At the foot of the stairs, her keen ears picked up some movement above. Impulsively, after only the briefest glance around her, she glided up the staircase and was drawn to a muffled murmur behind a closed door. Two murmurs, surely two separate male voices. And yet the curate supposedly lived alone here while the Hoags were away.
Which didn’t mean he couldn’t have visitors. Slightly shocked at her own behavior, Kate hurried back downstairs, and quietly re-entered the drawing room where a young lady visiting with her aunt was manfully murdering a Scottish air. Kate leaned against the wall, just inside the door, in order to make a quick escape if laughter overtook her.
A few moments later, Grant slipped back into the room and paused. For an instant, he met her gaze with a humorous expression of pain, hastily smoothed into one of appreciation as he faced the performer. Kate bit her lip.
Half-an-hour later, tea was served by Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Fenton. Grant again left the room under pretense of looking for some more brandy for those gentlemen who wished to partake of something a little stronger than tea. Since the gentlemen already appeared to be helping themselves from a decanter beside the collection bowl, Kate suspected it was an excuse to pay another visit to the room upstairs. Who on earth was up there?
Her breath caught.
The French prisoner.
Suddenly, she was sure the man had swum around to Blackhaven Cove, had probably been there when she and Grant had walked there together. Perhaps Grant had even known it. She remembered him saying, “All news comes to me at the vicarage.” Had he actually been telling the Frenchman where to find him, where he’d be safe? Surely there had been no need to say at the vicarage to her?
Almost blindly, she accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Winslow and sat in the nearest chair. Grant re-entered the room.
“Tell me, Lady Crowmore,” said the old lady beside Kate. “Is it no longer the custom in London to wear black in mourning?”
“For some, no doubt,” Kate said flippantly, beginning to remove one glove. “I do my mourning on the inside.” As the glove fell into her lap, she picked up a piece of fruit cake from her plate, thus revealing in all its glory, the black paint on her fingernails. She smiled.
An audible gasp went around the room. Kate wondered if she’d gone too far, but when she glanced defiantly at the curate, his lips were twitching. More surprisingly, Mrs. Winslow hid a smile behind her hand. Kate could see her eyes laughing over the top before she turned away under pretense of speaking to someone else. Her voice wasn’t quite steady.
Well, who would have known it? The squire’s wife has a sense of humor.
Kate finished her cake, and leisurely replaced her glove.
After tea, Mrs. Winslow announced that she had prevailed upon Lady Crowmore to sing. If the women present looked somewhat doubtful, it was noticeable that the men seemed to sit up straighter.
All that power over men, she thought sardonically, and still she’d married Crowmore. Still she was left in this intolerable position through another man’s trickery. What the devil was it for?
She chose a short and simple traditional song that Miss Dundas at the pianoforte appeared to know, and sang it without fuss. Her audience looked surprised, as though they’d expected some kind of burlesque theatre act. Except Grant, who, by the door, watched her steadily, the faintest of smiles on his lips.
As expected, the applause from the men was enthusiastic, although that of the women seemed kinder than she’d imagined would be the case. Perhaps she was winning them over, despite her black-painted fingernails.
In fact, the only approval she really cared for seemed to be Grant’s, which annoyed her so much she excused herself once more and, avoiding the cloakroom, ran upstairs to the room where she’d heard voices.
The sun was low now, and the passage was gloomier than before. She could hear no voices, but someone surely was rustling behind that door. She leaned closer to it to hear better—and without warning, it flew open.
A man stood there with his shirt half on and his shoulder bandaged. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and his expression was slightly dazed. He was youngish, perhaps in his early thirties, and his damp hair was very fair.
“Beautiful lady,” he observed with apparent pleasure and stumbled forward so that she made an instinctive grab for him. Between them they made an audible bump but at least she managed to hold him up.
“You’re ill,” she gasped. “You need to be in bed.”
