by Lord Tom
Susan stared back at him incredulously, but the steadiness of his expression at last had its effect.
“How much?” she asked suddenly.
“Fifty pounds.” She opened her mouth again to question him, but he continued. “He kept it concealed upon his person with the intention of having it sent to you upon his death. Then, when you brought him here, he decided it should be used to return you safely to your governess.”
Susan was frowning with confusion. “But Monsieur Rénard... We are so much in his debt—”
Lord Harleston shook his head. “No. This was your father’s wish. The knowledge that his own excesses were responsible for your not being better established weighed on him heavily at the end.”
Pain crossed her features, but her smile was quite tender. “I did not know he thought of my welfare at all,” she admitted shyly.
Right then and there, Lord Harleston vowed that never, even if they submitted him to the rack, would he ever divulge that he had invented the said fifty pounds. He watched her for a moment more, noting with a peculiar elation the softness of her black lashes against her pale cheeks. Then he stood up and started to pace briskly about the room as he spoke.
“Good. Now that we have that settled, we can plan our voyage. Have you a black veil to use along with your mourning?”
Susan started at the sudden turn in the conversation, but answered automatically, “Yes.”
“Excellent! What I propose, as I said before, is that you assume the role of a Frenchwoman, widow of an Englishman. I have already set the plan in motion and will have your papers for you as soon as we decide upon a name.”
“A name?” Susan had been thinking, fondly and regretfully, about her scapegrace father, and was not keeping up with Lord Harleston’s rapid planning.
He smiled. “Yes. You must have a name. Something English, of course. Your first name, if anyone should ask, may remain Susan, although you must remember to say it the French way—Suzanne.”
“Yes, of course.”
He was facing her now and his voice had taken on a note of eagerness. “Is there a surname you’ve always fancied, something you would remember to answer to if called?”
“No, not that I think of.” Her mind had suddenly gone blank.
“Well, then, let’s see. The best way to go about choosing a name would be to pick a location—from the map. Have you got one?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly and stepped to a small escritoire. She was happy to be able to provide something instead of standing about like a dazed fool. “I do have a map of England. I used it to guide the coachman to the coast,” she explained as she produced it.
“Wonderful! Now, let’s see.” He opened the map and allowed his eyes to roam over it. “What a lot to choose from! Well, I suppose anything will do. I’ll just point to a spot at random and see what it says.” Susan suppressed a smile as Lord Harleston, abandoning all his dignity as a peer, closed his eyes tightly as though fearing to cheat and jabbed a finger at the map. He opened them and looked closely at the spot beside his finger.
“Barton-upon-Humber,” he read carefully.
Beside him, Susan giggled, and he looked up with an answering grin. “Not very likely, is it?” he admitted.
“I can see how it might lead to all sorts of uncomfortable questions,” Susan agreed. “Besides, I don’t think I could pronounce it with a French accent.”
“No, by Jove! I suppose not. Then, I shan’t suggest Stow-on-the-Wold or Newcastle-on-Trent, either. Let’s give it another try, shall we?” He closed his eyes again and this time Susan smiled broadly.
“Husbands Bosworth,” he read when his finger had fallen again. Susan hooted with laughter and covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to smother it.
“I suppose,” she volunteered, “that my lamented spouse’s name was Mr. Husbands Bosworth.” Lord Harleston laughed.
“Now look here,” he said finally, struggling for a note of reason.’ ‘Why not just drop the Husbands part and be Mrs. Bosworth? It’s a perfectly good name.”
Susan shook her head with comic regret. “No, I’m sorry. It is too late. I shouldn’t be able to think of Bosworth without giggling now, and if you happened to call me Mrs. Bosworth, pulling a forelock or something, and looked at me as you are doing now, I should just dissolve.” She could not keep herself from smiling, and Lord Harleston thought privately how much laughter became her lovely face.
