by Sara Bennett
“You’re smiling again,” Mary said suspiciously. “What is there to smile about, master?”
“Nothing at all, Mary, except that the sun is shining and I am home at Wexmoor Manor, where I belong.”
She looked even more confused, but he didn’t bother to enlighten her. He was already thinking of later.
Chapter 8
The ride from Wexmoor Manor had brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Antoinette was used to riding every morning at home, and she had missed the exercise while in London. Not that she was a brilliant horsewoman—Cecilia was far better—but she enjoyed being outdoors, and the time allowed her to gather her thoughts and consider what needed doing in the hours to come.
On the ride this morning she’d considered what she should say to Sir James Trevalen and how she was going to put her case. She was not foolish enough to think he would believe her when he knew nothing of her—she was certainly hoping he knew nothing of her ruined reputation, and she wasn’t going to mention it. But surely part of his responsibility as magistrate was to look into her allegations? And that might be enough to frighten off the highwayman…and Lord Appleby.
All she needed was a little time, enough to get away from here and back to London and use the information in the letter, and this might be the way to achieve it.
Sir James Trevalen’s house was smaller than Wexmoor Manor but of a similar age. Of weatherworn gray stone and lichen-tinted slate, it loomed over her as she drew up her horse at the front door, the facade only slightly softened by some carefully trimmed ivy.
“Do you have an appointment with Sir James?” The servant who opened the door looked inclined to deny her entry, but Antoinette wasn’t having it.
“No, I don’t, but he will still see me.” Antoinette, used to being obeyed, stepped boldly forward.
Chastened, the servant showed her into a sitting room while the master of the house was fetched.
A large mirror hung on the wall, reflecting her image. She noted the neat, plum-colored riding outfit, her hair smoothly coiled at her nape, and her eyes bright behind her spectacles. Her skin was flushed from the ride. She looked passable, she told herself critically, for a woman who’d barely slept. But it was as she lay tossing and turning in her bed that she’d come to her decision; that the only way to rid herself of the dangerous presence of the highwayman was to have him arrested.
And he was a danger to her. Because of whom he worked for and the hidden letter, yes, but there was more to it than that. He made her feel vulnerable in a way she’d never felt before. While he was nearby there was a very real chance she might forget the danger she was in and that he represented. That instead she would begin to remember the touch of his mouth on hers and the husky sound of his voice. She would lose her focus in the throes of more of the exquisite pleasure he’d given her last night when she’d completely lost control.
Losing control was new for Antoinette.
“Miss Dupre?”
Sir James Trevalen was a slight, middle-aged man with a face darkened by living under a sun in far hotter climes. His quizzical gray eyes fixed on hers, and his smile was so kind that Antoinette felt the sudden urge to trust him. It was because she was alone and friendless, she knew that, but the need to spill everything to him was almost irresistible.
She did resist it.
Appearances, as she had discovered to her cost, could be deceptive, and the world outside her previously insular world was often a dangerous place.
“Sir James. Thank you so much for seeing me. I’m sorry to interrupt your—”
He waved away her apology. “I always have time for those who require my help and advice. I take it that is why you are here? You have a problem you wish to lay before me?”
“I do. But I’m not sure how to tell my story without shocking you, Sir James.”
His eyebrows rose and his smile vanished. “You must feel free to unburden yourself within these walls; I am not in the habit of repeating confidences. And I assure you I am not easily shocked.”
“Thank you, Sir James.”
“Please, do sit down, Miss Dupre, and tell me all about it.”
Antoinette perched on the edge of the chair and realized her knees were shaking, but her voice was firm and steady as she told her story. “I arrived at Lord Appleby’s house, Wexmoor Manor, two nights ago. The reasons for my visit are immaterial…” She went on, briefly detailing the journey, until she came to the holdup. Of this she made a great deal while telling him nothing of her understanding of the reasons that it happened. By the time she finished she had turned the highwayman into a ravening monster, half man and half beast.