“Bored with bed. Alone.” It was a brave attempt at a leer. Since he was clearly fevered, she didn’t take it seriously, instead dragging him back into the room, which was indeed a bedchamber, and stumbling with him toward the bed. There, she let him tumble back onto the sheets before straightening and rolling her shoulder to ease it from his weight.
Fortunately, he’d landed more or less against the pillows, so she was able to help turn him and let him drink from the glass on the nightstand. Since there was a bowl of cold water and a cloth there too, she bathed his brow.
A shadow fell across the room. Her patient opened his eyes and smiled.
“Vicar,” he said disparagingly, and Kate jerked her head toward the door.
“Curate,” Grant said mildly, closing the door and walking into the room. “Lady Crowmore, you should not be attending this reprobate.”
She dropped the cloth back in the bowl and watched him approach. “Because he’s an escaped French prisoner?” she asked steadily.
“No, because he’s an idiot.”
“And not French,” the prisoner insisted.
“You don’t sound French,” Kate acknowledged. There was relief in that. “Who the devil are you?”
“Cornelius,” the prisoner answered, as though it should mean something to her.
Again, she looked at Grant. “And who exactly is Cornelius?”
Grant said nothing.
Cornelius laughed. “I’m his brother, of course.”
Chapter Six
“Half-brother,” Grant corrected. “But all imbecile.”
“And you’re still a bastard,” Cornelius retorted, although somewhat feebly. His eyes were already closing.
“Please stay in bed this time,” Grant said.
“I don’t like to miss … the fun,” Cornelius murmured, drifting away.
Grant raised his eyes to Kate. “You should go back before you’re accused of a secret tryst.”
“So should you.”
“In a few minutes. Go.”
She didn’t argue. He should, she supposed, be more offended by her trespassing in the private part of the house. Perhaps that was why she went without a fuss, pausing at the door to say only, “You have to explain now.”
He didn’t dispute that either, merely gave a distracted smile before turning his attention back to the sick man. His brother. No wonder he’d helped him escape.
*
Although it wasn’t quite dark as Kate walked back to the hotel alone, she found herself glancing constantly to right and left, peering into shadows and listening intently to every distant footfall. Some were not so distant. Quick, light footsteps followed her the whole way, stopped when she pretended to look in the hat shop window, and began again when she moved on. And big, rough looking men seemed to skulk in doorways close to the hotel, making her heart hammer. She carried her reticule in front of her, with one hand inside it, her fingers closed about the handle of her little pistol. There would be no Grant to rush to her aid this evening.
But at least Sparrow, the hotel doorman, stood at his post outside, apparently unbothered by the lurking men. As he held the door for her, she cast a quick glance up the street in the hope of seeing who followed her. There was no one threatening t, just two young bucks weaving down a side street toward the seamier part of town, and a child running up the high street in the opposite direction. And a man with a wooden leg vanishing around the corner. She wondered if it were Jackie.
With relief, Kate entered the hotel with a world of thanks
to Sparrow, still glad she’d refused all offers of escort. She didn’t like to give in, either to her own fears or to people’s infamy. She’d been the first to leave the vicarage, while the money in the bowl was being counted, but rather to her surprise, several gentlemen had offered to escort her. Kate doubted it was with their wives’ blessing. She’d departed, determinedly alone, after a brief exchange with the curate.
“May I call on you tomorrow?” he’d asked as he walked with her across the hall to the front door.
“Of course. Or…perhaps you ride, Mr. Grant?”
“I do,” he said with a hint of ruefulness. “But I’m afraid I keep no horses.”
A curate’s salary would hardly stretch to that, not if he had no other source of income. “Fortunately,” she said, “two of mine arrived at the livery stables this morning. One is rather large for me, but he’d appreciate the exercise. I can meet you at the stables at seven tomorrow.”
“Very well.”
She offered him her hand. “Thank you for an entertaining evening,” she drawled.
“If it was, you made it so.” He took her hand, bowing over it punctiliously.
