The Duke's Messenger

by Vanessa Gray

  “And,” she said in a soft but minatory tone, “why not?”

  He answered, apparently at a tangent. “This land we are crossing is cut up into small countries, provinces, some not so large as the holdings of some English landowners. I myself Oh —” He stopped short, as though he had caught himself on the verge of making a bad mistake.

  “So,” urged Phrynie, “what of these provinces?”

  “Well, my lady, each of them thinks it is a sovereign nation, so to speak, with its own government, and particularly its own customs.”

  “Customs? Nonsense. We are merely passing through. What do the customs of the country have to do with us?”

  “Not that kind of customs, my lady. These customs levy duties, douanes, geld whatever you wish to call them.” “I shall call them outrageous!”

  “But I did not think,” continued Reeves, as though she had not spoken, “that it would be agreeable to two ladies of such quality to see their — pray forgive me — intimate apparel in the rough hands of rude customs officers.”

  “I should say not,” agreed Lady Sanford, faintly.

  “To say nothing of your ladyship’s jewels,” Reeves went on inexorably. “And many items, like gems or fine fabrics, are confiscated out of hand.”

  “I should speak in very strong terms to my ambassador!”

  “My lady, there is no English ambassador in these tiny countries. And traveling is excessively expensive as it is. I do not wish to hire additional cattle, for if I did, your ladyship would have to pay excessive postgeld, or horse hire. There would be Schossegeld to pay were we to travel on turnpikes, or Schwagergeld to pay the postilions. As it is, you have paid Schmiergeld for the greasing of the coach wheels at every inn stop. And Trinkgeld for the ostler to wet his throat…”

  Lady Sanford was appalled. “I did not know this, Reeves. But let me understand this. You have taken us across roads that were no more than cart tracks, through forests full of wolves, installed us in hovels disguised as hostelries — I vow I have lost a stone on this journey — all to avoid customs?”

  He bowed his head in agreement. At least, thought Nell, no customs men had opened their baggage, and the parcel, as well as the jewels, was still safe.

  “You know suitable byways, then, to serve us the rest of the journey?”

  “I shall do my best,” said Reeves.

  *

  Lady Sanford left then, presumably to return to Waverley, the Laird of Balmawhapple, and Bailie Macwheeble. Nell was thankful that the unknown author could spin a tale fit to beguile her aunt. The journey would have been unendurable for Phrynie otherwise, and she might well have passed her irritation on not only to Mullins but to Nell.

  Nell recollected her aunt’s conversation at breakfast that very morning.

  “I do not scruple to tell you, Nell,” her aunt had informed her, “that I shall endeavor never to embark on such another miserable, wretched journey for the remainder of my life!”

  “Aunt! I was persuaded you were enjoying this gypsy life.”

  “You thought no such thing,” retorted Phrynie. She lapsed into a reminiscing mood. “I admit there have been several points of some interest!” Suddenly she smiled mischievously. “Nell, to be honest, I wouldn’t have missed this for a good deal. We may be killed on the road, or — or savagely attacked by wild men or wolves — but at least it’s better than moldering away by the chimney nook.”

  Diverted, Nell had asked with genuine interest, “Do you know what a chimney nook is?”

  “Of course I do. Many of Sanford’s tenants, when they were old and their teeth were gone, mumbled’ all the day in the chimney nook of their cottages. Dreadful! I often thought I should quite probably leap off Westminster Bridge before I arrived at that condition.”

  Nell reached to touch her aunt’s hand. “You’ll always be a great beauty,” Nell told her. “Something about the bones of your face, I believe.”

  “Don’t flatter me,” said Phrynie, insincerely.

  Now, Nell lingered in Reeves’s small room, loath to leave. “What will you do when we reach Vienna?” she asked.

  “Would you be wanting a coachman on your return?”

  “I do not know my aunt’s plan,” said Nell. Suddenly amused, she told him, “After we landed in Calais, from the ferry, you know, she said she would never again set out to sea. We may in that case never leave Vienna!”

