St. Albans glanced behind him and locked stares with a younger man. Dark-haired like all the Gypsies, tall and well-muscled, the fellow had an arrogant face and an insolent manner. There was enough resemblance to his Gypsy to make St. Albans wonder if the fellow was a relative? He certainly hoped so, for he really did not to deal with a jealous lover. That was such a predictable nuisance.
Slipping his snuff box from his waistcoat pocket, St. Albans watched the fellow sheath his knife—the tshuri the older woman had mentioned, no doubt. He allowed his gaze to travel over the gypsy’s worn coat, down to his patched breeches and dusty boots, and back up to the fellow’s face.
St. Albans gave him a cold smile. “Do be a good fellow and give Cinder some oats if you have any.”
The Gypsy’s jaw tightened, and for an instant St. Albans thought the fellow would be reckless enough to come after him now. Oh, please do, St. Albans thought, his dislike for the fellow growing stronger.
But then the younger man’s shoulders relaxed and he flashed a contemptuous grin, and spoke, his accent as unexpectedly well bred as the old woman’s. “I suppose a man who cannot even look after his own horse has to rely on others to do for him. Don’t worry, gaujo. Tonight you are a guest. But tonight is only tonight.”
Turning, the young Gypsy walked away, taking with him his companion, an older man, also dark-haired, but short, stout, and balding, with a wicked scar down his cheek. St. Albans watched as they tended to his own mount, and to the three, bony, disreputable-looking horses they had led into the clearing.
Insolent pup, St. Albans thought, irritated with the Gypsy. And then he dismissed the fellow. It would be a different matter, of course, if the fellow were a gentleman and offered such an insult. But he was only a Gypsy, after all, and far below the notice of the Earl of St. Albans.
The Gypsy girl, however, was a different matter.
Turning, he strode towards the campfire, where the women were busy, setting up a cooking pot over the open flame and busying themselves with a rabbit to skin—poached in a snare, no doubt. And arguing in their own language.
He could not follow the words, but from the tone of it, he could guess that it was not a question of how much salt to add. No, he was quite certain they were talking about him.
Why had the older woman decided that he could stay?
“Why did you ask him to stay?” Glynis muttered to her mother, speaking in Romany. “He will only make problems.”
She cast a glance from the corner of her eyes at St. Albans who had stretched his tall, lean frame out beside the fire, lounging on the golden carpet as if he lay in the woods every night.
Her mother gave a shrug that could mean anything. “Yes, this one is good at making problems. But it is problems that we also seek to make, daughter.”
“You are the one always urging caution—patience.”
Anna smiled at her daughter. She had so much to learn, yet. For a moment, the worry came back. Had she shielded them too much? Should she have told them the truth sooner? But when? When could she have told them? When they were children and their lives still in the shadow of danger? No, fate had woven the pattern. She had kept them safe. She had taught them caution. She had wanted them grown and strong, and so she had kept the truth to herself because it had been the only path at the time.
But this gaujo lord brought new paths. She could feel them stirring. Her Glynis was right to be cautious. But too much caution now could be as fatal as too much daring. They walked a rope over a chasm now. And the only way to walk on a rope was to look ahead—not down at fears for what might or might not be, or backwards to the past.
So Anna put away her own fears and her unspoken regrets. She smiled at her daughter, and put her to work cutting the carrots and potatoes bought from the village market yesterday.
* * *
“An excellent meal,” St. Albans said. He lay back, propped up on one elbow. He had been on alfresco picnics that were far less enjoyable than this. The firelight warmed his face, and while a slight chill lay on his back, the wine heated him from within. But what warmed him even more was watching his Gypsy girl—Glynis, the older woman had called her.
No one had asked for his name, so he assumed they knew it. He was accustomed to having his reputation precede him, just not in these unlikely circles.
In truth, the meal had been quite good. The blind Gypsy woman managed to bake bread in a pot—heavens knew how. The stew, if not a delicacy, at least provided decent fare. And they finished with apples—stolen, St. Albans suspected, but ripe—a sharp Stilton cheese, nuts and a strong but drinkable red wine.
Of course, conversation had been somewhat lacking.
The older man—Bado, he seemed to be called—sat beside the younger Gypsy, his covetous stare focused on Cinder, who grazed contentedly beside the Gypsy horses. The younger fellow—Christo—glared at St. Albans and said nothing.
The older woman seemed content to say little, and his Gypsy, Glynis, glowered at him as if this situation was all of his making.
So he did his best to amuse himself.
He told them how he had paid a fellow to learn their Gypsy signs. His Glynis exchanged an uneasy glance with the one called Christo, who shrugged back an answer, and St. Albans wondered just what relation these two had to each other that they could speak without words. A close one, he thought, disliking the young Gypsy fellow even more.
His story wound down until there was nothing but the crackle of young wood on fire. The scent of stew and smoke hung in the clearing, a gamy, sharp pleasant smell. The wine danced nicely in St. Albans’s head.
He did not want to leave—mostly because that young Gypsy idiot seemed to be wishing him on his way. But also because he had not hit upon a plan to pull his Gypsy girl away from the protection of her kind and more firmly into his reach.
