Angel Rogue fa-4

by Mary Jo Putney

  With a blithe unconcern for property rights, he had also found two velvet robes for them to wear while their own clothing dried. Donning the sumptuous garment after her bath had made her feel like a princess.

  She swallowed the last of her stew and leaned back with a contented sigh, pushing up her sleeves again. The robe was far too large and its hem dragged on the floor, but it was perfect for this lunatic occasion, when her freshly washed hair was loose as a child's and wool stockings warmed her feet.

  She had decided to relax and enjoy the eccentric luxury. She had the odd feeling that the house welcomed them. Perhaps it was glad to have inhabitants, even transitory, illicit ones.

  Surreptitiously she studied her companion. His robe fit him well and was a shade of blue that matched his eyes. The color set off his gilt hair and made him unreasonably, dangerously, attractive.

  As he reached for his wineglass, the garment fell open at the throat. She was interested to note that there was a faint, reddish tint in the light matting of chest hair revealed. She supposed that went with a beard that grew out red.

  As she poured herself more water from a silver ewer, she remarked, 'Times like this, it would be nice to loll back in the chair with a glass of brandy in my hand."

  "You can anyhow. Nothing in that picture says you actually have to drink the brandy." He raised his goblet, which contained the last of the claret he had appropriated to season the stew. "Shall we drink a toast to the future?"

  She laughed and raised her cup. "Is a toast drunk in tea binding?"

  "With symbolism, intent is everything, the details unimportant," he assured her.

  She hesitated a moment, feeling a strange, deep longing. It was getting harder and harder to imagine parting from Robin, with his careless charm and quixotic humor and tranquil acceptance of her mongrel background. But a future with him came under the heading of dreams rather than of possible outcomes. Trying to hold him would be like trying to capture the wind in her hands.

  Smiling wistfully, she raised her cup and emptied it in one quick swallow. She was an American, which meant that she should not accept that anything was impossible.

  After pouring more tea, she selected a piece of candied ginger from a Chinese bowl. "Sometime in your checkered past you must have been a butler." She indicated the elegant table. "You do this so well."

  "As a matter of fact, you're right. I have had a stint or two as a butler, as well as being a footman and groom on occasion."

  She was taken aback, not having meant the comment seriously. "Is that true, or are you teasing again?"

  "Quite true." He grinned. "Is it so hard to imagine me holding a real job?"

  "It's not easy." She rested an elbow on the table, propping her chin on her palm as she studied his cool patrician countenance. She really shouldn't be surprised. Even wandering gentlemen with a rooted distaste for honest employment must sometimes have to work to keep food in their bellies.

  "I'm sure you were a successful servant. You have the chameleon's ability to blend into any setting." She tried to define the impressions she had gathered in their travels. "Yet, though you talk easily with anyone of any station, you always seem apart, with the group but not of it."

  His hand stilled around his wine goblet. "That, Maxima, is entirely too perceptive a comment." Before she could pursue the subject, he continued, "We'll be in London soon. Where do you plan to begin investigating your father's death?"

  "The inn where he died. Surely there are servants who can tell me something. I also have the names of old friends he intended to visit."

  "After you have learned what you can, and acted on it, what then?" His blue gaze was intense.

  She shook her head and toyed with the silver tongs, trying unsuccessfully to decipher the intricate engraved initial. "Go back to America and find work in a bookshop, I suppose. I haven't really thought about it. The future seems too far away."

  She used the tongs to drop a chunk of sugar into her tea. "No, that isn't quite right. Usually I have a vague idea of what the future holds. Nothing so grand as prophecy, just a sense that actions will be completed. For example, when my father and I traveled, I always knew when we would reach our destination, and when we would not. When we sailed for England, I didn't doubt that we would arrive safely, and I knew that I would meet my father's family. For that matter, when I left my uncle's house I was confident that I would reach London."

  Intrigued, he asked, "Did you sense that you would have so many adventures along the way?"