  “Would you like that?”

  She hardly knew how to answer him. She had recognized along the way that given a preference, she would be content to abjure urban life forever. She liked, as did her aunt, amusement and music and the stimulation of witty companions — but in the long run, she knew they would pall. Someone like the Comte de Pernoud, for example, would repel her even in the short run.

  She took so long to answer Reeves that he was moved to speech. “It did seem to me,” he ventured, “that you are more than ordinarily familiar with country ways. Miss.”

  She nodded slowly. She recognized that this was a special moment — that Reeves was demanding that she look at herself more discerningly than she ever had. And for reasons that did not appear clear, she knew that she wanted — even needed — to be honest with him.

  “I miss the country, you know. I never spent much time in London, until this last Season. My mother had enjoyed her Seasons, but when she married my father, she settled into his ways.”

  “Was she happy?”

  “I never thought much about it,” Nell confessed. “But she must have been, for my father would have taken her to London if she had wished.”

  They had come a far distance in a short time, she realized, and she did not of necessity refer only to the leagues covered from Calais. The journey she was making now was without landmarks, without marked roads, just as Reeves had guided them across the wintry wastes of Germany’s small countries.

  She clung desperately to what she knew. “I suppose my aunt will wish to linger in Vienna for some time,” she told Reeves.

  “And of course,” he said, suddenly gentle, “you will meet your fiancé there. Will you be married at once?”

  “I — I don’t know.” Not only did she not know how soon she would be wed, but she was also apprehensive about Rowland’s welcome. Phrynie’s warnings that he might not be pleased to see her under the apparent circumstances of her running after him — like a camp followed — had left their mark.

  “Tell me about him,” suggested Reeves.

  She did, slowly and not entirely coherently. “He is so handsome,” she began, trying to bring his admirable person to life in her mind. She was hindered in her intent because odd little pictures, entirely imaginary, crept in to blur her vision.

  Could she see Rowland outside the library window at the Château Pernoud, asking no questions but simply bending every effort to help her gain her objective, without one word of censure?

  The answer was in all likelihood in the negative.

  “He is so elegant in his ways, and you will agree that such beautiful manners reflect a noble mind.”

  Reeves did not in fact agree, but she hardly noticed. Her speculations moved on to summon up a picture of Rowland watching all night on the stair landing, lest she come to harm. The picture was not clear.

  “But of course,” she explained, more to herself than to Reeves, “his reputation is spotless. One does not progress far in his chosen field without an impeccable cachet.”

  She lifted her speaking gray eyes to meet his gaze. There was a light in his eyes that took her breath away. For a long moment she could not think. She was positive that whatever she thought, she would regret.

  The smile that touched the coachman’s lips was odd, as though he had come to certain conclusions that were significant. She longed to know what he was thinking.

  But more than ever, she was afraid to ask.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The silence that fell between them was comfortable but not long.

  Nell’s unquiet thoughts swirled aro
und in stormy chaos. It came to her that if she could sweep aside the obscuring clouds, she would come to a kernel of truth, one that would set her, after she understood it, on a far shore. She would never be the same again, nor, she suspected, would she want to be.

  Whatever Reeves was thinking was not reflected on his features. With an effort he steeled himself in his impersonal demeanor. Only his hazel eyes, warm as summer sun on the golden flowers of the Cumbrian tormentil, rested on her until she grew conscious of his gaze.

  He opened his lips to speak. But whatever he would have said was lost, for unexpectedly as spring thunder a crashing tumult arose in the stable yard beneath the window.

  “What in the world?” she breathed, and ran to the window. Reeves was behind her at once.

  The sight that met their eyes was one to astound the most world-weary of spectators. Napoleon Bonaparte himself could not have arrived in greater state.

  The carriage that now filled the courtyard, seemingly from the brick wall of the inn to the far fence, would have put any lesser vehicle than Lady Sanford’s own traveling chariot to shame. Indeed, from the window, Nell could see nothing but the new arrival, which blotted out all else.

