“What about your appointment with Lady Augusta? I thought she wished your help with entertaining the vicar.”
“Lady Augusta is unwell and has taken to her bed. She asked me to send a footman with her regrets to the vicar and his wife and cancel their visit for today.” The woman stirred and chewed her bottom lip. He registered the gesture of nerves. When she glanced away, he continued to study her face, positive she wasn’t telling the truth.
He scanned the surroundings, the cluster of squalid buildings and the unkempt villagers. Why would she struggle through the mud to soil her hands? She darted another look in his direction. Under his scrutiny, her expression remained guileless, but she was still chewing her lip. A sudden thought occurred. Did she know Hawk? Was that why she was acting so skittish? Although the woman hailed from Gloucestershire, it was possible they were acquainted. A sick sensation made his insides roil. Was she conspiring with the man? Or had the man gained her trust since her arrival at the castle under the guise of helping the villagers? Her soft heart was evident in her every action, from speaking kindly to the servants to rescuing that creature from the sea. Would her kindness extend to Hawk?
His enemy.
“Here comes Mary,” she said, turning back to him. “We intend to visit Mistress Baker. The cook told us to ask for her and gave us directions, but I fear we took a wrong turning.”
“I will escort you,” Lucien found himself saying.
“There’s no need.” Innocent blue eyes peered at him, soft and limpid as the Bacci fishponds.
No, the idea of the English mouse in collusion with Hawk was ridiculous. With all that’d happened and his impatience to settle the matter, his imagination was working overtime, grasping at straws.
“Judson, where does Mistress Baker live?”
Judson scratched his head and sniffed. “In the street with the open drain. It’s the cottage with the good roof.”
Lucien nodded, remembering the stench distinctly. The grain of mistrust blossomed into full-fledged suspicion when Rosalind opened her mouth again, probably to protest. Why would she refuse his offer of aid if she had nothing to hide?
“This way.” He offered his arm. He didn’t intend to take no as an answer. “Judson, order the supplies we discussed. Tell the rest of the men we start work tomorrow.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Lucien nodded at Judson then turned to the woman. “Come.”
Rosalind stood her ground. “I’m sure you are busy. Mary and I will find Mistress Baker.”
Lucien’s first instinct was to not let her out of his sight, but she’d hardly lead him to Hawk if he hovered like a broody hen. He hesitated. Perhaps it was best to back off and watch from a distance. Give the woman enough space to incriminate herself…if she were truly guilty. Maybe it was his presence that disturbed her.
“I will escort you to the door and return to the castle.” The look of relief on her face made him want to curse out loud. “This way.”
She glanced at his arm and hesitated before resting her pale fingers on his coat sleeve so lightly he barely felt her touch.
A soft gasp escaped her, a look of consternation flitting across her face before her lips tightened in an expression of pain. She refused to meet his gaze, but that shouldn’t have surprised him. Most people were uncomfortable gazing upon his ruined face.
“What is it?” Every survival instinct he possessed jumped to full alert.
“Nothing of import. Ah, Mary,” the woman said when her servant appeared. “Hastings knows the direction of the cottage we’re seeking.”
Lucien intercepted the look that passed between the two women. Yes, they were both part of a deception. It made him even more determined to discover what they were hiding.
“This way.” Emotion made his voice gruff. He stepped over a muddy puddle, guiding his viscountess around it. She clutched his arm hesitantly, as if he’d bite. And the ginger-haired servant was no better, sending wary glances when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
Clouds obscured the last weak rays of sun, making the cluster of poorly maintained cottages appear even more dilapidated. A scrawny black pup cowered behind an overturned bucket, growling ferociously once they were safely past. A muscle ticked in his tightly held jaw, and he was more determined than ever to improve the lot of the villagers.
As they progressed down the rutted track, Rosalind did her best to disengage from his touch. The pained expression remained, although each time she looked at him she pasted a bright smile on her face. Lucien’s irritation kicked up into anger. The woman thought he was so repulsive she couldn’t look him straight in the face.
