“Where is the paper Robert signed?” she asked. “I want to see it.”
He wouldn’t have it with him! She might yet be able to postpone her fate.
“It seems a poor thing for us to begin our liaison with a display of distrust.” Rich from a man who was luring her to his bed with a combination of bribery and blackmail.
She raised her chin. “I’m afraid I cannot conclude any arrangement with you until I have the paper in my hands.”
“It so happens,” Horner said with a truly evil smile, “that I travel with items of a sensitive nature I prefer not to leave unguarded.”
He removed it from his pocket, unfolded the sheet, and let her read it. It was the same inflexibly legal document he’d shown her before. “Here,” he said. “I’ll set it on the mantelpiece underneath this candlestick. In the morning, you may consign it to the fire.”
He moved around her, embraced her from behind and sucked on the nape of her neck. In an overwrought moment, she envisioned the IOU reduced to ashes, along with her virtue. Not that she’d ever had much of that. She and Robert had coupled on numerous occasions before they wed. And though she’d remained true to him, some members of their set took marriage vows lightly when attractive prospects beckoned. As a widow, she’d been intending to take a lover, and now she would. Even if anyone found out, none of her friends would condemn her.
Except Lord Stuffy. The thought of his predictable disapproval made her bristle with defiance. After all, Castleton wanted a bride with a fortune. Did that make him any better than her? Not a bit of it!
She would bed Horner tonight, and tomorrow she would be free.
“We have a bargain, Sir Bernard. Shall we adjourn to the bedchamber?”
Chapter 10
Facing the fire, Caro only heard the door open. Her hands went instinctively to hide her bare breasts from a servant.
“Damn it!” Horner cried, “I said we weren’t to be disturbed.”
“Get your hands off Mrs. Townsend.”
Why in heaven’s name was Castleton here?
“You again!” Horner said. “This is a private parlor, and it’s none of your damn business what Caro and I choose to do.”
The duke strode across the room and glowered at the pair of them with barely concealed menace. Horner seemed to shrink like a dried prune in comparison with Castleton’s oversized vigor. Her heart beat wildly. He’d come to save her!
“I arrived in Newmarket for the races and stopped at the Greyhound for dinner.” He was calmly indignant. The coolness of his demeanor doused her reflexive joy at his arrival. Her cheeks burned with rage and humiliation at being discovered with her bosom hanging out.
“I . . .” She began pulling away from Horner and tugging fruitlessly at her fallen bodice.
Castleton cut her off with a haughty glare. She’d never seen him more ducal. “I arrived at this inn and was greeted with the news that a lady under my protection was dining in private with a gentleman who is most definitely not her husband.”
“Your protection?” Horner said.
“What gives you the right to say any such thing about me?”
“The right of a man betrothed to her cousin. A man who has the right to expect his fiancée’s chaperone to behave with common propriety.”
The scorn in his words sliced at her heart. Not to mention the fact that, as soon as her back was turned, he’d proposed to Anne and been accepted. She met his coldly dominant gaze and wished she didn’t feel like a lapdog yapping at a bloodhound. But she couldn’t help it. She was almost spitting with annoyance.
“Even if we were already cousins,” she said, “it still gives you no say in my affairs. None at all. I suggest you leave this room and seek your dinner elsewhere.”
“You heard the lady.” Horner gained courage from her words.
Castleton’s attention swung to the baronet, whom he regarded in silence for an indefinable pause. “Do you remember what happened at the Pantheon? I hit you, sir. Once. I wanted to hit you again, but I never got the chance. Now either get out of my way or make me a happy man.”
Horner, the pusillanimous worm, backed away. Castleton, the big bully, turned back to her and her gaping bodice. “As usual, Mrs. Townsend, you need covering.” He glanced around the room, retrieved her shawl from the back of a chair, and wrapped it around her. “Come,” he said.
It was definitely a command, proven when he took her hand and dragged her through the door into the busy passage. “Don’t make a scandal,” he said softly.
