He holds out a glove. A smile lights the woman’s face as she collects it. The man pats him on the shoulder. I sink back in the seat. Oliver risked his own well-being for the sake of a forgotten glove? I move over when he climbs back in, marveling at the strange act.
As he settles beside me, the old man across from us leans forward. “That were a kind act, missus.”
“Oh, you know… A lady needs both of her gloves.” Oliver trills an off-key laugh that is more haggish than ladylike.
I cannot help but chuckle and am glad for the veil hiding my face as I study him. With all his unpredictability and compassion, I could learn to like a fellow such as this. And even in the outmoded bonnet, he is a handsome man.
He peers over at me, a single brow raised beneath the brim. “Something amusing, dearie?”
My grin grows so wide my cheeks hurt. When was the last time a man made me smile so much? The question immediately douses my humour, and I avert my gaze, more on guard than ever before. A man who can make me laugh is a hazard to my heart, and I have enough peril in my life at the moment.
Once again I settle into the rhythm of the coach. Two stops later, we all exit. Even those who’d paid lesser fares and were seated up top climb down to the ground. Horses must be changed, and the driver needs a bite to eat. I’m not so hungry, but surely Oliver is. I turn to ask him, but he is gone.
Gone?
I spin in a circle, searching the milling people for a broad-shouldered, tatty-gowned old woman. Where could he have—ahh. Bag in hand, Oliver darts rather unladylike behind the inn, no doubt heading to the privy for a quick change. I am surprised he lasted this long in petticoats.
The sun peeks behind a bank of clouds while I wait, and I gaze to the west. Rain could drag our thirteen-hour trek into fifteen or more. A pewter blanket heads my way, tucking the blue beneath it as it lazily edges across the sky. At least it’s not black. Riding in a coach with the windows closed against rain does not rank high on my list of preferences.
Near the front door of the inn, a patch-haired mongrel sits in the dirt. Ribs washboard at his sides as he breathes hard, tongue lolling. Poor thing. Though he is not nearly as bad as Malcolm when I’d found him, still my heart lurches, and I cannot stop from cooing kind words as I approach him.
“There’s a good fellow.” Stooping, I reach out my hand. “There’s a good boy.”
Liquid brown eyes stare up at me. Tentatively, a fuzzy muzzle sniffs my fingers. And just like that, we are friends. I scratch behind his ear. He leans into it, one hind leg kicking with pleasure. I’d love to bring this dog to Morden Hall, give him a good home, steady meals, and a faithful companion such as my Malcolm. Perhaps if he’s still here on my return trip, I will see about coaxing the coachman into allowing him to board.
“Replacing me so soon?”
I rise, turning towards Oliver’s deep voice, and my breath catches. He is a man of extremes. He made a hilarious old woman, with his shambling about and critchedy voice, but now garbed in an old suit of Dobbs’s, nipped and tucked by Nora’s able fingers, he is a dashing gentleman, albeit a bit shabby around the edges. Dobbs is no fashion plate.
I give the dog a final pat on the head. “I gave the matter some thought, but I suppose you will do.”
“I am happy to hear it.” He leans close, near enough to smell the leftover scent of rosemary soap on his skin. “And I’m even more happy to be rid of those miles of fabric. Shall we?”
Oliver offers his arm and ushers me inside the establishment. After ordering at the bar, he escorts me to a table in the corner. Once he is settled on the chair opposite, his body blocks me from any curious onlookers as I remove my veil. Admittedly, his position is a boon for him as well, since he faces away from the other patrons.
It is surprisingly bright without the thick lace in front of my eyes, and I blink at him. “While I’ve no doubt you are more comfortable in trousers, I must say you managed your costume with finesse. Do you have sisters, perhaps, that you learned to mince about so proficiently?”
“No, though I admit to a keen study of the fairer sex.” He winks, and the effect is altogether too attractive. “And you? What of your family?”
“There is only my father. Mother died in childbirth, along with my younger brother.”
“My condolences.” Pity softens his tone.
I wave off his concern. “It was long ago. Papa and I learned to get on.”