  It was a great state coach, an enormous, boxy object painted in the gaudiest of colors.

  “Surely not red and gold?” murmured Nell.

  “When the mud is removed,” suggested Reeves, “it will outshine the sun.”

  “Who do you think it can be? The Emperor himself? Or maybe Tsar Alexander? I am acquainted with him.”

  “Then,” said Reeves grimly, “let us hope it is not the Russian. He would complicate matters inordinately.”

  She was tinglingly aware of his warm breath in her ear when he spoke. Again the scent of his shaving soap, the clean smell of him, and the warmth of his hand sent her trembling as he took her elbow without apology and moved her aside so he could gain a better view of the scene below.

  It occurred to her that they were both aware of the existence of the parcel, and the necessity to deliver it swiftly to its destination. Not only did Reeves consider himself her ally in the matter — it was as though he had taken over the chief responsibility for its safety. She had only to recall how he had adroitly avoided all customs inspections, how he had brought them by devious ways doubtless to throw off all pursuit, to realize he was a fellow conspirator without parallel.

  Reeves was intent on the events unfolding below him. “Only one carriage, I thought, but look yonder,” he said in a low voice. “Another, and still another. Good God, it looks like the entire court of the Emperor!”

  “Postilions,” she murmured, “and the grooms, and that next coach surely has servants in it for it is not half so grand.”

  Reeves’s features fell into grim lines. With such a conclave in the stable yard he would be hard put to leave as he had hoped in the morning. It was even doubtful that Lady Sanford’s blue chariot could be brought out from the shed.

  “The door is opening,” announced Nell. “Here come the passengers.”

  There was only one, in the event. The mysterious aristocrat demanded a high standard of service from his staff. Two footmen leaped from the box at the back and ran around to open the door and assist the passenger to alight.

  “Probably an invalid,” suggested Nell.

  “I hope not,” said Reeves. “The inn is too small for this kind of invasion.”

  Nell watched, enthralled. The occupant of the carriage at last came into view, one well-shod foot at a time. The gentleman appeared to be possessed of health and all his faculties. A lordly creature indeed, she marveled. The Tulips of fashion in London weren’t in it!

  “Who can he be?” Even from the upper window, Nell could discern the elegance of his linen, his white gloves, and the grace of his figure. “He is a Nonpareil!”

  “What is he doing here?” muttered Reeves.

  “You said this village was on the main road, did you not? He is most likely traveling to Vienna, as we are.”

  The gentleman below looked around him, and even from here Nell fancied she could see his lip curl in disdain. Surely he was not accustomed to patronizing an inn of such lowly pretensions.

  “I should perhaps go down and support my aunt,” said Nell. “I fear he may impose on her…”

  Reeves laughed aloud. “Lady Sanford will manage,” he said. “In truth, I should not wonder if the gentleman chose to travel on rather than admit defeat.”

  Suddenly convention, as though it were a vinegar-faced Mrs. Grundy, dropped like a wall between them. She had stayed far too long in his room for a visit to a sick servant. And surely he had dropped the servile touching-of-the-forehead manner that ill fit him.

  She wished she could demand answers of him. She felt excessively comfortable with him, and since that night on the darkened staircase he had not made any overt advances. But yet, he was a coachman and an enigma. And when they got to Vienna in a few days, he would doubtless disappear on his own pursuits.

  She did not wish to think of that. “Are you certain you are well enough to go on?”

  “Yes, miss, I am. Only a bump on the head, after all.”

  “I wish Tom had stayed,” she said. “Or at least left Aston with us. I am persuaded you should rest another day.”

  “I think not, miss, if you will pardon me.”

  “The parcel, of course,” said Nell. “I cannot see that another day’s delay is vitally important.”

  “Perhaps not in itself,” said Reeves. “But if it is taken from us, the postponement may be more than one day.”

  “Do you think — Reeves, did you recognize those men who beat you?”

  “I was not quite sure. But it will not hurt to move on quickly, I judge.”