“I see. Yes. That’s a reasonable objection,” he agreed. “I am glad to see that I shall be in the employ of someone with her wits about her. Well, perhaps the random method is not the best.” He turned back to the map. “Let’s just look at the next town along the way. Hmmm...Market Harborough. Not very likely, I suppose.” He glanced up with a comical expression of defeat. “I really thought this would be a good method.”
Susan took pity on him and moved closer to his side. “Here,” she said. “Let me see what there is. Perhaps I’ll see something I like.” She leaned over the map and dragged her finger gently across it.
“Chapel-en-le-Frith,” she murmured. “Much Wenlock.” She declined to meet his eye. “Amazing, isn’t it, how many are completely unsuitable. Ashby-de-la-Zouch.” She smiled again. “Perhaps another direction would be better.”
Lord Harleston watched her as she frowned thoughtfully over the map. The smooth curve of her brow wrinkled only slightly and then lifted as she hit upon another humorous name. Slight wisps of her lustrous hair had escaped their pins and were curling provocatively around her tiny ears. He wondered how she would react if she suddenly raised her head and noticed how closely they were standing, and how intently he had been watching her. Suddenly, however, her finger stopped and her eyes opened wider with interest as she silently mouthed some word.
“What is it?” he asked, arrested by her expression.
“Faringdon,” she said. She straightened and looked at him with an expression of triumph. “I shall be Mrs. Faringdon. It is a perfectly sensible name and I know I shall remember it because I have been there.”
“Good girl!” said the baron, pretending not to notice her sudden chagrin as she became aware of his nearness. “I am glad that one of us has been able to put my brilliant plan to good use. And now,” he said, sitting down again as Susan moved back to her chair. “A little rehearsal.” He told her of the plans he had made for his valet and former batman to engage Peg, the maid, and send her along to Susan for approval.
“So all you will have to do is pose a few questions, just to make her think you have taken the proper steps, and send her away with plans to return the morning we leave for Dover. I will send word the second I’m back with the papers and meet you both at the quay.”
“But isn’t Peg to be let in on the plan?” asked Susan. “I should not like to have to keep up the deception under my own roof.”
Lord Harleston shook his head. “I do not think we had better tell her. It is possible she would give everything away.” Susan lifted an eyebrow questioningly. Lord Harleston, with a hint of sheepishness, explained, “I understand she was turned off for incompetence.” Susan raised her brow even further. “And insolence,” he added reluctantly.
Both her eyes were wide open now and regarding him with reproach, but she said nothing.
“It will only be for one day,” he reminded her. “We shall press on to London directly upon reaching Dover. And if she becomes curious, you can just demand silence. And, of course, your English will not be the best, so she will think you quite foreign and beyond understanding anyway.”
Susan looked slightly ruffled and anxious. “I am not a play-actress, Lord Harleston,” she reminded him.
He laughed. “No, but acting is fun! Come now, let’s practise.” He addressed a few questions to her in fluid French and she responded shyly but competently. “There. That’s quite good. But you must not be timid. In fact, the more you assert yourself the better you will be believed. The only ticklish spot that I can foresee will be talking to th
e customs officials. They can get rather nasty. But if they do, you must simply throw a tantrum. Call them something demeaning! Let me hear you say, ‘Non, non, non! Imbécile!’“
“Non, non, non, imbécile.”
“With more anger! And building towards the last non. Non, non, non! Imbécile!”
Susan complied with greater vigour and then suppressed a laugh as Lord Harleston rewarded her with an enthusiastic, “Excellent!”
“But what if I start to laugh?” she asked.
“Nonsense,” he said simply. “If we must resort to an outburst, you will not feel at all like laughing. And I shall be there to punish you if you do,” he cautioned her with a stern look.
In spite of herself, Susan dimpled as though she would like nothing better. But to cover up this improper reaction, she quickly pointed out, “And what about you, Lord Harleston? Perhaps you should rehearse your part—I presume you have never played a groom before?” She threw him a glance as if to say that really nothing would surprise her less.
