A Lady's Ruinous Plan

by Lora Darling

  “Where are we going?” It seemed an innocent enough question.

  “Gretna Green.”

  “I see.” Dear God. She had suspected as much, given the direction they were headed and the number of hours they had been on the road, but hearing him admit his intentions made the situation alarmingly real. She forced herself to chuckle. “And here I had always believed ladies were only kidnapped and hauled off to Gretna Green within the pages of horrid novels.”

  “You thought wrong. Now shut your mouth, or I’ll gag you again.” Petley slouched upon his bench with his hat tugged low over his eyes. The carriage hit a rather jarring rut, and he swore under his breath then banged a gloved fist against the ceiling.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” the driver called. “’Tis getting hard to see. Shall we put up for the night?”

  Petley grunted while palming his watch. He snapped open the face, scowled, then barked at the driver to pull off at the next inn. Shoving the watch back into its pocket, he tapped his hat brim and exposed his eyes in order to glare at Eirene. “One wrong move or word from you and your night will become very uncomfortable. Understand?”

  She nodded, thinking it wiser to remain silent. Plus, silence allowed her to think. It was rather obvious she had to escape Petley’s company, lest she end up married to the man. The inn would provide the best opportunity, but she would have to play her cards wisely. Men such as Petley did not play the fool twice. If her attempt failed, she might find herself lashed to the carriage roof or worse. She need only be conscious to speak wedding vows.

  Petley shifted to the edge of his bench and reached for her. It took a moment for him to untie the silk knots, but finally, she was free. She shook her hands, then winced at the sudden return of blood to her fingers. Ignoring the tingling, she closed and opened her hands into fists.

  “We will secure a room as husband and wife, and you’ll say nothing to the contrary, understand?” He grunted in approval when she nodded in understanding. “Good. I was hoping you were smart enough to see reason. I would hate to do any damage to your lovely face or form, and don’t think I wouldn’t.”

  Eirene averted her gaze from the man across the aisle and looked out the window. The night beyond was dark and thick with fog. “Where are we?”

  “No idea.” Offering nothing further on the matter, Petley resumed his slouch, crossed his arms, and dipped his chin to once more hide beneath the brim of his hat.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Petley cocked his head in order to stare at her with one eye, its black iris absorbing the meager light from the swaying carriage lantern. “Come now, Lady Rowe-Weston, I informed you of my reasons.”

  “You want my money.”

  “And I will have it.” He sat up and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his direct stare unnervingly steady. “I had hoped it would not come to this, but you left me no choice. If only you had permitted me to call, we might have had a normal courtship.”

  “I did not come to London to be courted, Lord Petley.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms. “Why did you come to London?”

  Eirene shifted her gaze out the window once more. “That is none of your concern.”

  “Perhaps not, but there is something that greatly concerns me and that is your relationship with Benoit.”

  She turned sharply to look at him. “I have no relationship with Vicomte Benoit.”

  He tsked and shook his head. “You are attempting to play stupid again, my lady, and it is not an act that suits you. Now answer the question. What is between you and Benoit?”

  “Nothing beyond a foolish moment of passion, which I instantly regretted.”

  “Is that so?” He studied her for a few moments, then slowly smiled. “Why, then, did you feel the need to pay him a visit this morning? Hmm? A rather lengthy visit, I might add.”

  “Were you following me?” Her skin grew cold at the thought of being stalked like prey.

  “Let us just say I was keeping an eye on Benoit.” He waved his hand. “But, please, you were about to explain the reason for your visit.”

  Obviously, she could not tell him the truth, that she’d gone to Adrien to propose a faux engagement. “To be honest, my reason is rather humiliating.”

  She looked away and affected what she hoped was a reasonably convincing expression of shame.

  “Come, my lady, do not turn shy now. After all, you are to be my bride.”

  The words turned Eirene’s stomach. “I went to him in a moment of weakness”—she lowered her voice—“to see if the things he said to me at Lady Palmer’s were true. They were not.” She looked across the aisle. “So, I assure you, there is nothing between Lord Benoit and myself and never will be.” Saying the words aloud caused a shocking degree of pain.

  “Is that so?” