The error had been in leaving in December. The winter seas had been miserable. She hadn’t seen the deck since they set sail. She was being punished of a certainty, but only for her stupidity.
As the nausea subsided, Faith sat back in her bunk and pushed her hair from her face. Toby stood in uncertainty just inside the door, his hands in his pockets as his gaze drifted to the visible mound of Faith’s stomach. They had not spoken of this growing symbol of Morgan’s possession, but it was time that silence ended.
“Do not look so, Toby. I’ll not die of it. Once we are onshore, I’ll be fine. Women have babies all the time. You would do better to speak to the captain and find out where we should stay when we arrive. I’d not be left in a flea-infested hole while I look for work and you hunt your brother.”
Toby ran his hand through his hair and spoke with some degree of authority. “I already talked with the captain. Williamsburg is some few miles inland. We’ll need to hire a cart. He says it’s one of the biggest cities in the colonies and there’s lots of places to stay as long as the House isn’t in session. It being February, it might be, but he gave me the names of one or two places to try. We’ll be fine, don’t you worry.” He bit his lip anxiously, then offered, “Maybe you should try to eat a bite again? Seems like the babe ought to be fed more regular.”
Perhaps the babe ought, but Faith couldn’t face the thought of food. She shook her head. “If you can persuade some hot water from the cook, there’s a little of our tea left. I’ll share a cup with you.”
Toby nodded and strode off, leaving Faith to stare at the hated four walls again.
Her mind wandered back to the cottage, the place where she had found peace if for only so brief a while. In those days while Toby had sought shipping, she had polished and cleaned and straightened. The shirt she had started for Morgan, she finished and laid upon his trunk. She was quite proud of her workmanship. The lace had looked every bit as professional as a tailor’s. If Morgan ever returned, he would have a decent shirt in exchange for the gowns he had given her.
She had left him a note. It had been a foolish thing to do, but at the last minute she could not leave without saying farewell. The note hadn’t said much, just a few senseless words of gratitude and a reassurance that she was gone and wouldn’t bother him anymore, but tears had poured down her face as she wrote it. She should never have signed it as she had, though. It would make him feel bad, and she hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad. But there had been no other honest way to sign it. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind knowing that she had left without bitterness.
Perhaps she ought to be bitter, but she wasn’t. Toby and Miles didn’t understand that she had never expected anything from Morgan and that he had never given her reason to believe she deserved anything. She had told him she could not marry a thief. She had, but it had been in hopes that he would give up his life of crime. Morgan understood that. Morgan understood her better than anyone else ever had. She just wished that understanding and love could be the same thing.
But they weren’t, so there was no use in crying over it anymore.
By the time the ship docked, Faith was ready to say farewell to the past. She wrapped herself in her mantle, pulled the hood up to hide the tear tracks, and waited on deck while Toby found a cart and loaded their few trunks.
The sky was overcast and the wind strong, but it wasn’t a bitterly cold wind. There was even some green in the weeds along the shore. The birds crying overhead gave her the feeling of impending spring, and Faith smiled. It had been spring when Morgan first took her to his bed. It would be spring when his child arrived.
The cart driver grudgingly took them to the inn that the captain had recommended instead of the one that he was paid best to deliver them to. When the proprietor apologized to say he was full, the driver muttered “I told you so” and set out for his usual accommodation. Toby insisted that they try the next place on the captain’s list, and the man gave him a surly look.
“They be closed. Needham died last month and his widow’s selling the place. You got any more suggestions before I take you where you belong?”
Disliking the man’s insolence and intrigued by the idea of an inn for sale, Faith spoke up for the first time since they had set out. “Take us to Needham’s or set us down, please. I would speak to the widow.”
The building the driver brought them to was on the outskirts of town, out of the way of the main thoroughfare. It was small, but solidly built of brick, with shutters to pull against the cold and rain. The place looked deserted, but Faith ordered the trunks brought down and dismissed the driver. She was too tired to go farther. Somehow, they would persuade the widow to let them in.