Just then the serving girl arrives, handing a plate of mutton and mash to Oliver and a bowl of stew to me. I take a sip, then peer over at Oliver. “What of your family? Your mother and father?”
“My mother passed on when I was ten, at which point I was promptly trundled off to boarding school.” He trims the fat from his meat into a neat pile on the side of his plate, then pops a bite into his mouth.
The stew warms my belly, but after a few more mouthfuls, I set down my spoon. Traveling always steals my appetite. So I go back to querying Oliver while he eats with gusto. “And your father?”
Muscles work at the sides of his jaws, and he spears another piece without glancing at me. “He lives.”
I lean back in my chair, ignoring the scrapes of forks and knives and chattering patrons around us. “Your father must have been devastated when you went to prison.”
He slams his fork down, and the fierce stranger I’d glimpsed once before stares out at me through Oliver’s eyes. “Must he?”
I suck in a breath. “Forgive me, I—”
“No, forgive me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deep and breathing out long and low. By the time he looks at me again, a sheepish, lopsided smile quirks his lips. The man is as changeable as an April wind. “I’m afraid all that time in a gown has made me quite snappish.”
I stare. Something deeper is at play behind those hazel eyes of his, and it has to do with his family—his father. But far be it from me to broach that inflamed subject again.
I return his half smile. “I shall take that into consideration when planning our disguises in Bath. Speaking of which, have you solidified our plan of action?”
“Just about.”
Hmm. His noncommittal answer means either he is unwilling to share his idea or he doesn’t actually have one yet. Neither appeals. I open my mouth to protest when a great bellow from the front of the public room turns everyone’s heads.
“Coach is boarding! Five minute warning.”
“Time to go.” Oliver pushes back his chair and rises. I do the same. Once again he offers his arm, all civility and with the best gentlemanly manners—except out of the corner of my eye, just before I lower the veil over my face, I catch him palming the fat off his plate and hiding it in his fist.
What in the world?
Sore ankle or not, it was sheer freedom to stretch one’s legs instead of fighting against the dead weight of petticoats. And who wouldn’t wish to have a beautiful woman—despite her veil—hanging on his arm? A man could do far worse. Oliver should be in a banner mood, and he knew it—which only irritated him all the more.
Jaw clenched, he stepped outside. He’d prided himself on controlling his emotions, caging his anger, hiding his innermost thoughts. Not anymore. Was it the doe-eyed probing by Maggie Lee or a latent rage left over from prison that’d nearly tipped his hand about his estranged relationship with his father? He hadn’t thought of the man so passionately for years. Why now?
Bah! He ground his teeth. Cassius Ward wasn’t worth a second thought. No man was who didn’t show up for his own son’s trial—especially a father who’d worked in the legal profession for decades.
Shoving down the raw sentiments, Oliver surreptitiously held out his hand as they passed the dog by the door, revealing the fat from his chops on an upturned palm. A cold nose brushed against his skin as the animal mouthed the treat. No doubt the morsels were gone in one gulp, though he didn’t slow to look. No sense getting too friendly with the mongrel. He’d done all he could for the beast. His step hitched. Was that per
haps how his father felt about him?
Interesting concept, that. One he’d tuck away and revisit later in the dark of night when no one could see the anguish on his face.
He helped Maggie up into the coach, then paused on the step before entering. Taking advantage of the slight elevation, he gazed down the road towards Lydford—leastwise as far as he could see before the lane cut off into a curve. He squinted, keen on spying any horseman riding hell-bent after them, but no cloud of kicked-up dirt or lathered horse bolted their way. Perhaps Barrow was yet tied up with whoever had tailed him. It was only right the pursuer got a taste of what it was to be pursued.
Satisfied, he ducked inside the coach and sank onto the cracked leather seat next to Maggie. It didn’t sit well that by occupying the place at the window he exposed her to the discomfort of being jostled into the old man seated beside her, but truly it was a necessary evil. He might save them if he spied Barrow in time to escape the bully. How exactly he’d accomplish that, though, was as frustrating as coming up with a plan to take down Corbin and return the jewels—a plan he had yet to conjure.