  “Very well. My aunt will be ready. Unless, of course, our newcomer persuades her otherwise.”

  Reeves said simply, “I trust not.”

  Phrynie had grown weary of the Scottish gentleman called Waverly. Setting it aside, she picked up a piece of embroidery she always kept with her. It was limp from long handling, and some of the silks had knotted together. She was not an adept needlewoman, but she believed that if she continued to make an effort, in some miraculous way she would master the art.

  Since she had held this conviction since she was eight years old, without visible result, her diligence was commendable.

  It was with a good deal of relief, then, that she heard the sound of carriage wheels in the courtyard. Tossing her needlework aside without regret, she hurried to the window. She was in time to see the lumbering gilded coach trundle through the gateway from the street, its roof barely clearing the beam spanning the entrance.

  Accustomed to the pinnacle of elegance in her own world, she now realized she was agape at the spectacle before her. Luxury she might have expected — but what she saw now was gaudy to the point of vulgarity. A red and gold coach, indeed! Baroque in style, outsized in proportions, with gilt touches wherever trimming was indicated, and in many places better left untouched.

  Postilions accompanied the vehicle, as Nell had seen from an upstairs window, and were now trotting their horses toward the stables. An inordinate number of grooms and footmen appeared, scurrying around like ants streaming out of a disturbed hill. A gaggle of outriders, clearly armed, cast wary glances around the stableyard. The black horses, to Phrynie’s knowledgeable eye, were a superbly matched six.

  So un-English! It was like Cinderella’s coach come to life! In truth, those armed guards had a distinct resemblance to rats, wary and alert. Surely, thought Phrynie with anticipation, whoever traveled in such style should be a prime candidate to relieve her boredom. Even a withered spinster of narrow mind would be welcome. Unaware of Nell and Reeves watching breathless from a window above, Phrynie was enthralled by the possibilities she envisioned. Even her grandest imaginings, however, did not come up to the reality.

  The elegant gentleman, nominally assisted by two footmen, placed his well-shod feet on the ground, and Phrynie breathed a sigh.
No withered spinster he, but a gentleman of obviously lordly habits. How delightful! Not ordinarily a pessimist, Phrynie yet watched now to see whether or not a dumpling wife and half a dozen plump progeny might emerge from the interior of the coach. There was surely sufficient room in the vehicle for so many.

  The gentleman was traveling alone.

  Waving aside an attendant who had the appearance of a valet, he moved toward the door of the inn. Phrynie left the window. With an anticipatory smile on her face, she placed herself in a position to overhear the colloquy taking place in the outer room. Although she could not distinguish individual words, the tenor of the voices was unmistakable.

  There was the effusive welcome by the landlady, the request for accommodations, the assurance that there were rooms available. All the normal counterpoint of arrival went smoothly. But suddenly the even stream of the dialogue was dammed. The newcomer’s light baritone voice was raised. It was, she found, a carrying voice. She now, regrettably, could hear every clearly enunciated syllable. Her governess had taught her well, and she understood German with ease.

  The newcomer’s objection, as voiced firmly to the landlady, was simple. He wished a private sitting room placed at his disposal, at once.

  “But, Excellency, I have only the one.”

  “I shall take it.”

  “But it is already occupied.”

  “Then remove the occupants.”

  “But, Excellency, I cannot.”

  The voice of the unseen traveler altered in an unmistakable direction. He was, quite clearly, furious. “Cannot? It is a word I do not wish to hear. Remove the occupants at once.”

  “But they are ladies, Excellency — English ladies.”

  “Nonsense,” said the newcomer. “No English ladies would be here in such an inn! I myself would not have stopped save for an accident to my coach wheel. Pray do as I say, and let me hear no more about English ladies!”

  Phrynie took exception immediately to the high-handed ways of the new arrival. She threw open the door of the disputed sitting room. She had not the least fear of being evicted from a room she had paid for, but she felt impelled to instruct the owner of that baroque monstrosity in the stableyard on the subject of manners. He had much to learn, she considered.