Sir James, who was watching her intently throughout her story, now spoke quietly. “What you tell me is shocking indeed. I am sorry to hear you have been so mistreated, and I will do my very best to discover the perpetrator of this crime.”
There was a genuineness about Sir James that gave her a sense of confidence he would carry out his promise. “If you do find him…what will happen to him?” she said reluctantly.
“He will be arrested and brought before me. I have no doubt he will be jailed for his crime, perhaps even hanged. What you have told me is very serious, Miss Dupre. Such a man cannot be allowed to run amok in my district attacking defenseless women.”
Hanged! Antoinette had known it might be so, but for some reason, hearing the word spoken aloud made it all the more real. She remembered the firm touch of his lips on hers, the intent look in his eyes when he trapped her in the coach, as if she was so much more than he’d imagined. And then the way he’d comforted her and wiped away her tears, his big hands so gentle.
“I wasn’t completely defenseless,” she heard herself say. “That is, I—I fought him and drove him off.” She stumbled on. “And it isn’t as if I have never been kissed before! Well, not like that perhaps…” Her thoughts slid back to the touch of his mouth, and suddenly she didn’t know if she could do this. It was one thing to drive her enemy away, to give herself time to escape, but to send a man to his death…No, it was too much of a burden on her conscience.
Abruptly Antoinette stood up, Sir James following more slowly. He looked thoughtful, his gaze fixed on her face, as if he found her an interesting study.
“Miss Dupre, I can see the memory has upset you,” he said. “Perhaps you wish to partake of some refreshment before you go?”
“No, thank you, Sir James. I should get back.” If she stayed she might end up telling him the whole story was a lie, even the bits that were true. As it was she blurted out, “The servants at Wexmoor Manor think it was all a harmless prank and I am taking it far too seriously.”
“Ah.” Sir James tapped his cheek. “Perhaps they know who it is, Miss Dupre, and wish to protect him. Have you thought of that?”
“I’ve thought of nothing else.”
“I’d advise you to leave this matter in my hands, Miss Dupre. I will get to the bottom of it. For now you must put it from your mind and enjoy your visit to our part of Devon. Will you promise to do that?”
He was very gallant; Antoinette found his manner comforting. “I will, sir. It is only…whatever this man has done, I would not like to think that I will be the cause of his death.”
Sir James nodded seriously. “I see you are a compassionate woman, Miss Dupre, but you have done all you can. I am taking charge, and I will see that whatever must be done will be done. Believe me, I am a fair man. Do not trouble yourself any further, please.”
Antoinette agreed that she would try, but still she left wondering if she’d behaved too rashly. Rashness was an unfamiliar trait in Antoinette’s character; usually she was a woman who considered her every action coolly and calmly and at length. But the highwayman had rattled her; he had shaken her from her cozy world, and she’d yet to find safe ground.
As she stepped outside a familiar voice called, “Miss!” Antoinette looked up in surprise. It was Wonicot, mounted on a horse and holding hers, and looking very unco
mfortable indeed. “You shouldn’t be out on your own, Miss Dupre,” he said by way of explanation.
“Are you my bodyguard, Wonicot?” she inquired, as they set off for Wexmoor Manor. She should be cross with him for spying on her, but he so obviously didn’t want to be there that she didn’t have the heart.
“Just obeying orders,” he muttered.
Whose orders? Antoinette asked herself. Mrs. Wonicot’s, Lord Appleby’s, or the highwayman’s?
“Sir James believed me when I told him I was held up by a highwayman,” she said with a sideways glance.
Wonicot nearly lost his balance, clinging to the horse’s mane to stop himself from falling. “You shouldn’t have told him,” he said at last. “’Tisn’t nothing to do with him. ’Tisn’t his business.”
“He’s the magistrate; of course it is his business.” They rode on a moment. “Did you know, Wonicot, that a man can be hanged for a crime like that?”
