by Juliet Moore
She realized it was the first time she had actually thought of her escape in that manner. Was she really leaving Blackmoore in order to save herself from prosecution? Even though she'd left in the middle of the night, she hadn't done it to be secretive. She'd done it so none of the servants--or Hugh's "friends"--would convince her to stay. No one had actually accused her of anything, so her departure was perfectly legitimate.
Then why was she taking the stagecoach?
As she watched the man seated beside the coachman eye the fresh horses, she told herself that she didn't really know what she was doing. And that was a big reason to get away. In Cornwall, she would be able to nurse her uncle and escape from Blackmoore. It was also a location that was in reach, considering her meager resources. She hoped the Cornish coast would afford her some quiet time to think things through. She needed to find out what she was going to do with her life and what her story would be if there was an inquest.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The man she'd approached looked down at her with a genial smile. She hoped she was a far better sight than a horse's backside.
"I wondered if you might be interested in purchasing this horse?"
The rest of their conversation was quick and to the point. They settled on a price which was decent, if not completely fair, but it wasn't as if she had any other willing buyers. And she had no sentimental attachment to the animal. It was just one of Hugh's younger mares.
The deal was complete and she struggled to hold her composure as she wondered if the horse had been one of her cousin's favorites. What had she done?
A tear slipped down her cheek. She hoped it went unnoticed as she climbed into the coach after her belongings had been thrown into the trunk. Even though she now carried her uncle's letter with her, the key that opened her secret drawer was still a reminder of what had happened. It hung around her neck, tight beneath her bodice. She felt it poking her, a nagging reminder, as she tried to arrange her skirts in order to sit down.
She finally took her seat inside, next to an angry-looking woman holding a colicky baby. She loosed a breath of tired release.
Then--over the wails of the child and throughout the entire bumpy ride--she gave in to the pain. At that moment, she truly hated herself.
* * *
The stagecoach stopped at an inn to change horses and allow its passengers to procure refreshment.
The waitress approached her with a smile, recognizing her richly trimmed dress immediately. She hoped she didn't also notice that she was an unchaperoned lady, perfect for any scheme the locals might have concocted for lone, wealthy women.
But if you continue to fear anything and everything, what will you do when the pressure is on?
"What will ye have?"
"Anything warm." The young girl seemed normal enough, she thought, while trying to calm herself down. It was the first time she'd actually sat down to take a true break. The first breather during her long run.
"That'll be a cup of Ma's best cider," the girl said with a nod, then moved to the next table.
Victoria rubbed her hands together to bring life into her ice-tipped fingers and allowed her gaze to travel across the room. It seemed the inn had a strong local following, if one might call it that. Furtively, she examined them all.
She didn't know what she was looking for in their scarred, lumpy faces. Even so, she continued to look at them, passing the time by becoming the pursuer when she felt so much like the pursued.
Her wary search ended when it landed on a man seated across the room. She was surprised to see a mirror of her own interest and immediately wanted to know why.
She removed her hands from the tabletop and placed them on her lap. She didn't want the stranger to see the way they shook under his unabashed perusal of her person, especially since she didn't understand why.
She studied him. His brownish hair was short and cropped close to his head. It was a formal, efficient style, as were his breeches and overcoat. But as much as it was obvious that he didn't care much for the current fashion, he cut a striking figure just the same. He had in him something of the untamed countryman, even though his trappings were those of a rich man. Whoever he was, a short examination was enough to cause her pulse to race and temperature to rise. Maybe she didn't need that cider after all.
When he rose from his seat across the room and walked in her direction, she desperately wished she'd looked away in the beginning. She pretended he wasn't really headed for her table. Maybe he'd recognized someone that was sitting behind her? Was the waitress late in bringing his request and he'd decided to remind her?
All foolish ideas, she knew.
"Is this seat taken?"
"Why, sir, I'm not sure it would be proper!" she said in mock indignation.
"Perhaps we should ask your chaperone?"
She nodded toward the empty chair. It was obvious that she couldn't turn him away that easily.
He smiled at her when he sat down. His eyes glinted with unexplained mirth. "My name is Alexander Trevelyn."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Trevelyn."
"May I ask your name?"
She wasn't sure if she was attracted to the dangerous glint in his eyes, or if it was something to beware. "Betsy Carter," she said, stealing the name of her ever-faithful maid.
"Where are you headed, Miss Carter?" He leaned forward and his gaze rested on the lump beneath her bodice.
She nearly choked on her sharp intake of breath. Of course the glance was coincidental. He couldn't possibly know what the key signified or what was hidden in her dresser drawer. After all, that was back in Blackmoore and she was miles from the inn where she'd paid her half-fare. "I'm on my way to...Dover."
"Doesn't the mail coach go that route?"
"And if it does?"
He didn't answer immediately since the waitress had returned with the cider. The young girl looked at Mr. Trevelyn and then back at his empty table. Then she shrugged and served him his own mug of cider.