At Mistress Baker’s cottage, Lucien rapped on the bowed door before standing aside. “I’ll arrange for Matthew to meet you here. Don’t set out for the castle without him.”
The obvious relief on her face made his anger burn stronger and he battled the inclination to shake the English mouse until the truth spilled from her pale pink lips. Without another word, he wheeled about and strode away before he gave in to the urge to throttle her.
When Lucien reached a narrow lane running between the Nag’s Head public house and the hostelry stables, he paused. A young boy stared, but when he noticed Lucien watching him, he raced away. Satisfied no one else observed him, Lucien slid from sight, hurried to the end of the lane and circled back to the rear of Mistress Baker’s cottage.
Damn, he stuck out like a boil on a man’s arse lurking out here. One glance out the window and they’d catch him. He hovered, weighing the risks, and finally decided to stay put. He inched closer, hugging the walls of the mud and wood cottage. The soft murmur of feminine voices filtered through to him, only one word in two audible. He scowled, frustrated, tired and plain irritated with the situation.
He sucked in a deep breath and willed himself past the anger so he could concentrate. Damn, he needed to see what was happening. His gut churned relentlessly, telling him something wasn’t quite right and he’d learned to trust his instincts. Shaking his head, he edged closer to a small hole in the cottage wall.
The woman’s soft voice sounded much closer now. “Show me where your leg hurts, Mistress Baker.”
Lucien watched his wife bend over a large woman lying on a pallet. The maid stood with her back to the window, partially blocking his view.
“By the joint or right in the bone?” His wife glanced at her maid and once again, they seemed to communicate silently.
The maid surged forward and clasped the sick woman’s hands in hers. “Tell me about your family. You have children?”
The sick woman groaned but rallied. “Aye. Four. ’Twas six but we lost two to the plague that passed through three year ago.”
Sympathy flickered on the maid’s face. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Aye,” the woman said. “And I might lose more if Hawk doesn’t leave off flashing ’is coin.”
Every muscle in Lucien’s body tensed as he strained to listen, to withhold his shout of jubilation.
“Hawk?” his wife murmured. “I’ve heard of this man but haven’t met him yet.”
Lucien detected nothing more than casual interest.
Mistress Baker exhaled loudly. “Probably won’t. Keeps to hisself. Head of the smugglers hereabouts. Don’t stand for no nonsense. He has all the people involved. Safer that way so no one’ll bleat to the authorities, not that we would, given the coin ’e pays. Time’s tough right now and ’e keeps us bellies full.”
“Does the man live in the village?” his wife asked.
“No one knows ’is face. Wears a mask, ’e does. Even when ’e ’elps unload.” Alarm crossed her face without warning, and Mistress Baker clutched at Rosalind’s arm. “Here I be gossiping to you ’bout smugglers. Comes of being on me own too much. Best not ask questions. If yer meant to know, you’ll be told. Safer that way.”
The soft scuff of boot against stone came from behind. Lucien leaped away from the cottage to the dilapidated building next door and pretended t
o inspect the structure for soundness. Without acknowledging his watcher, he moved along the alley, examining the buildings. At the end, he casually turned. There was no one in sight but he sensed the watchful surveillance.
Lucien cursed under his breath. The timing stunk. Just when things turned interesting, when he thought he was about to learn something helpful. At least the woman had confirmed what he’d already guessed—the entire village was ensnared with Hawk. Even though the fact was now confirmed, frustration bubbled inside him. Because he was an unknown quantity to the villagers, they refused to talk to him.
But they’d talked to the woman…
Aggravated, but realizing he would learn little else today, he strode to the stables and called for Oberon. When the blacksmith’s son led him out to the yard, his mount danced nervously at the end of his reins. The lad handed him over with clear relief. A good, hard gallop would sort out his mount, and hopefully settle his own disquiet.