He paled. “Hanged? Oh, surely not, miss. No, he wouldn’t do that. Not to his—” But whatever Wonicot was going to say he thought better of it and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done it,” was all he said.
Antoinette had much to think about as they clip-clopped along the road. One thing she decided upon: Sir James was right, the matter was out of her hands now. Anyway, it wasn’t as if it was her fault he’d chosen to rob the coach, was it?
Determined, she switched her thoughts to her return to London and saving herself and Cecilia. And she would save them, and see Appleby punished. Afterward, life could return to normal. She could go back to being the chatelaine of her home and living her own life. To being herself. Antoinette was used to a life in which each day was planned, each week had its allotted tasks, each year its predestined cycles. There was something very comforting in having your life managed so completely.
But instead of comforting her, she found that this vision of her future had the effect of depressing her. It occurred to her that she was enjoying her current predicament. The sense of uncertainty and giddy, dangerous excitement as she was pursued by a stranger who did such wicked, pleasurable things to her. She gave a little shiver. All these years she’d been mistaken in her own character. She wasn’t the cool and levelheaded young woman she’d imagined; someone very different lurked beneath the smooth surface. Someone who was insisting that now it was her turn. And now that she’d been set free, it was going to be very difficult to send her back.
Antoinette was still deep in thought as she rode into the stable yard. Wonicot had dropped behind her and was no longer in sight, as she slid down onto the brick surface. She gave her mare a pat on the nose, telling her that she was a beautiful girl and promising more rides in the future. It was only when she heard someone clear his throat behind her that she realized she wasn’t entirely alone.
It was Coombe. He was lurking in the shadows by the stable door, a cap pulled low on his head and his coarse black hair sticking out from beneath it in tufts. His sleeves were rolled up over grubby but muscular forearms, and there was a neckerchief tied around his throat.
“Take your horse for you, miss?” He spoke in an accent so thick it was almost incomprehensible.
“Thank you.” She led the mare toward Coombe. “She’s a lovely animal,” she said, smiling politely, and hoping he didn’t notice her nose twitching.
Coombe didn’t feel the need to be polite. He took the reins from her and slouched toward the stable doors, his heavy boots ringing out on the bricks. After a moment of indecision, Antoinette decided to follow him. Maybe Coombe on his own would turn out to be a fountain of information.
It was gloomy inside the stable building and she stopped, taking a moment for her eyes to adjust. Coombe was already busy removing the mare’s saddle, his head bent over his work, moving swiftly for such a big man. At the sound of her approaching steps he looked up, and although she couldn’t see more than shadows, she sensed he wasn’t pleased to see her. His surliness made her even more wary, and she decided that was another reason not to get too close to him. But if there was a chance Coombe could help her out of her predicament, then she must try to win him over to her side.
“Have you worked here long, Coombe?” she began in what she hoped was a nonthreatening voice.
He grunted, not even bothering to glance at her.
“Have you lived here long?” Antoinette was patient.
Another grunt, this time followed by a shrug.
“Tell me, Coombe, do you enjoy working for Lord Appleby?”
He froze, and then he spat on the straw. Well, that was plain enough, wasn’t it? Perhaps she’d found an ally in this most unlikely of places.
“Is Lord Appleby a frequent visitor to Wexmoor Manor?”
He held up one finger at her, his face too deep in the shadow of his cap for her to read his expression, before returning to his work.
“Only once?” Antoinette said in amazement. “I thought…I presumed he’d owned the manor for a great many years. How odd. Then who lived here before?”
No answer to that. Coombe turned away, carrying the saddle into a tack room. Again Antoinette hesitated, but again she followed him.
“Coombe,” she spoke in an airy, unconcerned manner. “Is there a regular coach to London from any of the villages near here? Or a train station, perhaps? I forgot to ask before I arrived, and now I find I may need to return to London earlier than I expected.”
He paused in his work. “I know nothing of that, miss,” he muttered, or that was what she thought he said. “I’ve never been to London.”