  "No, and I could never have imagined meeting someone like you." She gave him a fleeting smile. "But now when I look ahead, I can't project what will happen. It's like one summer when we planned to pass through Albany. There was no reason to suppose that it wouldn't happen, yet I couldn't see us there. As it turned out, my father fell ill. We spent several weeks in a village in Vermont and ended up missing Albany that year. It's rather like that now."

  His brows drew together. "What do you feel?"

  "A kind of blankness. Perhaps the future will take a turn I can't envision because it is too different from the past," she said slowly. "I've always known I wouldn't spend my whole life as a book peddler, though I didn't know how that part of my life would end. Yet as soon as my father said we were going to England, I knew I would never go back to the peddler's life."

  "I've run across many different forms of intuition in my life, and I've learned not to discount them," Robin said, his expression intent. "If you consciously try, do you think you could get a better sense for what might happen in London? If there is danger, it will help if we are prepared."

  "I don't know if that's possible, but I'll see what I can do," she said doubtfully.

  Closing her eyes, she relaxed back in the chair and visualized a map of England. A silvery road coiled south from Durham, its brightness increasing in Yorkshire, where she had met Robin. What about London, the complex, pulsing heart of England? She let her mind drift.

  Blackness, chaos, pain. The unthinkable…

  With a cry, she jerked upright in the chair, a convulsive movement of her hand sweeping her teacup and saucer from the table to smash on the parquet floor. She stared at the scattered fragments, her heart hammering. "I broke it," she said stupidly.

  'To hell with the china," Robin was already there, his arms circling her. As she hid her face against him, he said quietly, "Did you feel that something dreadful will happen there?"

  She tried to look at the black, terrifying vortex that had almost consumed her, but her mind sheered away, as balky as a nervous pony. "It… it was literally beyond my imagination. Something too awful to understand."

  His embrace tightened. "Could it have been your own death?" he asked quietly. "If so, I'm going to take you in the opposite direction tomorrow if I have to tie you to a horse."

  She shook her head. "I've never feared death, so my own end would not be so upsetting." A horrifying thought struck to her. Could she have been dimly sensing danger for Robin?

  As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she dismissed it. Her fear had nothing to do with Robin. "It wasn't your death, either. I… I think it had to do with what happened to my father." She swallowed hard. "Even though I've mentally accepted that my uncle might have arranged Max's death, in my heart, I haven't really believed it. But if my uncle was responsible, it would explain why thinking of the future is so upsetting. A murder trial would have hideous repercussions for the whole Collins family. Innocent people will be hurt."

  "And you don't want that, even if your relatives haven't been particularly kind to you." He put his finger under her chin and raised her face so that she was looking at him. "I suppose it's foolish to ask if you want to leave well enough alone."

  Her jaw hardened. "That's out of the question. I may fail to discover the truth, but if I don't try, I'll never forgive myself."

  He nodded, unsurprised. "You're wise to proceed. The truth is seldom as bad as our fears." He smoothed her hair back from her temple, then moved awa
y. "I'm going to make another pot of tea. Then I'll tell you every absurd story I can think of so that when you go to bed, you'll sleep well." He smiled. "And I know a lot of absurd stories."

  After he headed off to the kitchen, teapot in hand, she whispered, "Thank you, Robin."

  Their future together might be limited, but as long as he stayed by her side while she investigated her father's death, she could face whatever waited in London.

  Chapter 21

  The Marquess of Wolverton had estimated that if Robin and the Sheltered Innocent decided to stop at Ruxton, it would take them three or four days to get there from Market Harborough. Giles headed south, making routine inquiries, but with a signal lack of success. The pair had evaporated like summer mist.

  He had intended to spend the third night at Ruxton, but a violent storm turned the roads to mire and slowed his carriage to the pace of a walking man. Irritated, he chided himself for spending too much time on futile searching. If he had given up a few hours earlier, he could have reached Ruxton. Now he must take his chances at the nearest inn. It was a gloomy prospect.