She leaned over the mug and allowed the hot steam to caress her face. Then she leaned back when she realized what it would do to her complexion. She didn't wish to become flushed under her companion's watchful gaze. She was already having enough trouble staying calm when he questioned her. It might have been easier if she hadn't just realized that she'd much rather be the one making inquiries, finding out more about the mysterious stranger who had so quickly captured her interest.
His cheeks were red from the winter wind. She figured that he mustn't be traveling within a closed carriage. His clothing and manners were that of a rich man, but he didn't seem to be making his journey as one.
Finally, after they'd both sipped their cider and studied one another in silence, he once again commented on the peculiarity of her position. "If you are truly on your way to Dover, I would think you would have taken the mail coach rather than the stage. It is certainly more comfortable, even if it is a little more costly."
"Yes, the cost--"
"And your clothing makes a few things clear to me...such as the fact that you most certainly can afford the mail coach. It also tells me that your name couldn't possibly be Betsy Carter." He took a deep breath and another drink of cider. "It's much too common," he finished with a grin.
She had watched him speak. His lips moved in a slow, precise manner as though he had rehearsed every word. That simply wasn't possible, but she was sure she hadn't mistaken the cynical upturn of his lip whenever he finished a sentence. Although that also seemed a little unnatural, she was sure that he took great effort to make it so. She'd traveled too long and too far with her parents not to have become a student of human nature. German or French, Italian or Swiss, they all had nervous physical reactions to the dishonest words that came out of their mouths. She looked at Mr. Trevelyn's carefully formed appearance. She was even more intrigued.
"Miss Carter?"
"Oh yes, I'm sorry. You were saying?"
His face lost some of its charm when he frowned. Things obvi
ously weren't going his way. "I was wondering why you felt it necessary to give me an assumed name?"
"That's interesting, sir. I was wondering the same about you."
"I...what?" His brow furrowed and his hand gestured impatiently, but his eyes never left her face.
"I sincerely doubt your name is really Alexander Trevelyn. I've heard of the Trevelyn's, sir, and I am quite sure you are not one of them." She forced a prim look onto her face and pursed her lips in order to prevent the laughter from escaping. Of course, she'd believed he was who he said he was. She'd never actually heard of any wealthy Trevelyn families.
"I am most certainly a Trevelyn. You insult me by saying it isn't so." He adjusted his smart white gloves.
"Oh really? From where do the Trevelyn's hail?"
"Cornwall and quite proud of it. Have you been to the peninsula, Miss Carter?"
She lost a bit of her humor then, but surely Cornwall encompassed quite a large area? They couldn't be going to the very same place, she assured herself. She grinned. "No, I have not 'been to the peninsula.' Nor have I heard of your illustrious Trevelyn's."
"Wha--"
"If you'll excuse me?" She stood up, finished the last mouthful cider, and made for the door, leaving the illustrious Trevelyn pay for her drink.
* * *
Alexander followed the stage but stayed far enough behind to escape the notice of the coachman. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid!
First, she'd enticed him to come to her table. He hadn't planned on making contact so soon, but she'd been watching him so openly that he couldn't resist. Also, her scrutiny of him made it clear that he had lost his chance to follow her in anonymity. She would have easily noticed him at the next stage.
He rode quickly and the wind burned his exposed cheeks. Perhaps he should have found a place to leave his horse and pretended to be getting on the stage? Damn, he was a fool. He had let her manipulate him into going against all of his plans. She was truly good at what she did. The tricky little temptress!
He watched the stage bump along the uneven road and wondered how uncomfortable she might be. She probably wasn't used to such methods of transportation. From what he'd learned, she had traveled widely with her parents and they'd had the money to do everything first class. He wondered where all that money had gone. Maybe she still had it. Maybe she was so greedy that her only desire in life was to build up as much money as she could and then be buried with it.
He thought she might be cold. Even though she'd bought a seat inside, her body was probably as cold as her bottom was sore. He'd gotten a nice look at it too when he stalked out of the inn. It was quite nice, he thought to himself and a smile spread across his face. His thoughts weren't nice though. He was actually thinking of her comfort, a woman he'd just met, when he was probably much worse off that night. He reminded himself that she was also a murderess, and he stopped smiling.
Alex worried that he was already enjoying the chase more than he should. He couldn't deny that as much as their first meeting frustrated him, it also made him eager for the next.
He doubted it boded well to find such an independent, sneaky shrew so damned sexy.
* * *
She'd been good all right.
She smiled every time she went over the conversation in her mind. Even though she didn't have him figured out yet, she knew he had something to hide. He was acting just as strangely as she was. If he'd done anything like what she had done to cause her nervousness, she had good reason to worry. So she'd turned the tables on him and found out more about him than he knew about her. Yes, definitely good.
But that was over with. Hopefully she'd never see him again.
When she arrived in Coverack, she was so exhausted that all she could think of was a warm bed. So it was disheartening to realize how poor her uncle's directions had been. She would have to go about finding him the old-fashioned way.