Very well, she wouldn’t. But Lord Stuffy was going to feel the sharp end of her tongue once she got him alone.
“We’re going in the wrong direction. What about my luggage?”
“Is it in Horner’s bedchamber?”
“It’s in my own room, one flight up.”
“You’re not sharing with Horner?”
“What do you think I am?” A stupid thing to ask. She knew just what he thought, and he wasn’t far wrong.
He followed her in silence to her modest chamber.
“I’ll stay here,” she said.
He folded his arms. “Pack. You’re coming with me.”
“And where are we going, pray?”
“To my house. I told you I had a place here.”
“And I suppose you have a chaperone for me there? Staying with my cousin’s betrothed at his bachelor pied-à-terre is so very proper. Nothing scandalous about that!”
“You’re not remaining here with Horner. I forbid it.”
“Forbid!”
“And if necessary, I shall put you over my shoulder and carry you out. I doubt anyone at the Greyhound, where I’ve been known for years, will object to a duke disciplining an errant relation.”
Thomas had no doubt he was going to pay for that statement later, especially once Caro discovered how many lies he’d told to get her away from Horner. The story he’d concocted during the journey from London was a good one, certainly good enough to make Horner think twice. But he would have to confess that he was not, in fact, engaged to Anne. As for the fact that Caro had taken her own room at the inn, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Unwonted discretion was his best bet. She and Horner had certainly arrived at the same time. The servant he’d bribed to find Horner’s room had been quite sure of that.
His chaise was ready with fresh horses even though it was only two miles to Little Tidmarsh. He blessed his decision to buy a place away from Newmarket itself and the hordes of the horse mad.
Mrs. Townsend maintained a wrathful silence for the entire brief journey. She sat as far from him as the dimensions of the carriage allowed, arms tightly folded about her chest. Her scent, warm and sweet, pierced the cool, damp, night air. By the faint light of the lantern, he could see her head tilted in annoyance, her mouth in a pout. As usual, he quite desperately wanted to kiss her.
“Caro . . . Mrs. Townsend, why . . . ?”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “You’ve ruined everything.” And turned her face away.
What the hell was he doing here? He’d come up with plenty of rational reasons why he should intervene in her affairs, most of them involving her position as Anne’s chaperone. But when it came down to it, there was really only one. He couldn’t bear to think of Caro in Horner’s arms and couldn’t believe she wanted to be there. Making an eight-hour journey to rescue a woman from a fate from which she apparently had no desire to be rescued was easily the maddest thing he’d ever done in his life. Now he had to extract himself from the situation without ruining all his plans and his sisters’ prospects.
Another advantage of Little Tidmarsh Cottage was that it was hidden from the road by substantial shrubbery. As they passed up the drive, the house loomed into view, shrouded in darkness.
“Wait here,” he told her. He hammered on the door without expecting an immediate reply. Trout wouldn’t hear a knock from the kitchen quarters. The door yielded to the turn of the old circular handle, and he was able to grope for a taper kept in the hall. He lit it f
rom the carriage lantern, paid the postboy, and handed his companion down from the carriage.
“Welcome to Little Tidmarsh Cottage,” he said as he led her into the house. “Let me find us some better light.” A couple more candles revealed the hall, plain and sensible like the rest of the house.
She sniffed haughtily and looked about her. “Quite big for a cottage.”
“True. But small for a duke.”
“Also extremely cold. I was warm at the inn.”
“I’ll soon get a fire lit. He opened the door that led to the kitchen quarters, and shouted, “Trout! Are you there?”
Surprise got her off her high horse, at least temporarily. “Trout? You have a servant named Trout?”
“Two of them. Mr. Trout comes from an ancient line of Cambridgeshire Trouts.”
“Really?”
“I have no idea. I hired him and his wife to take care of the place when I bought it four years ago.”
“And you have only two servants in this . . . cottage?”
“There’s no need to keep a place fully staffed that I use only a few weeks a year. When I come for the race meetings, I bring in servants from Castleton House. I’m going to the kitchen to find the Trouts,” he concluded, to forestall questions about why he’d made this particular journey to Newmarket without establishing a staff here.
