Silence Is Golden

by Sara Ackerman

  When he turned to go, she grabbed hold of his arm to stall him a bit and use his brief nearness to her advantage, though all she needed was a momentary distraction—enough time to slip him some of the sleeping liquid she always kept about her person. His warm body, so strong and masculine and close to her own, stirred within her a restlessness. He tried to extricate himself. After all, he was a proper young man, and he whispered for her to release him.

  Something primitive and wild overtook her, prompting her to whisper, “I’m not sleeping. Kiss me, please.”

  She opened her eyes, knowing she risked ruining her chances to sedate him if he saw her awake. Kissing him overshadowed the immediacy of her plan, and she stared into his eyes, hoping the appearance of consciousness was enough to convince him to acquiesce to her request, immodest though it may be.

  Hallelujah, it was. Never in her wildest dreams did she expect him to comply, let alone in such a thorough manner, too. She was no blushing debutante; she had been kissed before. After all, she was betrothed and had shared many stolen moments with Lord Newgate. Those kisses had been soft and chaste, nothing more than a gentle brushing of lips against lips. Even though she imagined many times what a proper kiss would be like, there was no way to prepare herself for this primitive mating of mouths. When he gathered her into his arms and deepened the slant of his mouth atop hers, she would have swooned if she were the swooning sort. These sensations were too much, hot and thrilling, like firecrackers fizzling underneath her skin, ready to burst into flames at the next heated caress.

  This needs to stop.

  She pulled away on a gasp to ask him to cease when his lips trailed down her neck and onto the trembling flesh above her gown. Her head fell back and her body flew. A creature of pleasure, she soared, weightless, flying high on the sensations he evoked. She wished never to descend. His mouth on her breast pulled her back, and she cried out when he plumped and squeezed her tender flesh. Thought was near impossible, yet amidst the swirling sensations and scattered thoughts, she latched onto one.

  Making love with Mr. Coombes is infinitely preferable to kissing Lord Newgate, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be wed and bedded by a country solicitor before ever setting foot on a sailing vessel!

  His sandy-colored head nestled on her chest incited equal parts elation and dismay. Despite her body’s insistent clamor, this pleasurable interlude had to end. Her bosom and its delights ensured he remained distracted.

  Flinging her arms over her head, she uncapped the tiny vial she always wore around her wrist. With care, she dabbed a small amount of the liquid on her fingers and rubbed it on the sides of her neck, pretending her actions resulted from an excess of passion and not a subversive attempt to subdue the gentleman plying her body with hot, greedy kisses.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, hoping he took the hint and resumed his attentions along the drugged column of her neck. He was not a slow study. Taking her invitation, he complied without complaint, kissing his way back up her neck, where he scattered light caresses over her face. She shifted a fraction of an inch and their lips met again.

  This time she was sure to keep her mouth closed. Better to avoid the temptation of his wild kisses and the traces of the sleeping draught that might still be lingering on his mouth. At last he pulled away, and she pretended sleepiness again.

  “Freddie,” she murmured, and closed her eyes, settling back into the padded seat. Careful not to be seen doing so, she turned her head to face the seat and wiped her mouth against the cushions to rid any remaining trace of the draught.

  As expected, he pulled back and retreated to his seat. Until he slept, she remained still. Impatience and uncertainty eroded what remained of her self-control, and she cursed her eldest sister.

  Drat, you, Beatrice! You didn’t tell me how long I had to wait or how soon the drug would take effect.

  In typical Beatrice fashion, she had never explained this part of her mysterious gift. On her eighteenth birthday, Evie’s sister had interrupted her toilette and thrust the bracelet under her nose, saying, “A lady as beautiful as you needs to have as many weapons at her disposal as possible.” Aside from saying it was a powerful sleeping draught, she had never explained what it was or how long it lasted. One day, she had told her, it would prove useful if she found herself in a desperate situation. Though it pained her to use her precious gift to incapacitate her protector and redirect the coachman, sacrifices were inevitable when a lady wished to get her own way.