“That is a good line. Be sure to use it to all your guests. Good night, Mr. Grant.”
Although she hadn’t stayed to see, she was sure he’d been smiling as she walked away from him. The memory made her smile now. Perhaps because the evening had convinced her of one thing, the curate was no French spy.
*
Jeremiah Tugg, whom both Kate and Grant would probably have recognized as the knife-wielding ruffian who’d attacked her—even with his hat pulled low over his forehead—slid onto the tavern bench beside his colleagues. He lifted his mug of ale.
“Well?” he growled.
They’d been lying low in the tavern, where no one ever asked any questions, and making occasional individual forays for information.
“We can’t get to her,” Snoddie said gloomily. “There’s always people around. Some handy, burly looking coves keeping watch. Seems to me she’s hired some protection. Then there’s that posh bloke with the fists.” He touched his still bruised eye in memory. “He quite often skulks in that coffee house across the road from the hotel.”
Tugg grunted. “Then we need to get into the hotel.”
“Can’t,” said young Barrow. “They wouldn’t let us in the back door, never mind the front. The back door leads straight through the kitchen. We’d be seen and stopped. And the ground floor windows are all locked. I suppose we could rough up the boy at the desk and make him tell us where her room is, but we still need to get past the doorman.”
“We could take him together,” Snoddie offered.
“Wouldn’t that be discreet,” Tugg mocked savagely. “This was meant to be a quick job, made to look like a robbery-gone-wrong, after which we vanish and no one links it to the gov’nor. It should look random, not that we’ve taken a lot of trouble to go after her! What about this posh cove, the one with the fists?”
“You want to take him on again?” Barrow asked in dismay. His arm was still in a sling and all but useless. Besides, it probably hurt like hell.
Tugg knew he was going to have to be cunning. “Maybe we can get someone else to take him on. Damn town is full of watchmen and soldiers. We just need to give them a reason to go after him. Then when he’s out of the way, we’ll find a moment to do the job. Who the devil is he?”
Snoddie and Barrow looked at each other, then at Leman and Tugg. Snoddie shrugged. “Just some nob.”
“He’s the vicar,” Leman rumbled. He was a man of few words.
“Vicar?” Tugg said in disgust. “You mean we got seen off by a bloody vicar?”
Leman nodded and took a draft of ale.
“No one,” Tugg said forcefully. “No one mentions this back in London.”
“How do you know he’s a vicar?” Barrow asked.
Leman cast him a blank look. “Followed him.”
“All very well,” Tugg uttered, “but how do we get soldiers or the watch to arrest the bleeding vicar?”
Leman stirred again, no doubt easing his twisted ankle. “French prisoner.”
“What?” Tugg and everyone else scowled at him in incomprehension. “The cove that jumped into the sea?”
“He went to the vicar’s place. The vicar’s hiding him.”
Tugg’s mouth fell open.
Barrow said, “How do you know that?”
“Because he followed the vicar,” Tugg answered impatiently, and to Leman himself. “Why the bleeding hell didn’t you tell us this before?”
Leman shrugged. “Wasn’t interested in him. I was waiting for the girl to turn up. Which she did tonight, along with a load of other nobs. Couldn’t get near her, though, for all the other coves following her about”
Tugg grinned. “Well thank the good Lord you came along, my friend. Now, how should we get word to the military gents along the road?”
*
Kate’s confidence in the curate’s innocence lasted until the morning, when her pleasure in her upcoming assignation made her doubt everything. He could be meeting her to silence her one way or another.
In her heart, she couldn’t really credit that, but neither did she trust her desire to believe in him. Men let her down all the time. It was only ever a matter of degree. A clergyman of murky origin who actually seemed to do his job was no different.
Still, it was with an air of suppressed excitement that she donned the blue riding habit and its matching, jaunty little hat. Then she let Little, still yawning and in her night gown, go back to bed. Kate hid the little pistol inside the pocket she’d hand sewn into the habit, and left the room.
