Then Gordon drew back the heavy bolt and slipped out the door. Jane bolted it behind him and sat down near the banked kitchen fire to wait. Would Alex be safe? While he was very plainly dressed, he might still be a target for a robber.
She was glad he had not told her not to worry, because how could she help it? Men were always giving women empty assurances and promises that turned out to be false. That he need not go far and would be in company the rest of the time was reassuring, however. And he had survived Scotland and her half brother’s attack on him. She suspected that rendering Alex unconscious and robbing him had not been the full tale of Rupert’s duplicity.
What was to be done with Rupert? It would break her father’s heart if Rupert were arrested or worse. Or if he had to flee the country. How long would they have to worry about Charles Pleasaunce’s schemes? She herself might no longer be in danger from him. He must realize she would already have divulged his presence in town to others. Or would he? For all their families’ long friendship, she could not claim to know him well, and she doubted he understood her. He had always seemed rather contemptuous of females.
Or he might want to learn if she knew her brother’s whereabouts. Charles had known he had lost the money, hadn’t he? She tried to remember what Alex had told her. Rupert had been terrified; was it because he knew his gambling loss was known or only feared what would happen when he could not get the guns? It had not been clear from her half brother’s drunken confession to Alex, at least as reported to her. But the payment had been made. Rupert must have written Charles that the muskets were received. Then why had he come here to hide?
She could not concentrate on the problem. Her mind kept drifting to other matters, and too much had occurred in the last few weeks. Her uncle’s death, the accusations against her, meeting Mr. Gordon, that wild ride across country, and her surreptitious return to London.
The more she saw of Mr. Gordon, the better she liked him. She hoped he was not in difficulties for helping Rupert, who was not worth it, not to her. No doubt her papa would be properly grateful if he knew what Alex had done to help his son. But he would be horrified to learn why Rupert had needed such assistance. Families! They could be one of the greatest sources of annoyance known to man—and woman. Or one of the greatest pleasures?
She would not mind seeing Alex’s face over the breakfast table every morning. He did not seem to suffer from bad moods, and he could converse on frivolous as well as serious topics. What would it be like to kiss him? She wished he had taken advantage of the opportunity.
A tapping woke her from a drowse in which she was trying to dress for some great occasion and was unable to find her shoes. The tapping came again, very distinctly: one, two, three. She jumped up and hurried to unbolt the door.
Chapter 29
His luck was in. He found the head groom in the public house favored by the local stable hands, ostlers, and grooms. He bought himself an ale and glanced around the room, before drifting toward the fireplace, which was swept clean and unlit, the weather not being cold enough today to require a fire. He propped himself against the mantle and waited. Cuddie was sitting on a bench nearby, lecturing a stable lad—not one of Lattimer’s—on glanders.
“…better to keep the stable clean and air it well than to treat the horse after it’s sick. Most o’ those receipts for cures do no good, anyhow,” Cuddie said. The groom’s eyes passed over him.
“That is my advice to you, young Tom.” Then he drained his tankard, and nodded to his table mates. “I’ll be off now.”
Gordon finished his ale in a leisurely way, set the tankard down, and wandered out the door, turning in the direction that Cuddie would have gone. He heard a soft whistle and “What mischief are you up to, Master Sandy?”
“That’s put me in my place,” Alex said with a grin, as Cuddie slid out of the shadows into the slightly less dark alley. A few of the residents had hung out lanterns, in the old way. London was said to possess no fewer than 15,000 oil-lit street lamps, though more in wealthy neighborhoods and correspondingly fewer in poor streets. The next street had its fair share of lamp standards, making it tolerably easy to see the flagway underfoot, though the light did little to illuminate the center of the street.
He had known Cuddie all his life. The man had thrown him up onto his first pony. Well, his only pony, as he had graduated to a horse a few years later. A small horse, but still a promotion from a pony.
“You’ll be in trouble, no doubt. Are you just now back from wherever you’d gone?—not but what it’s like asking a tomcat where he’s been. Ah, your mother and da’s away, too.”
“I know they’re out of town. If my father were home, I’d go to him. Now that you’ve had your grumble at me, I’ll tell you what I need.”
“And mayhap what the trouble is? Your da was right worried for you—not that he owned to it.”
They had been speaking in low tones. Now Alex whispered, “I cannot go into much detail. It has to do with the trouble in Scotland.”
Cuddie grunted.
“I need to find someone to deal with a matter related to that trouble. To do that, I need a letter carried to a place about twenty-five miles away. With my parents both gone, it should be easy enough for you to take it and bring back the response.”
“Ay, if you make it right with that stiff-necked butler. Jed can take my place for a day or two, and we’ll see what he’s made of, left on his own.”
Cuddie turned off to go to the stable yard. Alex continued on to Great Russell Street and around the corner to the door of a house facing the square. There was a footman on duty all night, not the case in all wealthy houses. His papa, like the late Markham, sometimes received messages at odd times. He had once wondered what could require his attention in the middle of the night. Surely, the messengers could as well wait for morning and save everyone a great deal of trouble. He now appreciated the convenience.