Toby tried the door and found it open, but the chambers echoed empty when they stepped inside. A loud “Halloa!” brought the sound of scurrying feet above, and a white apron over a black wool skirt appeared on the stairway. Soon a woman with neatly dressed white hair covered by a full mobcap came into view. “Who is there? The inn’s closed; I’m sorry. I have no help. Would the lady care to take a seat while you go to look for better accommodations, sir?”
Toby looked resigned as he handed Faith into a wooden chair set beside the door. “I’d be grateful, ma’am, if you could offer a cup of tea or suchlike. She’s not been well and the journey’s been a long one.”
Faith untied her hood and let it fall back to her shoulders. Her cheeks were pale against the unruly russet curls, but she managed a faint smile. “I apologize for intruding, Mrs.... Needham?”
The innkeeper looked perplexed. but bobbed a curtsy of respect at Faith’s aristocratic accent. “Bess Needham, at your service, my lady. Let your young man be about his business while we share a cup of tea. You look all tuckered out. Do you have family here?”
Faith gestured to Toby. “Mr. O’Reilly has family here. He has generously offered to see me settled. I am Alice O’Neill. It is good to meet you, Mrs. Needham.”
By the time Toby returned from his explorations, Faith had the landlady’s life story and list of woes without revealing a hint of theirs. Bess Needham had been in service with a duke until she had married and come away to the colonies. She sent Toby a shrewd look when he reappeared in the private parlor where they were taking tea.
“Sit down and have a sip of tea, Mr. O’Reilly. I’ve been telling Mrs. O’Neill that she may stay here while she looks about for a place of her own. A lady in her delicate condition shouldn’t be wandering about in this weather. I’ll take good care of her. You needn’t worry about her anymore.”
At this effective dismissal, Toby shot Faith a worried look. She gave him a smile and touched his callused hand.
“I am trying to persuade Mrs. Needham that she needs to keep the inn open. You will always be welcome, Toby, but I don’t want you to feel responsible for looking after me. Your brother will be thrilled to see you, and I will be happy to have you here. So you will have two homes while you look for one of your own.”
The look of distress on the lad’s face softened the landlady’s generous heart. Bess poured him a cup of tea and handed him a large plate of molasses bread. “We won’t send you out this night. In the morning you can make inquiries. If your brother doesn’t have need of you, perhaps you could help us out here. If the taproom is reopened, we’ll need a man about the place.”
Toby looked in astonishment from Faith’s serene expression to the smiling landlady. In less than an hour, Faith had found home and employment, and convinced a new widow to take on the insurmountable task of running an inn and tavern without the help of a man’s strength.
Chapter 28
The cold March night kept his hosts from opening the doors at the end of the ballroom, but Morgan threw a longing look in that direction. The heat of a thousand candles and hundreds of overdressed bodies pressed around him, and the stink of their unwashed skin perfumed with acrid scents made his head ache. His gorge rose at the sight of the pomaded and powdered hair of the woman dancing on his arm. He was certain she
had not washed that creation since he had seen her the week before. It made his own scalp itch to think of it.
And as usual, such thoughts turned his memories to Faith. She had always smelled clean and fresh. Her hair had gleamed with health and not pomade. She had worn only the lightest of fragrances, scents so subtle he could never be certain if they were of perfume or her own skin. She had been an enchantment that Morgan had never experienced before and obviously never would again. He didn’t know why he had ever thought that she belonged in these crowded ballrooms, breathing the same air as these polluted souls. Perhaps somewhere in this mob there were characters as pure as Faith’s, but he wasn’t destined to meet them. He gazed into the face of the painted beauty on his arm and gave her the smile she expected. She simpered, and Morgan had all he could do to keep from shoving her aside and striding out of the room.