  After she had counted to a thousand and beyond, she cracked an eyelid and peered at her seatmate. The slow, even rise and fall of his chest was promising. She shifted onto her elbows, careful to limit her movements so as not to make any noise.

  When no exclamation was forthcoming, she arose all the way and stifled a smile. He was asleep. His chin touched his chest, and he was slouched in a most undignified manner, though for some reason it endeared him more to her than his usual stiff manner. For several minutes, she watched him slumber.

  The carriage hit another bump, and she chided herself. “You’ll be at Uncle’s before too long. It’s time to give the coachman orders of your own.”

  She tapped the ceiling three times, and within minutes the coach slowed and stopped. Grabbing her small pad of paper and pencil, she descended from the coach to “speak” with the coachman.

  I hope he is literate. If not, it would prove difficult to explain where she wanted to go without the aid of Mr. Coombes.

  She needn’t have worried. Less than five minutes later she was reseated in the coach, headed to Southampton. The driver had been literate, and though he was reluctant to take orders from her when Mr. Coombes had given him explicit instructions to stop at Atwood Manor—her uncle’s home—Mr. Coachman became more agreeable when she presented him with a hundred pounds in one-pound bank notes. After seeing those bills, he was eager to take her anywhere she wished.

  “Now there is nothing to do but to wait.” Mr. Coombes snorted and resettled on the seat. She smiled, pleased things were once again going her way.

  ****

  “We’re ’ere, m’lady,” Mr. Coachman said, offering his hand to help her alight from the carriage.

  She studied her surroundings, taking in the country manor bordered by dense foliage and towering trees. Beautiful gardens adorned the front lawn, or at least they would have been beautiful if the rain ever quit. Despite the numerous pools of water gathering on the front lawn, she spied no large body of water. There was no ocean, no harbor, and no ship. They were not in Southampton, but in Hasselworth. To be specific, they were at her uncle’s home, Atwood Manor.

  Furious, she took out her notebook and scribbled, “I paid you to take me to Southampton.” She shot him an accusatory look. “Why are we not there?”

  The coachman unloaded her luggage. “Mr. Coombes thought how you might try to redirect the coach, so he paid me more, to pretend and take you to Southampton but still go to yer uncle’s instead.”

  Of all the nerve! He had outsmarted her, and she hated being outsmarted. She was the master manipulator, not he, and it irked her he had managed to trick her even though he was drugged. “I want my money back, you liar, and for tricking me you will not receive a tip for your services.”

  He handed her the wad of banknotes. “Suit yourself, miss, but Mr. Coombes ’ere wanted to keep you safe. And I agree with ’im.”

  She sniffed and lifted the hems of her traveling dress as she walked through the puddles, her head held high. Her grand exit was almost ruined by a slippery rock, and she teetered and would have fallen had Mr. Coachman not been there to catch her by the elbow. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, but she mouthed her thanks. He tipped his hat, deposited her luggage on the front step, and dashed back to the coach.

  “What do you want me t’ do with ’im?” he shouted.

  She knew what she’d like to do with him, but decided those actions were not suitable for a lady of her station. Instead she scribbled on a piece of paper, ran to t
he coachman, and handed it to him along with a hefty pile of banknotes.

  “Are you sure?”

  She wrote in big, bold letters, “YES!” and raced back to the sheltering eaves of her uncle’s front door.

  “Right you are, miss!” the coachman yelled. With a flick of the reins, he, and Mr. Coombes, were gone.

  She squared her shoulders and knocked on the door. This was not a defeat but a minor inconvenience. She would find another way to get to France.

  Chapter 9

  His head hurt, and for some odd reason, his mouth was dry as dust. He sat up and saw he was no longer in the cozy interior of the coach but outside on the ground, leaned up against a building. He looked down at his body, squinting to make out his legs. They were still there, but for the life of him he couldn’t fathom why his breeches were wet while the remainder of his body stayed dry.

  Please say I haven’t soiled myself.