“No, I haven’t,” he retorted in like spirit.
“Well, you shall have to dress the part.”
He nodded and made a gesture of dismissal, as though the detail were merely a trifle. “My man shall get clothes for me.”
She looked him over critically. Their shared mirth had overcome her shyness and now a feeling of impish elation bubbled up inside her. “You certainly cannot wear your hair like that,” she said. “It must be cut unevenly and tousled. You might even put a few pieces of hay in it,” she added facetiously, “for verisimilitude—as it were.”
“As it were, indeed,” agreed Lord Harleston with an appreciative grin. “I am glad to see that you are entering into the spirit of the adventure, Miss John-stone. And I must say I am looking forward to it with increasing delight.”
Susan felt herself blushing furiously, but could do nothing to stop it. “As to your manner,” she said, rather quickly to hide her confusion, “you might adopt a rather bovine expression. And I suppose it might do to cultivate a suitably illiterate sound, like... ur.”
Lord Harleston strove to keep his lips from twitching as he stared at her ominously, but she ignored his threats. “And there is one more thing, my lord,” she mentioned hesitantly. He gazed at her with a questioning smile and strangely, she could not meet his eye. “What must I call you?”
“Call me?” He seemed distracted.
“Yes. I cannot very well call my groom ‘Lord Harleston,” she said reasonably, recovering her composure as he seemed to lose his.
His eyes lit with understanding. “Oh, of course, I see what you mean. No. I cannot remain Lord Harleston. My name must be something like Jem or Ned... Wait,” he said as an idea came to him, “what about Tom?” He watched her closely for a reaction.
“Tom,” she said looking him over as if trying the name on for size. “Yes, Tom would be good. It suits you.”
His expression flickered for a brief moment, as if some private joke had occurred to him. But he gave no explanation beyond saying, “Good. I have always fancied the name Tom. It has such a steady, reliable ring to it. A good English-sounding sort of name,” he expounded. “It calls to mind hard work and fair play and all the proper values.”
Susan eyed him with misgiving, so he stopped where he was. “Well, then, Miss Johnstone,” he said, rising and picking up his hat. “If there are no other matters we need to discuss, I shall go back to Paris for those papers. For Mrs. Faringdon,” he recalled, raising his first finger.
Susan rose with him. “Lord Harleston, before you go...” she began in a more serious tone.
“Tom,” he reminded her.
“Yes, of course.” She coloured. “Lord—”
“Tom!”
Susan eyed him stubbornly. “Lord Tom, then. You must let me thank you sincerely for all you are doing on my behalf.”
Lord Harleston smiled reassuringly. “Believe me.. .Mrs. Faringdon,” he interjected impishly. “It will be the greatest pleasure. I am looking forward to the adventure with delightful anticipation.”
“But...” began Susan. She misliked his flippant attitude and felt he must be cautioned again of the risks. And be given a chance to change his mind.
“Please do not worry,” he said more seriously. She looked deeply into his eyes and suddenly saw something she had not seen before. It was some elusive quality, too complex to define, but it came of a mixture of bravery, intelligence and wisdom. This must be what his soldiers recognize in him, she realized. But, she added to herself wryly, it was no wonder she had not seen it at once in a man who bumped his head twice the first time he came to call.
“All right,” she agreed, feeling strangely comforted. “But thank you, Lord...” He held up one finger. “Lord Tom,” she called after him as he went out the door.
Chapter Three
Six days later, heavily veiled in black crepe, Susan smiled with relief at the welcome sight of Tom’s figure awaiting her on the quay. With Peg at her side, she wove her way through the crowd waiting to embark until she reached the spot where he was standing. But, she reflected, if she had not seen the sun’s gleam upon his newly tousled hair, she might not have recognised him so quickly in his present garb.