  As his carriage lurched through the mud, he found himself thinking about Desdemona Ross, who had an alarming tendency to invade his mind, both waking and sleeping. He wasn't sure what to do about her, but he certainly wanted to do something.

  His pleasant daydreams ended when a sharp crack sounded below his feet. The carriage jolted to a stop, the whole vehicle tilting precariously. He sighed as he stepped into the downpour; a carriage breakdown was a perfect end to the day. Outside, he called to his coachman, Wickes, "Shall we see how bad it is?"

  Wickes handed the reins to Miller, a young servant who was acting as guard, groom, and parttime valet. After he clambered from the box, they slogged through the mud to survey the damage. "Axle's broken beyond repair, my lord," Wickes said glumly. "We'll have to send Miller to find a blacksmith."

  Giles tugged his hat lower, trying to stop rain from running down the back of his neck. "We're within a mile or two of Daventry. There will be a smith there." He was about to dispatch Miller to town when he heard the jangling harness and rumbling wheels of another traveler behind them.

  "Here's a bit of luck," Wickes said as he stepped into the road to flag down the approaching vehicle.

  It wasn't a wagon, but another private coach-a carriage with distinctive yellow trim. A smile spread across Giles's face. Whoever had said that it was an ill wind that blew no good was right; this storm was definitely blowing well.

  As he headed toward the coach, a tall female form stepped out into the deluge and started toward him. His step quickened, and as they drew together he exclaimed, "Get back inside, Lady Ross. There's no reason for you to get wet, too."

  "Don't worry, Wolverton. I shan't melt." She gave him a wicked smile, her long lashes clumping from the rain and water dripping from the edge of her bonnet. "This is my chance to rescue you for a change. How could I pass up such an opportunity? I presume you have a broken wheel or axle."

  He nodded. "I'd appreciate it if you would send someone from Daventry to help us."

  "Why don't you come with me? Your men can look after the carriage perfectly well. I was planning to stop at the Wheatsheaf, which is quite a decent inn. You can get a room there also." She pulled her sopping cloak closer around her. "This is no weather for traveling."

  The thought of spending time with her splendid ladyship was too appealing to refuse. Giles told his men to wait in the carriage until help arrived, retrieved a small bag that carried a change of clothes and a few other basic items, and followed Lady Ross to her carriage.

  He climbed inside and settled squishily on the seat. Seeing that they were alone, he asked, "What happened to your maid?"

  "The silly wench came down with a streaming cold so I sent her home." She cocked her head to one side. "Obviously I didn't take your advice about meekly going to wait in London. I came across one or two possible sightings of our fugitives, but I don't feel any closer to finding them. How was your luck?"

  "About the same." Deciding there was no reason to keep Ruxton a secret any longer, Giles said, "Robin owns an estate near Daventry. I'm on my way to see if they might be staying there for a day or two. Care to go there with me tomorrow?"

  "Definitely." She smiled wryly. "There are obvious advantages to being together when we find them."

  Together. He liked the sound of that.

  In Daventry, they found a blacksmith who was willing to go immediately to Giles's carriage in return for a payment that was only mildly extortionate. With that accomplished, they went on to the Wheatsheaf Inn.

  Giles asked for a tea tray when they entered. The landlord gave the orders, then bowed them into a private parlor.

  As Giles removed his cloak, his companion went to stand by the fire. "This seems very familiar," she remarked. "We always seem to be meeting at inns." She removed her dripping bonnet and shook her head. Her red hair tumbled in a vivid mass about her shoulders, curling wildly from the moisture.

  Giles watched with pleasure as she absently combed her fingers through her fiery tresses in a vain attempt at straightening. He was definitely pro redhead.

  He started to make a light comment about the effect that meeting at inns could have on a reputation. Then rational thought fled as his companion removed her sodden cloak.

  He had wondered what her appearance would be if she wasn't swaddled in layers of shapeless clothing. Now he learned the answer, and the knowledge was lightning in his veins.