Tonight he would take her to her chambers and give her what she wanted, and in the morning he would tell the general just how to enter the rooms and where her jewels were kept. She was a whore and another man’s wife and she deserved to be robbed of what she had gained by selling her body, but Morgan couldn’t for the life of him remember why he had determined this would even his score with the Sassenachs. He must have been mad. If he continued as he was, he would be as wretched as they.
A footman came to stand at the top of the steps to announce still another contingent of guests to this already overcrowded room. Morgan scarcely paid attention to their arrival, but the music stopped as their names were called, and the sound brought him to attention.
“The Marquess of Mountjoy, Earl Stepney, Lady Lettice Carlisle, Miss Faith Henrietta Montague, and Mr. Thomas Montague.” The intonations rang out clearly, leaving Morgan to gape openly at the new arrivals, his heart pounding as he searched the arriving throng.
It took only a moment’s work to know that Faith wasn’t among the elegant people descending the stairway, despite the servant’s introduction. Sharp disappointment pierced him, easing only briefly when Morgan discovered the delicate woman clinging to an older gentleman’s arm, but it was clear even from across the room that she was elderly. Disappointment once more wrapped him in cold embrace, but Morgan turned his cynical gaze on the frail woman. Thin, wrinkled arms reached from beneath a swathe of black lace covering regal shoulders and proudly held head. This, then, was the woman he had seen so long ago entering Montague House.
Morgan’s gaze drifted to the only other female in the group, and he froze. His black glare should have scorched the impostor even from this distance, but she was too caught up in her charade to notice one man in a room of elegant gentlemen. He watched as she smiled at the rogue at her side, whom Morgan identified immediately as the man who had offered him ten thousand pounds to keep Faith away. He was beginning to understand the stakes at play here, and his jaw clenched.
The woman was no more the image of Faith Henrietta Montague than Morgan was God. By the saints, he would have her crucified. Were they blind? This impostor was a whore, pure and simple. Her painted face sparkled with expensive diamond dust and wore the patches of fashion to accent features that were crude in comparison to Faith’s delicacy. Her bountiful bosom was held up by a tight corset that hid the sag of more years than Faith’s nineteen. The gold crepe gown she wore rode so low that she was in danger of falling out of it. Did the fools think his little Methodist would ever display herself so? They had to be mad, all of them.
Morgan turned his gaze to the last member of the party, Edward Montague, Earl Stepney. It had been dark the night he had robbed the man’s coach, but he wouldn’t forget his form. The earl was a massive man, but Morgan wasn’t fooled by his size. He moved with the agility of an athlete, not the cumbersome gait of unhealthy lard. The man was definitely dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.
But Morgan couldn’t let this masquerade go unmarked. What did they hope to accomplish by passing off that London molly as Faith? Morgan’s gaze returned to the older woman and gentleman being greeted by their host. Brushing off the irate woman trying to cling to his arm, Morgan eased in the direction of the stairway, all thought of the evening’s adventure lost.
The marquess had two living heirs and had written off his younger son without a qualm. Morgan’s gaze focused on Lady Lettice Carlisle. There was no doubting Faith’s heritage if one just looked upon this fragile woman with her proud bearing. The grief in her eyes could tell stories, and Morgan smelled their victim now.
He bided his time, watching the fools introduce their “newly discovered” relative. The painted “Faith” hung on to Thomas’ arm, marking her place in this charade. Morgan felt no sympathy for the Montague saddled with a strumpet. But for Faith’s sake, he would know if the Lady Carlisle might be interested in her real granddaughter.
It was remarkably easy to reach her side. He cut the lady off from her usual cronies by placing himself between them, and backed her into a nook behind a statue where she couldn’t be seen from the room. If Edward Montague noticed, there would be a price to pay, but Morgan counted on the crowd and the element of surprise.
Lady Carlisle studied Morgan’s hard glare. She glanced back to the stairway to show she realized she had become separated from the others. Any decision to escape halted when Morgan spoke.
“Are you party to that strumpet’s charade or do you really have some interest in your granddaughter?”