A maid polishing the brasses on the front door, let her out of the hotel and she walked the short distance to the stables. The market was being set up in the square, the traders calling cheerfully to each other and exchanging friendly insults. It was, Kate thought, a charming little town, and in a beautiful location at the seaside, surrounded on the other sides by rugged hills, rolling farmlands, and scattered lakes.
Peter, her young groom, greeted her at the stables with a grin and a tug of his cap. “Snow’s all ready for you, m’lady.”
“Excellent. Can you saddle Gladiator, too? A friend is joining me.”
While she waited, she petted Snow, who was delighted to see her again, snuffling at her neck and nudging her for sugar treats. Kate stroked his nose and watched the yard gate. Her breath caught when Grant walked in, dressed in buff breaches and a dark coat. Had she really thought he wouldn’t come?
This was ridiculous. He was the only man she accorded any trust at all. He was the only man she’d wished to trust in years. And yet he was the only one she wasn’t sure of. She couldn’t snap her fingers and have him running in the hope of a place in her bed.
“Good morning!” she greeted him. “I’m surprised to see you up and abroad after last night’s debauchery.”
“I assure you I was asleep before midnight.”
“And your patient?” she asked more quietly as he halted before her, reaching out to stroke Snow’s nose. She let her own caressing hand drop to her side.
“I think the fever’s abated. He’ll mend.”
“Good. Ah, here is Gladiator,” she murmured as the groom led the stallion out of the stable, duly saddled and ready for riding. “Gladiator, this is Mr. Grant. He is a clergyman, so you must be on your best behavior.”
“Goodness, he’s a magnificent creature,” Grant said with a hint of awe.
Gladiator nudged Snow aside and snorted into Kate’s hat. Laughing, she reached up to stroke him, standing on tiptoe to kiss his nose.
“He’s a bit restless, sir,” Peter warned. “Likes his own way. Just be firm.”
“I’m sure we’ll reach an understanding,” Grant murmured, running his hand over the animal’s powerful neck.
Peter adjusted the stirrups, then left Grant and Gladiator to get to know each other, while he boosted Kate into the saddle.
/>
“Do you want me with you, my lady?” he murmured, casting a quick glance at Grant.
“Oh no, he’s a clergyman and utterly respectable,” she drawled, loudly enough for Grant to hear. Until she said it, she hadn’t even been sure whether to take Peter or not. She just hoped she was right to trust her instincts.
If Grant heard her, he gave no sign, merely hauled himself nimbly into Gladiator’s saddle. The horse snorted loudly, tossing his head and dancing. Grant shortened the reins in one hand, soothing him with the other and murmuring words she couldn’t hear.
Gladiator snorted again, but condescended to trot forward to join Kate and Snow. It was a promising start, although Gladiator would want his head immediately for a hard gallop. She knew Grant would have trouble keeping him in line until they were free of the town.
“You manage him well,” Kate allowed as they trotted together along the road.
“I should hope so. Do you really ride him yourself?”
“Occasionally. But mostly I keep him with me just because I love him.” Annoyed with herself, she added, “And for the use of lovers, of course.”
“Of course. I’m honored to be counted as such.”
She eyed him challengingly. “You’ve never touched me, Mr. Grant.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he murmured. “I think I do, a little.”
It wasn’t the kind of touching she meant, but she laughed anyway.
As the town buildings thinned and vanished into open country, Grant led the way off the main road along a track that opened into gently sloping land crossed with a stream. Smiling, Kate tapped Snow with her heels and gave him his head. She hoped that if Gladiator was going to throw Grant, he’d do it quickly, before he gathered speed.
In no time, Grant streaked past her. She was almost disappointed until she realized that Gladiator wasn’t actually the one in control. As she galloped in their wake, she saw that Grant was, in fact, a superb rider, knowing instinctively how to make his mount both happy and responsive. They leapt the stream together, then slowed by mutual agreement, exhilarated and breathless.
The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 7