“Oh?” Antoinette fidgeted a moment. “Wouldn’t you like to see the Tower and Westminster Abbey?” No, a man like Coombe wouldn’t be interested in architecture and history. “There are horse races in London,” she went on, hoping it was true. “And horses for sale. The best horses anywhere. Big, strong, glossy…horses,” she ended lamely.
He was fiddling with the harness. “Big and glossy, are they?” he said with something like longing in his voice. “No one here is interested in horseflesh, not proper horseflesh.”
“But you are, aren’t you, Coombe? You’d like your own stable and your own horses. Racing horses. Have you never thought of that?”
Of course he hadn’t. A man in Coombe’s position knew his place. He would never earn enough money to own anything, let alone run his own business. But Antoinette decided she must make the offer, and follow it through if he promised to help her escape.
Coombe was standing very still, staring at the saddle in his hands; he seemed to be in a dream. Quietly she took a step closer, ignoring the pungent smell of his body.
“If you take me to London, Coombe, I will help you to get your own stable and your own horses. You see, I need to get back to London urgently. Will you help me?”
He heaved a deep sigh, then spat on the straw, causing her to leap back out of the way. “I’m only the groom,” he growled. “An’ I have my work to do, miss.”
It was a dismissal, and yet she lingered, not wanting to give up.
“Coombe…?”
“I’ll think on what you’ve said,” he said, and slouched away.
Antoinette watched him go, not entirely discouraged. Coombe had shown a definite interest in what she was offering. She would speak to him again when he’d had time to mull it over, and next time he might be more willing to listen.
Gabriel waited until her steps began to fade away before he glanced up to watch her retreat and admire her figure. To prevent her from recognizing him he’d kept his face hidden and his shoulders hunched, but he needn’t have worried. She didn’t have a clue. He was a groom, and that was exactly what she saw when she looked at him.
Just as well.
He knew what she was up to, the manipulative little minx. She intended to turn the highwayman over to Sir James Trevalen and see him hanged. And if that didn’t work, she was hoping to bribe Coombe into taking her back to London, where she could prevail upon Lord Appleby to deal with him.
Ga
briel wasn’t about to let that happen.
So what next?
If he was a sensible man he’d make a run for it, sail over to France, and go into hiding, forget all about saving his home and revenging himself on Appleby. Well, he mustn’t be a sensible man then, Gabriel told himself, because he wasn’t going anywhere. Antoinette Dupre might well be a ruthless, greedy woman but…no, there was something wrong with that picture. He realized it was the way she had ridden off to see Sir James this morning, as if the devil himself were in pursuit of her. Almost as if she was afraid.
Of him and his pursuit of the letter? Or was it the way he’d made her body sing when he’d held her and touched her last night? The way she’d bolted this morning showed a fear of her own reactions rather than his.
Antoinette was running from herself.
He smiled. This was a promising start. He remembered the advice Aphrodite had given him on the night he’d fled from London. “Seduce her,” she’d commanded in her soft French accent. “Make the woman yours. Make her so hungry for you that her senses overrule her mind, and soon you will discover all she knows. I promise you she will tell you willingly.”
He hadn’t believed her. He was beginning to now.
Gabriel was looking forward to making Antoinette Dupre hungry for him…as hungry as he was for her.
Chapter 9
Antoinette woke to the touch of a man’s hand in a place it oughtn’t to be. Her eyes sprang open in the darkness, and she stared frantically about her, seeing only shadows. Shadows that breathed. And the hand was definitely there, warm and calloused, stroking her face.
With a gasp she jumped away.
“Now, now, my little brown sparrow, not so fast.”
“You!” Her heart threatened to break free of her ribs.
He chuckled breathily. “Why are you surprised? I told you I’d be back.”
Antoinette tried to find her wits. He was acting as if she should be pleased to see him, as if it was perfectly all right for a stranger to turn up in her bedchamber in the middle of the night.