She was surprised at how many people were out at that time of night. Of course, that was to her benefit. One of them, hopefully, would be able to help her out. She owed part of her gratefulness to the pleasing weather. It was still cool outside, but it was vastly different in temperature from Blackmoore. She was able to evaluate her surroundings without shivering once.
It was mostly men present in the ramshackle village, wearing the kind of clothing that signified a living made out of fishing. The smell of that unfortunate foodstuff permeated the air, and whether it was coming from the pedestrians or the bay nearby, she didn't know. With a "now or never" attitude, she stopped one of townspeople.
"Would you happen to know anyone by the name of John Fyn?"
The man's face took on a suspicious expression. "Want do ye want with him?"
She stepped back. "If only you'd tell me where he lives--" He reeked of dead fish and stale tobacco. It was incredible that he took such affront at her question when she was the one who should've been offended.
He tilted his head to the side and gave it some thought. "Ain't nobody around here with that name," he said and then walked away.
Well, that was an experience!
She couldn't be wrong about the town, could she? Maybe it wasn't Coverack her uncle had mentioned, but something that sounded very similar. Then she shook her head, for the benefit of none but herself. No, she'd reread the letter countless times and there wasn't any chance she was in the wrong place. She approached a woman who was older and with a friendlier appearance than the first native.
"Excuse me, but would it be possible to be directed to John Fyn's place of residence?"
The woman stopped but didn't respond. She scrutinized Victoria a bit and then asked, "What's your business?"
She sighed. Were they all such sore sports? "We're friends."
"Then why don't ye know where he is?"
"Please, ma'am, I only want to be pointed in the right direction."
The woman smiled and pointed north. It was the direction from which Victoria had come.
She simply didn't know how to handle such people!
She walked farther into the town, hoping that by some miracle she'd find John on her own. The problem was, she didn't even know where the town thinned out and where the residences began. She'd heard that Cornwall was a fierce county and the Lizard Peninsula even more difficult. With the abundance of tiny inlets, wooded valleys, and scattered hamlets, she didn't believe she'd get very far on her own. One false turn and she'd probably end up in the sea.
She'd almost decided the people weren't only being rude to her, but hiding from her as well when a man walked into view. She didn't recognize him, but noticed his confident gait and rigid posture. And the way he surveyed the town with lengthy looks into every shadow and under every gable implied he owned the place. It she wasn't mistaken, he was a landowner. Surely he would assist her?
She had decided that she'd approach him on her own, throwing etiquette to the wind, but once he saw her, she realized that it wouldn't be necessary.
"Are you lost?" he asked with a slight London affectation to his accent.
"Yes. I'm looking for the house of John Fyn."
His eyes widened. "Fyn, eh? That's not an easy one to find."
"But you know where it is?" She leaned forward on her toes and smiled, admiring his coat and the sandy-blond hair that peeked out from beneath his hat. The hair looked bleached by the sun, but he certainly didn't seem the type to sit outside without anything covering his head. Her first impression was one of affable friendliness.
"I walk past the Fyn place nearly every day," he said, "though it is heavily secluded."
"Are you a friend of his?"
"You might say that." He started to walk away, but gestured for her to follow him. "Then again, you might not."
It certainly wasn't an illuminating answer. Friendly, but a little wary. That wasn't necessarily bad. Didn't such a description describe her as well?
"And you?"
"Yes, I am a friend." She took a deep breath. "Actually, I'm his niece."
> She might have been mistaken, but at that moment he looked as though he'd almost choked on his own breath. "Niece?"
"Yes. He's my father's brother."
"That's a shame."
"You mean because he's ill?"
His pace slowed considerably at this question. She wondered if he was taking her the long way. She had to admit that she didn't mind if he was. "I haven't been to visit Fyn in some time. I didn't know of his illness, but I'm sure you'll make him feel infinitely better."
"Well, I got the impression from his letter that there wasn't much hope."
He threw his head back and laughed heartily as he picked a leisurely pace along the path. Then he saw the shocked look on Victoria's face. "Oh dear, I apologize for that. It's just that John has always been one to exaggerate."
She was starting to change her mind about being comfortable taking the long path. Weren't first impressions supposed to be correct?
"It's a shame we weren't properly introduced, but you must understand that we're not as strict down here. I'm Rafe Randel."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Randel." She offered her hand, which he took with alacrity. "Victoria Clavering."
"Where have you traveled from?" he asked once he'd released her hand.
"London." It was a good, general place to have hailed from.
"Shouldn't you be going to balls, rather than visiting secluded uncles?"
They came upon a house, very much obscured by the surrounding vegetation. As she'd expected, her uncle wasn't a wealthy man. She hoped he was a kind one.
Victoria thought of all the imaginary parties that she'd never been invited to and said, "My family is very important to me, Mr. Randel."
"And so it is to us all."
He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth when she saw a middle-aged man running out of the two-story manor, a man that looked very much like her father. But he appeared far too hale to be the man who'd written the letter.