“Welcome home, sir.” The young footman on duty took in Alex’s suit, much the worse for wear, and forbore to comment even by a twitch of his eyebrow.
“I’ve not come to stay, Peter. I only need to pack a few things and leave a letter for my father. I’ll write it in the library.”
“I will summon your man, sir.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I can manage on my own.”
How fortunate that he was not a slave to his valet. He knew where the trunks and valises and portmanteaux were kept, and he was perfectly able to pack the things he needed. Or at least to stuff them into a portmanteau. Two pair of shirts and drawers. Stockings. Another pair of shoes. He chose a decent plain suit and a fawn-colored waistcoat from the pegs on the dressing room wall, and then glanced down at himself. Both the suit he was wearing and the one he’d brought back from Scotland had suffered too much wear and tear to be of use to anyone but a street scavenger. He added a second suit and waistcoat. He had to mash them a little to fit into the valise, but no doubt someone at Jane’s could press them. He added an old wig, left over from a college theatrical, and stuffed it in, as well.
As he packed, he composed the letter he would write. It must be short and not easily understood by anyone but his father.
Sir,
The visit did not go quite as planned. My companion’s luggage arrived, but some confusion and excitement ensued and his goods were then destroyed in a fire. We were invited to stay in a Town House [Alex hoped his parent recalled that in Scotland the term referred to the town hall and gaol] in Dundee but departed to return home, although separately. He is now returned and is staying in the home of your old friend, as am I. So also is my friend’s relative, who came back early from a visit to the countryside, the neighbors not having been congenial.
A.
How surprisingly difficult to write something which would confound strange eyes and yet convey one’s exact meaning to the intended recipient. Inwardly, he apologized to his mama for his amusement at her attempt and hoped that Anthony Lattimer would come back soon. He seldom left Lo
ndon for any length of time unless he were staying somewhere he could receive forwarded messages.
Good Lord! Had Father gone north to look for him? Surely not. How utterly humiliating that would be. But Cuddie had said he was worried.
After folding and sealing the letter, he wrote a note for their butler, telling him Cuddie would be gone on an errand for two or three days.
The door had no sooner closed behind Alex than Cuddie intercepted him. “I’ll be going along with you, Master Sandy, by your leave.”
“Or without it, I make no doubt.” Not a bad idea, perhaps. Cuddie would be able to find the Markham house again without having to ask directions in the neighborhood.
On the way, they passed an alehouse in Butchers Row, near St. Clement Danes, not far from the end of Wych Street. The area was poor, with a reputation for rowdiness.
Cuddie spoke in his ear. “Let us take a little rest in yon pot-house.”
“We are nearly at our destination. We can get a tankard of ale—or something stronger, if you wish—there.”
“Oh, ay. It’s not for the drink or the rest we’d be stopping. I’m thinking it might be wise to make a few acquaintances hereabouts. Dressed as you are, you will draw no notice to yourself, if you can still sound like a low fellow.”
Alex grinned. “A’course I can.”
****
“I’ve come back,” he said, dropping the portmanteau as Jane pushed the kitchen door shut. She was flushed, slightly tousled, and remarkably appealing.
“Did you find your man?”
“Ay. At the worst, Cuddie should be back tomorrow afternoon. He has access to a good horse”—from the Lattimer stable—“and will leave early this morning. He won’t risk injuring his mount, but even so, he should reach Hawthorn Cottage by early afternoon. He will not likely start out on the return journey until tomorrow morning, to rest the horse.”
“At least we have set things in motion. Would you like a warm drink? I’ve ale here, with sugar and nutmeg and a little brandy.”
He accepted gratefully. He did not really need a drink, but if he refused, he would have to bid her good night. She wrapped the handle of the poker in a towel to remove it from the fireplace where it had been propped up on one of the andirons, pulled it out and gave the end a quick swipe with a wadded wet rag before plunging it in the tankard. An inviting odor of ale, spirits, and burnt sugar wafted up with a hiss.
“It smells wonderful,” he said. “And tastes better.” It also took away the taste of the rather inferior ale he and Cuddie had swigged down.
“I thought you would want something warm, coming back this late. I would have worried if I’d known you meant to be a packhorse, with all the crime in the streets. How could you have run, weighed down so?”
It seemed almost a domestic moment, a foretaste of what marriage might be like: a pretty woman waiting by the fire with a warm drink and concern for one’s safety. Damned if he knew why some men spoke slightingly of matrimony.
He wanted to respond, “I? Run from a footpad?” but he knew she would not be impressed, and worse, would think him a fool. And he would be, even in his own estimation. “Cuddie came with me. He will carry our letter to Hawthorn Cottage tomorrow.” He drained the tankard. “This is very good. I’ve never had anything like it before.”
“I’m afraid it’s not a gentleman’s beverage. My uncle called it ‘flip,’ and was fond of it on cold nights or when he wanted to sleep. It’s a sailor’s drink.” She lit a candle from an ember. “Come, I’ll lead you upstairs.”
She took him up to the door of the little bedchamber between the library and the dining room. “Take the candle, and light yours while I wait.”
He put his valise down inside the door and lighted the candle on the table near his bed.