“I saw what you did.” Maggie’s resonant voice pulled his face from the glass.
Blast! He’d lingered too long on the step, stared a little too hard down the road, and now that she’d picked up on his concern, she’d worry as well—a fate he’d hoped to spare her.
“Truly you needn’t—”
“Don’t be so modest, sir.” She wagged her finger. “It was a kind thing you did, feeding that poor dog.” She leaned closer, her breath warm, her voice low against his ear. “You are a very kind man for a convict.”
The muscles in his shoulders loosened, and he relaxed against the bouncing seat. Either the woman was hiding behind a mask without him sensing it—and she very well could be, judging by her fame on stage—or she still didn’t know Barrow had spied them coming into town.
Despite his vigil, the next hours passed uneventfully. Never once did Maggie let on she suspected the threat that at any moment might gallop up behind them. Nor did she complain of the monotonous ride or the influx of passengers forcing them into tighter and tighter quarters. Even when they stopped for dinner, she graced him with pleasant conversation instead of sniping about the rain that seeped from the heavens in a bone-chilling drizzle.
How many women did that? A few saints, perhaps, but none of those who ran in his usual circles, where a perfected pout was considered a beauty mark.
They pulled into Bath just before midnight, stopping in front of a gas-lit coaching inn. The Saracen’s Head was a cheery beacon on this wicked eve of cold and damp. A warm mug of mulled cider and a soft mattress would be a welcome respite after thirteen hours on the road. Too bad they wouldn’t be staying.
Oliver edged past Maggie and the old couple who’d managed the grueling ride mostly by snoring, then opened the carriage door and planted his feet on wet cobblestones. Reaching up, he assisted all three out. The coachman was too busy hailing a porter to help him unload the baggage.
After a thorough handshake and a “thank you,” the elderly gent and his lady shuffled off. Maggie sighed as she watched them go.
“In an odd sort of way, I shall miss them—”
The crack of a whip turned her head towards the front of the coach. “Off with ye!” the coachman roared. “Ye grime-faced little weasel!”
Footsteps slapped the wet pavement. Careening around the horses, a dark shape darted their way and didn’t stop until just the other side of Oliver.
A young boy lifted his face. He might be eight, maybe nine, or perhaps seventy-two. Judging by the wary, hard-edged glint in his eyes, the lad had already lived a hundred lifetimes on the streets. Too much knowledge sharpened that gaze. Too much hunger and need sculpted those cheekbones.
“Any ha-pennies to spare, sir?” His teeth—one of the front missing completely—chattered as he spoke, and no wonder. A ragpicker would turn up his nose at the gauze-thin shirt draped over the boy’s bony shoulders.
Oliver’s heart twisted. The poor. The downtrodden. The weak and vulnerable. These were who he’d been fighting so hard for in Parliament when Corbin had stolen his voice and locked him away. He shoved his hand into his pocket, only to finger nothing but fabric. He’d spent the last of Maggie’s coins on their dinner.
“I said off!” the coachman barked again, closer, louder.
Oliver spun, catching the man’s arm just as he was about to once again wield the whip. “Leave him be. He’s just a boy.”
Sneering, the fellow wrenched from his grip. “That’s no boy. He’s a thievin’ cully who’ll lift yer purse and slit yer throat before you can take a breath.” He reared back his arm.
“I said leave him be,” Oliver growled and struck.
An elbow to the gut was enough to slacken the coachman’s grip. Oliver snatched the whip and threw it aside, nearly stumbling when he landed full force on his sore ankle.
The coachman grumbled curses, an amazing feat considering how he sucked air in through his teeth. “Fine,” he spit out and pivoted. “But don’t go blamin’ me when the by-blow robs ye blind.”
Oliver smirked. He didn’t have a thing of his own the boy could pilfer. Turning back to the lad, he peeled off his sack coat and wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders, then stooped, face to face. “I’ve not a penny to give you, boy, but you can have my coat.”
“Caw, sir!” Wonder lit the boy’s face, erasing years, restoring his rightful youth. “I’ll not forget this. Thank ye.”