Lettice observed him closely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. She is my granddaughter. She has the papers to prove it.”
“And you always believe what you read? Did she show you the originals?” He read the doubt in her eyes. She was no fool, but she had pride.
“No, of course not, but after all she’s been through...” She hesitated at his sneer.
“Your granddaughter has been through hell, my lady, but she still has her parents’ marriage papers and her own birth records. She is very much like you, you know.” Morgan surprised himself with these words. He had only meant to stir doubt, to force her to question more closely, but the urge to talk to this slender woman was strong. She reminded him so much of Faith....
The lady’s eyes lit with eagerness. “You know her? You have seen her? Where? Please, you have to tell me. Is she well? She is still alive, isn’t she? Please, whoever you are, tell me the truth.”
Now he was in over his head. This woman couldn’t look after herself and certainly couldn’t protect Faith, but Morgan couldn’t ignore her pleas either. He, too, wished he knew where Faith was. All he could offer the lady was old news, and he did that hesitantly.
“The last I saw of your granddaughter, my lady, she was alive and well. I cannot tell you more than that. I know of a man who might know more, but for Faith’s protection, I would not give away his name. I suspect there are those who would see her harmed.” Morgan threw a glance in the direction of Thomas and his brazen mistress.
Lady Carlisle followed his glance. “Yes, I see. It is difficult, but not impossible. I must find her, sir. Can you not help me?”
Morgan bowed. “I will mention your request to the man I spoke about. I can do nothing more. Good evening, my lady.” He turned and strode away as quickly as he could, losing himself in the crowd.
He had been mad to confront her. With any luck, Faith had successfully escaped this decadent society. What on earth had possessed him to reveal what he had refrained from telling anyone for so long? Why didn’t he just tell the woman he was Faith’s husband while he was putting a gun to his head?
He shouldn’t have thought about that. The pain behind his eyes increased, and he aimed for the doors to the outside, completely forgetting his assignment for the evening.
Her husband. He was her husband, and he had allowed her to get away. There were good reasons for that, but Morgan had long since forgotten them. The hole where she had been in his life hurt worse than an amputated limb. He had spent months not thinking about what he had done. Why had he chosen to do so tonight?
The fresh March
air hit him like a cold bath. Morgan sent for his mount and waited, drinking in the breeze like a starving man. The stench of a thousand chimneys ruined the effect, and when he had his horse under him, he turned it toward the open roads of the country. He had need of real air, of the wind in his face and the stars in the sky. To hell with the city. Tonight he would ride the roads again.
The crawling scum of the streets cursed as Morgan raced by. As he neared the heath on the outskirts of the city, two thieves on the hookpole-lay tried to bring him from his horse, but the stallion was too quick and Morgan’s sword caught one by the arm and sent him groaning into the ditch.
As the countryside flew up around him, Morgan eased the stallion’s pace. He had been thinking about going back to raising horses. He would never earn his fortune that way, but the dissolute life he led now left little for savings. There was scant satisfaction in bleeding the Sassenachs dry vicariously.
He mingled with the society he had hoped to gain at Faith’s side, but it hadn’t made him rich or happy. He must be mad to fall into the thief-taker’s web. It was time he got out.
The horses were his first love. He still had the earnings from the sale of the mares. He could start a new line. Perhaps he would go back and look at the cottage again. He might make something of it for a while. It was not the kind of place gentlemen would go to purchase expensive mounts, but he needed to find and breed the mares first. That would take a little time. He would think about selling them later.
The thought of the cottage eased Morgan’s mind a little. It had only been a roof over his head until Faith came, but his memory of it now was strong and good. He needed some of that goodness tonight. Perhaps a little bit of Faith would rub off on him and lead him in the right direction. He knew what Faith would say, knew what she would want him to do.
But the Sassenachs had taken his bloody damn life, for Christ’s sake. How could he let them get away with it without a fight?
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