Lucien smoothed his hand down Oberon’s neck and murmured quietly, but his horse refused to settle. He snorted, tossing his head and rolling his eyes. His glossy black ears flicked back until they lay flat against his head. Lucien swung up into the saddle. Oberon snorted again and reared. Lucien heard the startled shout of the stable lad but had his hands full trying to control his horse. Oberon’s front legs hit the ground, then, without pausing, he bolted. The wind whistled past Lucien’s ears, tearing locks of hair from his queue. Hedges became a green blur as he struggled to control his mount.
“Whoa, damn it!” Lucien tightened his grip on the reins and pulled back using brute strength. Oberon took no notice.
Lucien steered him at a hedge, hoping it would slow their breakneck speed. He felt Oberon gather under him and they sailed over the hedge, barely slowing their pace. He hauled back on the reins. If anything, his actions stirred Oberon to greater speed. His mount emitted a frantic whinny that sounded uncannily like a scream. Bucking and rearing, he tried to throw Lucien. When that failed, Oberon galloped headlong down a narrow twisting track. They hurtled into the forest. Overhanging branches tore at Lucien’s clothes, smacked his face, gouged his limbs. Mud splattered up until it coated both he and Oberon.
What the hell was wrong? Lucien leaned forward and instantly Oberon slowed. He eased back into the saddle. Oberon immediately bucked, twisting and screwing his muscular body. Sweat lathered his glossy neck, each breath roaring from his nostrils like a fabled fire-breathing dragon. A branch overhanging the path almost dislodged Lucien.
“Damn it!” He eased his weight off the saddle again. Oberon slowed, confirming Lucien’s suspicions. Keeping his weight forward, Lucien tightened the reins. Oberon obeyed, and Lucien cursed. Someone had interfered with his mount while he’d conducted his tour of the village.
Lucien slowed Oberon until he halted by a large oak, his sides heaving from the mad gallop. Lucien dismounted and undid the cinch with quick, angry movements. A trickle of blood ran from under the saddle blanket. He must be closing in on Hawk, if that bastard felt the need to take action like this.
A sharp thorn almost as long as his little finger protruded from the saddle blanket. On closer inspection, he found three more. Yanking them free, he tossed them to the forest floor where they would do no further harm. The thorns had gouged into his horse’s flesh, but he had been the target rather than his mount. A few days’ rest and Oberon’s wound would heal. Lucien replaced the saddle and tightened the girth enough to keep the saddle on, but no more. He gathered the reins and commenced the long walk back to the castle, seething at Hawk’s effrontery.
Many of the villagers worked with the smugglers, but did they work only when the boats came in from France, or did they act for Hawk in all things? And who had done the dirty deed? Lucien grimaced. He’d made it easy for them, allowing the blacksmith’s son to take his horse to the stable. Was the blacksmith’s son the culprit? Hell, anyone could have sneaked into the stables and interfered with his mount. They’d all acted as though he was unwelcome; all were equally suspicious. All had refused to meet his gaze, even the English mouse.
She’d behaved more suspiciously than any of the villagers. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the insipid Englishwoman had secrets. The likelihood seemed high the secrets were related to his enemy, Hawk. There was no other explanation.
Chapter Six
While Mary made small talk with Mistress Baker, Rosalind pretended to study the woman’s swollen leg. She ran her hands slowly but steadily down the reddened limb and concentrated on the place inside her mind that helped her heal others. A picture formed, and with it the answers to help Mistress Baker.
“How long has your leg been like this?” she asked, wanting to appear as if she was unsure of the problem.
“Nigh on six months now,” Mistress Baker said.
“Did you have a fall?”
“Aye, ’twas in blackberry season. Right clumsy, I be at times. Fell headlong into a bush. I healed up right enough, apart from this leg that flares up now and then.”
Rosalind nodded. “I suspect there’s still a thorn embedded in your leg, causing the problem.”
“No! Couldn’t be. I’ve had a poisonous wound before and ’twern’t nothin’ like this.”
Unsurprised at the woman’s denials but sure in her own mind, Rosalind nodded again. “Would you allow me to try a treatment?”
“I’ve tried everything.” Mistress Baker’s jowls wobbled as she bobbed her head briskly. “Don’t suppose trying a new treatment would hurt none. Not that I’m saying you be right, Lady Hastings. But as I see it, can’t be much worse off than I be now.”