“I’m not waiting here,” she said. “The kitchen, at least, will have a fire.”
The kitchen did indeed offer a welcome and caressing heat, but the lamp on the deal table revealed no sign of either Trout. He could, however, hear porcine grunting from the adjacent room. Through the open door he found Trout asleep in a chair in the pantry, an open bottle on the floor beside him, and a strong smell of gin.
“Trout, Trout.” He shook the man’s shoulder.
“Don’t bother.” Her voice came from the doorway. “There’s never any point waking up drunken servants. They aren’t any use in that condition.”
“I’ve never had to tolerate a drunken servant.”
“My! Haven’t you led a sheltered life.”
“A well-ordered life, I would say. I must wake him. Otherwise, how are we to get fires lit in the house?”
After the application of some force, Trout raised a bleary eyelid. Thomas noticed his linen was filthy, and he hadn’t shaved in some time. “Where is your wife?” he asked.
Trout rolled rheumy eyes and opened his mouth in a gap-toothed snarl. “She left me. The strumpet.” Head flopped back, eyes closed, and snoring recommenced.
Mrs. Townsend tilted her neck and looked like a cream-swallowing cat. “Domestic problems, Duke?”
“I doubt he’ll be good for much before morning. And Mrs. Trout has apparently decamped. I don’t know how we are to make ourselves comfortable.” His stomach growled ominously. He looked at her hopefully. “And what about our dinner?”
“I dined with Sir Bernard. I can only commend the Greyhound’s cook.” She chose a chair at the kitchen table, closest to the fire, and settled down, looking smug. “Don’t mind me. I’ll watch you eat.”
Sending away the post chaise was starting to look like a bad idea. The stable here only contained a single horse and the servants’ gig, not a vehicle for nighttime use. He was stuck here with no one to make dinner. He looked again at Mrs. Townsend. Perhaps she knew how to cook—and she must know more about it than he . . . Not encouraging.
He stiffened his sinews. The blood of kings and actresses flowed in his veins. He’d managed to open a bottle of wine, hadn’t he? There was no need for him to starve.
Caro was too distressed to even think about being helpful. This great big lout of a duke had marched into an inn room where he had no business being and ruined her plan. The fact that she had, for a fraction of a second, been pleased to see him was neither here nor there. Not only had she been humiliated at being discovered, with her bosom exposed, no less, but he’d had the nerve to claim he had some kind of authority over her based on his engagement to her cousin. If such an engagement existed.
Unfortunately, she feared it did. Not for one moment did she credit his tale of being in Newmarket for the races. Obviously, Anne hadn’t believed her shadowy explanation of needing to see Eleanor Quinton. Worried about Caro, she must have sent Castleton after her. And why would she have done so, why confide in him, and why would he have agreed, if they hadn’t come to an understanding?
She disguised her anguish beneath a superior smirk. Couldn’t he see the pair of them were ill suited? She couldn’t bear to see her dearest Annabella unhappy.
As for Castleton, he could rot in hell and starve doing it.
She watched him forage while she sat at the table in the blissfully warm kitchen, which was well-appointed with a modern range and solid furnishings. An oak dresser displayed pots and molds. Crocks for dry goods lined up neatly on fitted shelves. Various foodstuffs—a flitch of bacon, a ham, a bunch of onions—hung from ceiling hooks out of the reach of vermin.
In a couple of trips to an adjoining pantry, the duke assembled a loaf of bread, butter, a wedge of cheese, and a bowl containing eggs.
“Do you know how to cook eggs?”
As it happened, she did. The Townsend household had been known to experience staffing difficulties. In happier times, she and Robert had cobbled together meals without much skill but plenty of laughter. By the end of the third domestic crisis, she had conquered the art of the omelet. The Duke of Castleton looked baffled. Tonight, she was in no mood to be helpful and merely shrugged disdainfully.