Unfortunately, she seemed quite close with the older woman—her mother, he decided, after studying the similarities in face and form. With all the freedom she seemed to enjoy, she would have no wish to rebel. So she could not be tempted into defying her elders. But he needed her indebted to him. Gratitude was always such a useful emotion in a seduction. And he wanted her in a setting that was more conducive to intimate relations.
Pleasant as this spring night was, he was also starting to get a crick in his back, and he had never been fond of moonlit forests for trysts. Far too many insects, animals, and scratching thorns.
Well, there was but one way to gain knowledge.
Smiling, he sipped his wine from the pottery cup provided to him, and he asked, “I take it that you travel to London? Still after Nevin, are you?”
Glynis scowled at him. She had been poking at the fire with a sick, and now her hand stilled. She glanced at Christo, who looked as unhappy as she at this question.
Ah, this gaujo lord, this St. Albans, knew too much about them. What if, in London, he talked to others about their interests? And what if such talk got back to Francis Dawes?
That could ruin everything.
Turning slightly, she covered her mother’s hand, her grip tight, asking the silent question—what do we tell him?
Her mother sat very still. Firelight danced over her face, making familiar features seem mysterious. For a moment, Glynis glimpsed the young woman who had broken so many men’s hearts before she had given her own—once and forever.
Slowly, her mother nodded, as if coming to an important decision, and she said in Romany, “It is in water that one learns to swim. It is started. Answer him. And let us see where fate takes us next.”
Beside her, Glynis felt Christopher stiffen. He answered in Romany, his words hot and low, “What if this gaujo talks to others? He asks too many questions.”
Glynis shifted her touch to Christo’s arm. “Then let us answer some so that he stops asking.”
“Why? He has no reason to help us? And what if he is a friend to Lord Nevin!”
He spat out the last words, and his hate left Glynis frowning. He was not seei
ng clearly because his feelings blinded him, she knew.
She glanced across the flames to the earl. She trusted him no more than she trusted any gaujo—and yet...ah, something inside her whispered that she could. She did not want to listen to that voice. What if it was only desire talking? What if that voice was a wish that held as much substance as the smoke from the fire?
Staring across the flickering flames at his handsome face, at his fine clothes, and those wicked green eyes, she thought of Christo’s words, and she remembered how little love this gaujo had had in his voice when he had spoken to Francis Dawes.
It flashed into her mind that perhaps they shared a common dislike. And he had offered, had he not, that perhaps he would help her get what she wanted.
She also had something this gaujo wanted—herself. Could she dance with the devil and not lose her soul to him? It had been done before, if one was clever and fast, and willing to make the devil the one who danced to the tune.
Excitement began to stir inside her as plans began to form.
Looking at Christo, Glynis asked in Romany, her voice shaking a little from the daring of her ideas. “This one, he goes where he pleases in London. We cannot do that.”
Christo shot a dark look at the gaujo. “And what do you think his help will cost you?”
Glynis’s chin when up. “Only as much as I am willing to pay. Remember that. I have a right to my own choices, too.”
Frowning, Christo thought this over. His expression did not lighten, but at last he nodded. “You do. As I make mine.”
Glynis nodded, not very satisfied with his answer, but she doubted she would get any enthusiastic agreement from him for what she was now thinking.
She glanced back to St. Albans and found him staring at her, his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted. He looked hard and dangerous, and Glynis’s certainty that she could handle him faded.
Sitting up, he said, his voice careless, but with a sarcastic tone underneath the drawl, “Do you know, I had no idea a few simple questions could stir up such controversy? Are you discussing my poor choice of topics, or whether he should slit my throat now or later? So tedious of me, I know, not to have a better grasp of the Gypsy tongue, but then my education was sadly restricted to French, Italian, German, Greek and a smattering of Latin that never took.”
Glynis almost smiled with relief. He was insulted, that was all. Typical of a lord. He did not like being shut out by their discussion. Ah, but it had been rude of them to speak of him as if he were a thing, not a person.
“I am sorry,” she said, her face hot, and not just from the fire. “We are not accustomed to guests, and so you shall have to consider that it is only that we feel as comfortable as if you were one of our own.”
His mobile face shifted, the left eyebrow lifting with skepticism. She had overdone her apology, offering too much flattery. She shifted her tone to one more matter-of-fact. “But you had asked of Lord Nevin—and if we go to London.”
“I had,” he said, his voice neutral.
“You must know that we do. We have to. You see, Francis Dawes—the man you call Lord Nevin—he is my uncle, and he stole my inheritance.”
CHAPTER FIVE
St. Albans almost laughed.
Here she was—gaze steady, hands still in her lap, not so much as a quiver of her lip or a flicker of discomfort—giving him yet another swato. First mistress, then married, now a niece. Still, he liked this tale better than the others. It even seemed plausible.
In truth, he could almost picture Nevin refusing to acknowledge any such a low relation as a Gypsy niece, even one born on the wrong side of the blanket. The man’s insufferable pride was renown. But had there been a brother—elder or younger?
Dredging through memory, St. Albans could not recall enough of the Dawes family, but it would be the matter of a moment to verify the lineage. She must know that. But the rest of her story seemed as difficult to prove a lie as it would be to proven the truth.