Returning her candle, he asked, “Should you not sleep in your own chamber tonight? You may wake the servants, if you’re sleeping in a maid’s room.”
“I intend to sleep in my own chamber tonight.”
It would hardly be decent, their being separated by only one floor. “If anyone knew—” he said. If anyone knew he was staying in the same house with an unmarried lady and no one to chaperon her but the servants—no matter how many floors separated their beds—Jane would be ruined. She was not known in the upper levels of society, but her family would know and their friends would come to hear of it. It would be ruination.
“Why should they? My servants won’t tell. I certainly won’t.”
“If it does become known, or if you should feel your reputation is compromised, I will gladly make you an offer of marriage. It would be no hardship at all, Mistress Jane.”
In the light of the candle she held, outside his chamber door, he saw her bite her lower lip and look down.
“I will bear it in mind, sir. And to assure your peace of mind—in case you should be a sleepwalker—I will lock my door.”
Not embarrassed but insulted. He was an idiot. A lady wanted a romantic proposal, with a declaration of love, in a garden, perhaps, with a suitor who was not dusty, sweaty, and inarticulate. And worse, he had implied the only reason he would offer marriage was in case he might have compromised her reputation.
****
She was quite out of charity with him. Admittedly, if his presence ruined her, as it might do, marriage would be the only respectable choice for her and the only honorable amends he could make. If some other lady found herself in this situation, Jane would have agreed no other solution was possible. But she did not feel compromised, and how could she have refused to give him shelter?
She had lost count of her place in the one hundred strokes she brushed her hair every night. It was too bad she could not curse like a man: it must be an excellent outlet for one’s annoyance.
She did not want an offer from him out of his sense of duty. If he had folded her in his arms and kissed her…She could understand how a girl might find herself in difficulties when alone with a man. No wonder such tête-à-têtes were discouraged!
Jane sighed. If he had embraced her, the candle she was holding would probably have set her clothing alight and it would all have been very ridiculous and uncomfortable. And potentially deadly—she had been wearing a silk gown, wishing to look pretty for him. Mrs. Jennings had purchased a few replacements for the clothing left at Hawthorn Cottage from a secondhand clothing merchant who resold garments given to ladies’ dressers and maids as vails.
He would have thrown himself on her to smother the flames, knocking her to the ground and covering her burning gown (and her) with his body. One of them would have overset the little hall table near the door, and the noise would have waked the servants. She laughed a little at the thought. It would not be at all romantic and would certainly require an instant offer of marriage.
If he did propose marriage, she wanted it to be because he loved her. And yet if he claimed he did, she would wonder if he were sincere, or if it were her fortune he loved. Not that there was anything wrong with marrying for practical reasons. Women usually did, to avoid being alone in the world with neither family nor resources, or a dependent in a relative’s home, or if one wanted children, marriage was the only choice for a woman, even though everyone knew a husband gave no guarantee of security. Men married for practical reasons, too. But oh, it would be so much better if there were love as well.
She snuffed the candle and opened the heavy draperies over the windows an inch or two, before padding over to the bed. In the morning, the chink in the draperies would admit enough dawn light to wake her, if she left the harrateen bed curtains open.
As she snuggled into the warmth of the blanket and counterpane, she wondered if she would accept Alex’s offer even if she knew he did not love her. She was of age, wealthy, and free. She did not need to marry. He was pleasant company and he was attractive, if not classically handsome. He seemed even-tempered and kind—though one could not always be sure until after marriage. On the other hand, he was unquestionably intelligent and possessed a sense
of humor, which were important qualifications, to her, at least. Besides, he was not haughty, which was a trait impossible to conceal. She had heard him speaking with chairmen and servants much as her uncle would have done.
Slipping into sleep among the lavender-scented sheets, she wondered whether Alex would be willing to live in her house. Would he insist on a more fashionable or at least genteel neighborhood? If what she suspected about his origins were correct, he would not be accepted in the best circles. Uncle Markham’s house was not ideal, though her fond memories made it dear to her. Her last conscious thought was of a scale, with house and freedom on one side and love—perhaps—on the other. The pans dipped one way, then the other.
Chapter 30
They had gathered in the kitchen for their midday meal when a sharp rap at the door made Molly squeak and jump. She and Alex exchanged a look. Jessup rose, unbolted the door, and opened it cautiously. Alex sat looking down at his plate, as his place at the table faced the door. Jane understood his motive: even someone who knew his face would hardly recognize him, dressed as a footman, eyes lowered. She herself, with her back to the door, in a maid’s gown and wearing a large cap, was even less recognizable.
“I’ve a message for your footman, William.”
Jane glanced across the table at Alex, who had raised his head.
“Let him in,” he said softly. “He’s the one we’ve been waiting for.”
“Cuddie?” he said after the door was again secured. “Do you have—”
The man, almost elderly, though still tough and sinewy, shook his head. “’Twasn’t thought safe to put anything down on paper.”
“By your leave, mistress,” Alex said, “I would like to withdraw to the butler’s pantry with Cuddie.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Mrs. Harrow, I am sure Mr. Cuddie would like a draught of ale while he speaks with William. With dinner after he and William are done.”
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