  Though it was improbable he had been incontinent, his current situation—alone, wet, and foxed—did not bode well for a less embarrassing explanation of his sodden limbs. Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, he inspected his surroundings. The more he observed, the more disoriented and confused he became, because what he saw did not make sense. Several yards in front of him, he spied white billowy clouds floating near tall leafless trees. And if he weren’t mistaken, the trees were bobbing. Where was he?

  If my head would stop pounding, I could make sense of this.

  The last time he had been this fuzzy-headed had been several Christmases past, when he had celebrated at home. Mother had opened a bottle of port, and since none of his siblings enjoyed it, obligation required he finish the entire bottle lest it turn vinegary. The next morning, his head pounded as though an entire orchestra had taken residence between his temples. But that had been nothing compared to the swelling crescendo crashing away in his head now. He didn’t know what had happened. There was a vague remembrance of a passionate kiss in the coach right before he blacked out.

  “Lady Evelyn!” He lurched to his feet and staggered several feet before collapsing against a brick wall. His medallion dangled out from his shirt, and he grabbed onto it, noting its coldness despite its proximity to his bare skin. She was gone. He didn’t know how he knew, but she was not here. Clutching the rough building exterior next to him, he willed the dizziness and nausea to recede so he could determine where he was.

  Something wet hit his face, and he tilted his head back. It was raining. For several moments, he remained with his face thrust to the sky in an attempt to revive himself. Within minutes, the water had cleared away the lingering cobwebs from whatever had knocked him into insensibility.

  “Thank God,” he muttered, having regained enough sense to figure out he was damp because of the rain. He turned around and took measured steps to the sheltering alcove where he had awoken. A large overhanging eave had ensured his torso remained dry while his legs did not. At least one mystery was solved. Still, he did not know where he was, how he came to be there, and most importantly, where Lady Evelyn was.

  His baggage awaited him under the eaves, so whoever had left him here—he guessed Mr. Coachman—had been courteous enough to leave him with his things. A quick search of his possessions revealed his leather portfolio was missing. He'd have to find the coachman as well as Lady Evelyn. There was one bright spot, though. Judging by the wet state of his breeches and the rate of falling rain, he had been sitting unconscious outside for maybe an hour at the most. She and the coachman couldn’t have gotten too far.

  He hoisted his luggage and used the wall to steady himself as he walked around to the front of the building. The sign there reassured him. “Thank God. A public house.” His luck was turning around. If anyone had answers regarding the whereabouts of a beautiful, silent stranger, he could be found in the public house. He crossed his fingers and pushed on the wooden door.

  “Greetings, friend,” the barkeep called. “Would you care for a draught of something to chase away the chill on this rainy summer day?”

  “I’m looking for a woman,” he said, glancing about the interior in the hopes she was within.

  “Aren’t we all?” The barkeep laughed, and the few patrons who nursed a drink at this hour of the day echoed the sentiment. Dim light penetrated the greasy windows, and he was able to discern the shorter, squat figure of the man who greeted him. He did his best to walk in a straight line to the bar and ordered a drink, swallowing the refreshing ale. It quenched his thirst and cleared his head. “Have you seen a lady pass by? She’s about yea high.” He raised his hands to the middle of his chest. “And she has wide, blue eyes and blonde hair.”

  “Your wife gone missing?”

  “Yes,” he lied. “She has run away, and I must find her. We came in on the coach from London, bound for Hasselworth, but the coachman redirected the route while I was sleeping. I awoke to find my wife and coach disappeared.”

  “You’re a fair piece from Hasselworth, stranger. This here’s Southampton. We get a lot of gentlemen in here looking for their lost lady friends, and while I don’t know anything about no missing wife, there is a coachman here who’s been fair generous buying drinks for the other patrons. Been here about an hour, I’d reckon, and has a large account to settle before he leaves.” The barkeep jerked his head in the general direction of the coachman.

  Alfred paid the man, thanked him, and strode over to the corner.