Rosalind shared a quiet smile with Mary before turning to open her treatment bag. Her hands hovered over various herbs before she selected several and ground them to a paste in a special dish she kept in her bag. “Mix this powder with water and smooth it over your leg. Right here.” Rosalind touched a bright red spot with a gentle finger. She studied Mistress Baker for a short time, then reached into her bag again and pulled out a small bottle. “You might try taking this medicine too.”
“I don’t know ’bout no medicine,” Mistress Baker said.
Rosalind understood the problem immediately. “I make it with honey. Try it, you’ll be surprised at how pleasant it tastes.” Mistress Baker remained doubtful, but Rosalind pressed the medicine on her. “I’ll visit you tomorrow if I can, or failing that, expect me the day after.” Rosalind glanced at the discolored limb. If something didn’t happen soon, the woman would lose her leg. She’d seen it happen before. “Mary, perhaps we should ask Mistress Baker for clear directions to the Miller family.”
Mistress Baker chuckled. “Got lost, did ye?”
“We’ll learn our way around soon enough,” Mary said. “The village is not large.”
“Aye, right enough.” Mistress Baker nodded sagely. “I’ll look for you tomorrow or the next day.”
Rosalind and Mary left after receiving detailed directions to the Millers’ cottage.
“I thought Matthew was meant to wait for us,” Mary said, searching for the hefty footman in his distinctive livery.
Rosalind glanced down the rutted lane that ran between the rows of cottages. “The Miller cottage isn’t far. I’m sure Matthew is resourceful enough to find us.”
“But my lord said—”
“Let me worry about Hastings,” Rosalind said, ignoring the twinge of guilt at breaking a promise. She hurried Mary past the stable. A weathered sign swung drunkenly over the porch of the public house next door. Up close, the sign bore the image of a horse’s head, and it creaked with each gust of wind. Raucous laughter spilled from an open bay window.
“What ’ave we ’ere, then?” a man hollered out the window. “Pretty chicks like you shouldn’t be walking alone.”
A second man joined his friend, and Mary grabbed Rosalind forcibly by the elbow. “Miss, this not be the place to stand and gawp.”
Rosalind allowed Mary to drag her away but continued
to look over her shoulder. “I’ve never been in a public house before. Have you?”
“Yes, miss. I mean, my lady. I have. And it’s not the place for the likes of you.”
Rosalind frowned. The interesting places weren’t proper. It wasn’t fair. One day she’d march right inside…
Mary slowed when they reached a stone gateway on the outskirts of the village. “This must be the shortcut Mistress Baker mentioned.”
“There’s the dead oak. The path looks overgrown.” Rosalind’s boots sank into mud as she peered down the path. She pulled her boot from the mud with a loud squelch. “And wet.”
“Do you want to go back?” Mary asked.
“No, I’m muddy now and you don’t look much better. We might as well keep going.”
The path twisted and turned, taking them deep into a copse of beech and oak. The leafy canopy blocked the light, making navigating the path even more treacherous. Rosalind pushed on, wincing when icy water from a puddle splashed over the top of one boot.
They walked for another ten minutes before Rosalind paused to rescue her skirts from the clutches of a prickly bush. “I’m not sure this is the right way. Mistress Baker said we needed to follow the path for five minutes. I didn’t see the fork in the path she mentioned. Did you?”
“No, miss. I don’t like it here. Have you noticed there be no birds singing? And it’s getting darker.”
Rosalind frowned. She’d noticed but had decided it was mere imagination. They stared at each other wordlessly.
“Do you think we should return?” There was a distinct wobble in Mary’s voice, and her fear spread to Rosalind. Every nerve in her body screamed, urging flight.
“It can’t be much farther,” Rosalind whispered. Somehow, their surroundings warranted a hushed undertone. She swallowed as she tugged her hat free from a low-hanging branch.
Mary glanced over her shoulder. “If you’re sure…”
The Spurned Viscountess Page 7