  He had thought her rather stout, in an attractively feminine way. Stout, however, implied being large all over.

  Desdemona was large only in certain places. Her saturated muslin dress clung more closely than a damped petticoat, revealing a spectacular figure in loving detail. Her legs were gloriously long and shapely, and the slimness of her waist made her dramatic curves look downright flamboyant. In particular, she had a remarkable pair of…

  Giles hastily straightened his expression. A gentleman would say she had a lovely neck, since what she did have was not a subject for polite comment. Yes, indeed, Lady Ross had a very lovely neck… and the rest of her was very fine as well.

  She glanced at him, and her face froze. "You are staring at me," she said accusingly.

  So he was. Giles raised his bemused eyes to her face and said with regrettable candor, "Lady Collingwood was right."

  Her face flared as red as her hair.

  'That was not an insult," he said hastily. "You are a strikingly attractive woman. No man could fail to notice."

  "You mean that you agree with my sister inl aw that I look like a lightskirt," she snapped. "You're both right, because that is exactly how too many men have tried to treat me." She reached for her wet cloak to cover herself.

  Her bitter words gave the marquess an insight into why she was so uneasy about male attention. He stood and took off his wool coat, which had been protected from the rain by his cloak. "Put this on. Unlike your cloak, it's dry."

  As she hesitated, he said in his gentlest tone, "I'm sorry for what I said. I meant no disrespect. It is only that I was surprised. You've done an excellent job of disguising yourself."

  Warily she accepted the coat, as if expecting him to attack her. Wrapping it around herself, she withdrew again. The coat returned her to perfect decency, to Giles's regret.

  The tea tray arrived, so he poured a cup and handed it to her along with the plate of cakes. At first she perched nervously on the edge of a chair, but she began to relax as the tea warmed her and Giles maintained his distance.

  Deciding that it was time to learn why the lady was so skittish, he remarked. "You must have had a difficult first season. Innocence usually arouses protective instincts, but you have the kind of beauty that can make men forget themselves, especially young men with more passion than patience."

  She stared at her plate and crumbled a cake. "The first time a young man caught me away from my chaperons, I felt horribly guilty, wondering what I had done to encoura
ge him. Eventually I realized that the fault was not in my behavior." Her mouth twisted. "To defend myself, I took to wearing a long, sharp pin in my hair."

  "I see why you have a low opinion of the male half of the race," he said thoughtfully. "And your comeout… that was just the beginning, wasn't it?"

  "Why do you ask, Wolverton?" She raised her head, her gaze challenging. "If you are only expressing dishonorable intentions in a more than usually genteel fashion, I can't see that my past is any of your business."

  He drew in a deep breath. "My intentions are not dishonorable, so"-the words came with difficulty- "that means they must be honorable."

  Her jaw dropped, and she put her teacup down with a clink. Their gazes held in one of those kaleidoscopic moments when everything changes forever. For better or worse, there would be no going back.

  When she spoke, her words seemed irrelevant, but he knew they were not. "I met your wife once when she was making her comeout. She was exquisite, like a porcelain figurine."

  He set his own cup down, making sure to do so soundlessly. Turnabout was fair play; if he was going to probe Desdemona, she had the right to do the same. "Yes, Dianthe was very beautiful."

  "She and I could not be more unalike."

  "I hope to God that is true," he said, unable to keep bitterness out of his voice. "If it isn't, this could prove to be the second great mistake of my life."

  Desdemona had felt offbalance throughout this conversation, but the marquess's words steadied her. She was glad to know that he was as vulnerable as she was. "What went wrong?"

  He got to his feet and began to pace restlessly. ".It isn't much of a story. I was quite besotted when I married her. I couldn't believe that she had chosen me over so many others." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Pure idiocy that I didn't recognize why: I was heir to the best title and fortune available on the marriage mart that year. But she was very skilled at pretending sweet, loving innocence. It was easy to be a fool."