“Thank God, boy. I’d not have had a coat to give you were it not for Him.” He tussled the boy’s hair and stood. “But were I you, I’d make a run for it. That coachman’s in a foul mood, now more than ever.”
The boy dashed down the street, coat hem swinging at his knees, and disappeared into the misty darkness. It was only one small lad. One used piece of clothing. But after the horrors and degradation of nine months in prison, the act did much to restore a measure of humanity to Oliver’s soul.
Satisfied, he turned and faced Maggie, who stood with a hand pressed to her chest and a gape so wide, he could see the shadowy silhouette of it beneath her veil.
The full reality of what he’d just done hit him hard in the belly. She’d given him that coat, begged it off her manservant, and now without it, he was in a state of woeful undress. Shame burned white hot up his neck. The coat was never his to give, nor would she wish to be seen with a man in naught but shirtsleeves and a waistcoat.
“I…” What was he to say? She had every right to be angry. He cleared his throat and coaxed the most soothing tone he could manage. “Forgive me. Once my freedom and fortune are restored, I vow I shall replace Dobbs’s coat, and as soon as humanly possible, I shall borrow a replacement.”
She shook her head. “When will you stop doing that?”
Puzzled, he rubbed the back of his neck. Did she really think he’d give away more? “Soon, hopefully. I’m only a waistcoat and shirtsleeves away from indecency.”
“No.” She stepped closer. “I mean when will you stop surprising me?”
“Oh, that.” Relief tasted sweet, and he grinned. “Well, probably not tonight. Come along. I’ll grab our baggage.”
He turned to go, but her hand on his arm stayed him.
“The porter can get it. Come. Let’s go inside.”
Though he hated to refuse her, he shook his head. “No, we are not staying here.”
“What do you mean?” Her chin angled like a curious tot’s. “Where will we go?”
“If I tell you all my secrets, then you won’t be surprised anymore, hmm?”
“But it’s so late.” As if on cue, she lifted a hand to her veil, stifling a yawn—and the sight grated against his resolve. So did the fatigue fraying her usual dulcet tones. “Might we not stay here just the one night?”
He ground his teeth, debating. It would be safer to lodge elsewhere, someplace less public, away from prying eyes. But her shoulders drooped and there was no denying
the weariness in her voice. And all the long way here, he’d not seen one sign of Barrow.
Shoving down the last of his doubt, he offered his arm. “Very well. One night cannot hurt, I suppose.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sebastian had two problems: an overwhelming desire to stop for a smoke and nod off for a few minutes, and his damp trousers. Every blessed step of his horse, each sway and creak of the saddle chafed the inside of his thighs raw. Gads, but it’d been a long day yesterday—first wasting time in dodging the inn’s men bent on retribution for his rough handling of the ostler. Then the problem of finding Morden Hall empty save for the servants. By the time they hired a suitable horse for Groat to ride, night had fallen. Yet soon this would end. Likely today. Maybe even within the hour, for he was close—very close. He could feel it in his bones.
Midmorning, the streets of Bath were a riot, teeming with costermongers, housewives, and drays hauling barrels and lumber and loads of manure. Sebastian shifted gingerly on his mount and scowled. Cities were rife with noise and sin—which was why he preferred the quiet life at Dartmoor Prison. Oh, a few howls and curses cut into the peace there, but nothing like the droning humanity on these streets.
The Saracen’s Head was no less busy. Sebastian dismounted near the front door, just past a gaggle of women tittering on about who knew what. Wendell Groat followed suit, his shiny leather shoes clattering onto the pavement next to him. Not one of the man’s black hairs was out of place. He’d ridden surprisingly well throughout the night, as if he were used to damp cold and darkness, and looked no worse for the wear after the hard ride.
Sebastian pulled an extra pistol from his pocket, keeping his larger, double-action Adams for himself. “Here.” He held it out. “Ward’s a desperate man. This could get ugly.”
“I’m not here for Ward.” Groat pushed the barrel away with a bony finger. “And I don’t need a gun.”
The House at the End of the Moor Page 13