Disdain wasn’t one of her practiced looks, but Castleton seemed convinced by it. He eyed the stove, then the pots and pans on the dresser, then the eggs again. He picked one up, a small white oval cradled in his large palm, and considered it. Still baffled, adorably so. A giant of a man whose stature dominated the dark utilitarian chamber, reduced to helplessness by the simple egg. Caro folded her arms to fortify a weakening resolve.
With the deliberation that characterized him, Castleton returned the eggs to the pantry. On his way back, he removed the ham from its hook.
Good idea, Duke.
He found a large knife in the dresser drawer and a couple of plates. Then, calmly and efficiently, he carved bread, ham, and cheese into slices.
“My father insisted I learn to carve,” he said when he found her watching. “I don’t do it often, but it may be one of the more useful lessons of my youth. Will you have some?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I’m not sure what’s in the cellar, but there’s beer up here. May I pour you a tankard?”
“I’d rather have tea.” Her head still buzzed from the burgundy at dinner. “I’ll make it.” She wouldn’t be able to look at him if she was busy. “Eat,” she added, seeing that he was far too polite to start his meal while she set the kettle over the hottest part of the fire and searched for the tea caddy.
Only the clink of pottery and quiet ducal munching disturbed the charged silence. Caro returned to her seat, sipped her tea, and tried not to stare at him eating. Every now and then, he’d catch her watching him. He looked so wonderfully safe and solid, and she had to admit to herself if not to him—never to him—that she was much happier in the kitchen with Castleton than in bed with Sir Bernard.
Bed. The low hum of desire unfurled in her belly. Well, it needed to be furled back up.
“You finally spoke to Annabella,” she said. “You are engaged.”
He didn’t deny it. “I called at Conduit Street this morning, then at Windermere House. We spoke then.”
“Then you celebrated your betrothal by leaving for Newmarket for the races?”
“That was a tale for Horner. Your cousin confided her worries to me. She couldn’t understand what urgent matter required you to travel alone and by night.” He frowned. “Anne is, of course, an innocent. It didn’t occur to her that you had left London with a lover.”
Caro’s ire returned. “Is that what I did?”
“I knew Horner was bound for
Newmarket, too. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“How about the explanation that I traveled by mail coach. Since you’ve led a sheltered life, you may not be aware that this lowly form of transport departs London at seven o’clock in the evening.”
“Good Lord! Why would you do that?”
“People travel by mail all the time. Instead, on absolutely no evidence, you decided I had run off with Sir Bernard Horner.”
Castleton aligned his knife and fork on his empty plate. “May I remind you that I discovered you in his company, in an inn, in his room?” He didn’t have to mention her state of undress. A quick glance at her bosom was enough.
“This is intolerable.” She knew how to retreat from a losing argument. “I am going to bed. Where shall I sleep?”
“That’s a good question. We’ll have to light fires upstairs and see if any of the beds are ready.”
Caro shivered at the thought of cold, damp sheets. She spotted a warming pan hanging from the wall near the stove, along with a covered fire shovel. “We’ll need both of these.”
With some maneuvering, they filled both objects with glowing coals. Caro carried the warming pan in both hands and followed Castleton, armed with the fire shovel and a lamp, through the dark house and up a plain wooden staircase.
“There are four bedrooms,” he said, “but I usually come here alone, so if any bed is prepared, it will be mine.”
The truth was even worse. None of the spare rooms even had mattresses on the beds. The largest chamber was fully furnished and made up with sheets that were, as Caro had guessed, ice-cold.
“You sleep in here,” he said. “I’ll find somewhere downstairs once I’ve lit the fire.”
“You’re very good at that,” she said as she plied the warming pan to the big bed.
“Another thing my father insisted on.”
“He sounds like a practical man.”
“Very practical.” He blew on the coals to coax a healthy red glow. “He didn’t believe in self-indulgence.”
“What did he believe in? What did he enjoy?”
“The advancement of his family was important to him.”
The Importance of Being Wicked Page 11