understood why dishonesty was so devastating. In that moment, she truly knew how it felt to suffer from a lie.

  o

  Something had upset Mariposa. Jason tried to convince himself it wasn’t the kiss they’d shared. They’d been all but forced into it, but he’d found the undertaking more than pleasant. Indeed, if they hadn’t had an attentive audience, and if he hadn’t had doubts as to Mariposa’s feelings on the matter, he’d have simply continued kissing her.

  There was such a mixture of fire and innocence in her that had manifested itself rather beguilingly in that moment. He’d never felt his heart race as fiercely as it had. Only by calling upon every ounce of self-possession had he not let the impact of their kiss show. Their entire ruse would have been ruined otherwise.

  But Mariposa had been withdrawn and distant ever since reentering the mail coach. She no longer leaned against him as she had on the previous leg of their journey. She kept just enough of a distance that the others in the coach would not notice any change. But Jason noticed. Had he offended her with his attentions? The thought was decidedly lowering.

  As the mail coach rumbled on, the passengers sitting in silence, watching the dimming landscape, Jason found his eyes straying to Mariposa more and more frequently.

  Why had she felt the need to lie to him in the first place? Was it simply a distrust of strangers or something about him personally? There was more to her search for her family than she was admitting; she had said as much. But what? She did not need to hide the truth from him any longer. Why, then, was she still being less than open with him?