He was dressed in serviceable breeches and a plain cotton shirt which, she could see under the homespun woolen cloak he also wore, was open in front to reveal the musculature of his strong neck. There were no pieces of straw arranged artfully as she had suggested, but his hair had been roughly cut and tousled, which, curiously, became him even more than his carefully arranged and pomaded locks. Now she could see that his hair was naturally straight and fine, and that it shone in streaks wherever the light touched its white-gold strands. Tom was bowing to her with the humblest servility and pulling his forelock, and she was grateful for the veil which concealed her smiling response to the gleam in his brown-gold eyes.
Suddenly there was a gasp beside her and she turned to find Peg gazing at Tom with unconcealed admiration. “Coo,” she said on a long, drawn-out breath. Lord Harleston looked up startled at first, and then, squirming, glanced back quickly at his false employer.
Susan’s first reaction was one of pure amusement. The dismay on Lord Harleston’s face was so comical—he practically begged her assistance—she could hardly refrain from laughing. But as Peg moved closer to him and struck a flirtatious pose, something inside Susan instinctively revolted.
“Peg!” she said with sharp authority. “See to my bags at once! We shall be boarding shortly.” The girl mumbled a graceless “Yes, miss,” and moved reluctantly towards the street where the hired fiacre was waiting with the baggage. Her eyes strayed back towards Tom from time to time until the crowd concealed him from her view entirely.
“Phew!” said Tom, turning to face Susan with an expression of relief. He spoke softly so as not to be overheard by the other passengers. “Is that the maid I’ve saddled you with? My apologies! Do you think she’ll do as far as London?”
“Oh, yes,” said Susan. “Certainly that far.” But her voice betrayed her misgivings. As she looked at Tom, she could hardly blame Peg for her instant attraction to him, for his physique alone was enough to charm female eyes. And together with his blond hair... Susan shook herself mentally, thinking that she was hardly better than the maid herself. Then she frowned, remembering her first and only encounter with Peg until this morning.
It had gone far differently from her expectations.
Within minutes of admitting her to Monsieur Rénard’s parlour, Susan had begun to eye the young girl standing before her with increasing unease. Peg was a comely maid with blondish hair and a clear complexion, save for a few small freckles on the top of her nose which did not at all detract from her appearance. Moreover, her figure, which she made no attempt to conceal, was blessed with curves any man would find alluring.
It was not her obvious charms that distressed Susan, however, although she did wish the girl would button her blouse a bit closer to the neck and
debated whether, as her employer, she might not suggest it to her. It was her thankless manner that Susan found disconcerting.
She had greeted the girl with a warmth not usually extended to creatures applying for a domestic position, but which reflected Susan’s pity for the girl’s situation. Peg’s answering tirade, however, about unfair employers in general and her latest in particular had done nothing to increase Susan’s confidence in her own position. For the past many years, the captain had not provided enough money for his daughter to enjoy the luxury of a personal maid, so dealing with servants, uppity or otherwise, was not a matter of habit.
And now she was finding that, far from the gratitude she might have expected for saving the girl from an awkward situation, and farther still from the loyalty, even devotion, that she had allowed her tender heart to envisage, she was confronted with brash arrogance and patent dislike. It was most disillusioning.
She had posed Peg the minimum number of innocuous questions she felt necessary to allay the girl’s suspicions that her prospective employer might not be all that she seemed. Peg’s answers had not been very satisfactory, and Susan reflected that no honest person would have engaged her based upon them, for Peg had scarcely any skills, training or experience. Nevertheless, Susan had engaged her and had explained what was required of her until they left for England.
“But can’t I stay ’ere?” Peg protested in a whiny voice which implied the great cruelty she was suffering.
“Non. You may not,” said Susan sternly. She was finding that the girl brought out a severity in her that was as genuine in this case as it was rare in others. The effort of speaking with a fake foreign accent was already taking its toll upon her and Peg’s argumentative disposition called for lengthy explanations. Remembering Lord Harleston’s tutoring, she decided not to give one on this occasion, but to retreat behind a haughty facade.