Interested, despite that he knew better than to be taken in by such tales, he said, “And may I ask, without engendering another long discussion in your native tongue, how do you plan to gain what is owed you?”
Her stare dropped for a moment, so that she gazed into the dancing yellow flames. He had the feeling she was weighing what else to tell him.
Looking up, she admitted, “I did not lie about that box. There is one and it holds papers that could prove my claim.”
“And so you plan to...?” St. Albans let his words trail off. He had been about to ask if she thought, once she had these papers, to take Nevin to court. It would certainly take that—and more—to pry anything loose from Nevin’s hands.
However, that assumed there honestly were papers hidden in some box, as well as a box to steal. For all he knew, she had made up this entire story from smoke and starlight. Only one thing stood quite clear—she was withholding something. He could sense that.
Which meant he would have to dig further, and it annoyed him more than a little that he actually wanted to know the whole story.
Well, since his Gypsy certainly seemed to act only on opportunity—while he was cursed with a mind that constantly saw around corners—he began to calculate those corners for her. And the more he turned over the schemes in his mind, the better he liked them.
He swirled his wine in its cup. “Do you know, I actually might be able to offer some assistance.”
The young Gypsy gave a rude snort, but Glynis glared at the fellow, and glanced back, her expression unmoved. “Why would you want to help us?”
“Why not? It is no matter to me what trouble you plan for Nevin, and it would be amusing to be at hand to see the mischief. But I would ask for something in return.”
Her dark eyebrows lifted. “What would you ask?”
St. Albans smiled. “Your company in London while you are there as my mistress.”
Everyone seemed to be on their feet at once. Knives hissed from their scabbards and flashed in the firelight. The sudden movement startled the horses, and St. Albans felt their hooves thud against the ground and their nickers stirred the air.
He remained stretched out on the carpet, his pottery mug of wine in hand, looking up with a mild interest at the faces that glowered over him. It seemed these Gypsies were quite protective of their women. Well, now that he had shocked them thoroughly, he could now make his offer into something that seemed reasonable, and more acceptable.
St. Albans glanced back to Glynis, who stood next to the younger gypsy fellow, a restraining hand on his arm. “Really now, I could hardly pass you off as anything except a mistress. The ladies I take up with are too soon ladies no longer. But the pose would guarantee you proximity. Nevin may be high in the instep, but he has the normal vices, and he moves in the same world I occupy.”
Her mouth pulled down and her chin lifted. “I am not interested in being any man’s mistress!”
With a shrug, he put down his mug. “That, my dear, would be your choice. I am simply offering you access.”
He spread his own hands wide, palms up, and offered one of his more innocent smiles. And if he could not seduce her into doing more than posing as his mistress, he did not deserve to be called the worst scoundrel in London.
The young gypsy, Christo, started to say something in his language, his tone low and fierce, but his meaning quite clear. He was not the trusting sort. The older woman silenced him with a word, and frowned. She wasn’t the trusting sort either, it seemed.
St. Albans focused his attention on his Gypsy—his Glynis.
She stepped around the fire, coming to his side and he rose as she did so. She stared at him so intently that for a moment he thought she would take his face in her hands as had her mother. But she simply glared at him, her eyebrows flattened over her dark eyes, her chin lowered, her tempting mouth in a set line.
Turning, she said something in her Gypsy tongue to her mother, who nodded to the older Gypsy man. He vanished into the darkness, and when he came back
, he gave something to his Glynis. Cards, St. Albans noted with a touch of surprise. Did his Gypsy intend to let luck decide? Devil a bit, but she was a reckless one.
Kneeling on the carpet, his Glynis split the deck to shuffle the worn cards by sliding part of the pack into the rest. She fanned out the faded, painted backs. Firelight glimmered on the worn wax coating.
“Take one,” she said.
He knelt and did. And turned it over.
The king of spades. Well, it was a high card at least. Was it high enough? Would she draw a card now?
He glanced down at his Gypsy. Her eyes had gone wide, and one hand had come up to her chest.
What? Did that card he’d drawn mean a good omen, or bad? Blazes, but he could almost wish she would decide with her heart, or her head, or her instincts, but not with this nonsense. Nothing guided him but his own will. And the same was true for her.
Why in blazes was he spending so much effort on her? She was but a woman, like any other. And he had spent far too much time on her as it was.
Standing, he glared down at her, unreasonably displeased that she could not give him a simple yes or no.
“My coach will be at the crossroad to Chelmsford. Tomorrow at sunset. If you want proximity to Nevin, I can give you that. But make your choice soon.”
With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode toward his horse. The point between his shoulders where the knife had dug in earlier ached with each step, further irritating him.
Would she come on the morrow? Or would she run shy again? And what had she seen in that card that had made her face pale in the firelight?
He glanced down at his hand, saw the card still there and almost flung it away. But he changed his mind. He would return it to her when next they met. Only it was not fate that they would meet again. It was his own desire.
Gathering up Cinder’s reins, he swung up on the black horse without bothering with the stirrups. He glanced back to the fire.
A Much Compromised Lady Page 6