  He had no difficulty identifying the coachman. There he sat, the duplicitous cockroach, a ring of glasses spread out on the table.

  Without hesitation, Alfred grabbed the shorter man by the scruff of his neck and pulled him from his seat, then transferred his grasp to the smaller man’s lapels. “Mr. Coachman, where is Lady Evelyn?”

  “I-I don’t know what you mean,” the coachman stuttered, his eyes shifting back and forth like a cornered rat.

  Alfred glared as he tightened his hold on the man’s coat and swung him around until he was pressed flat against a wall. “I’m sure you do. Now, tell me where she is, or I will be forced into doing something rash. You don’t want to provoke me, do you, Mr. Coachman?” Anger coursed through his veins, making him act with uncharacteristic aggression. He didn’t care. What mattered was finding her and ensuring her safety.

  The other man swallowed and shook his head. “She paid me not t’ tell you.”

  “At least tell me if she’s in Southampton or not. If she’s here without the protection of an escort…” Rage made it difficult to continue.

  “I left the lady at ’er uncle’s as you instructed me t’ do.”

  “I see.” His anger deflated, and he suppressed a sharp stab of disappointment. This is good news and what I wanted all along. “What’s important is she’s safe.” Wait a minute. I wanted to say good-bye. What happened? “Why am I here?”

  “The young miss was angry you tricked ’er, so she instructed me t’ take you to Southampton and give you the boot.”

  “She paid you to do this, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.” The little man bowed his head, shame rendering him meek.

  He sighed, irritated the coachman’s greed and her machinations had caused him no small amount of panic.

  “Did she tell you to steal my things?”

  The grubby driver puffed out his chest, offended by the insinuation he was dishonest. “I never stole nothing a day in my life!”

  “Explain to me how I am missing my leather portfolio. I had it with me in the coach the entire trip. Now it is missing.”

  “I must have overlooked it in the coach when I dropped you…I mean, left you at the side of the public house.”

  “I need it before I sail. Settle your account, and we’ll go find it.”

  He followed Mr. Coachman to make sure the rat didn’t try to escape. Mr. Coachman fumbled within his breast pocket for his money and handed the barkeep a note.

  “Here, now,” the barkeep said, eyeing the note with horror. “I can’t take this money.”

  “
What?” the coachman asked. “But why?”

  “Your money isn’t good around here. You take it and get. If I’d known you were part of his crew, I’d not let you in here. I don’t want any trouble. Be gone with you!”

  Alfred pushed the little driver aside and took a closer look at the note. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It isn’t real. It’s a forgery.”

  “You jest.” The barkeep must have been mistaken. How would a genteel lady have come to possess forged notes?

  “No, sir. Now, I’ve asked you to leave. I don’t want any trouble, but if you stay here, trouble will come. Good day.”

  Alfred tossed a few quid on the counter and escorted Mr. Coachman out of the public house. “Where did you get those notes?” he demanded once they were outside.

  “From ’er ladyship, sir. She give ’em to me as payment for taking you to Southampton. She didn’t know they were forged, did she?”

  “She may be a sly one, but she is no criminal.”

  Mr. Coachman gulped. “But she still don’t know how dangerous they are.”

  “As long as she doesn’t purchase anything with the notes, she will be safe. Besides, how much trouble can she get into in Hasselworth?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but I don’t want ’em.” The smaller man shoved the notes into his hands. Alfred didn’t know what he would do with them either, but he folded them and put them in his pocket. They walked several blocks west of the public house to where Mr. Coachman had left the coach. He rummaged inside, and in a matter of minutes returned triumphant.

  “Here you are, sir. One leather portfolio. I told you I wasn’t no thief.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Coachman, for assuming you had stolen it when you discarded me alongside the road like a piece of rubbish.” He took a cursory glance inside his portfolio and was relieved to find his pocket watch, a final gift from his father, resting within. Opening the lid, he checked the time. “Ah, now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Coachman, I believe I have a ship to board.” He didn’t, but he was eager to leave this man and the memories of his disastrous journey.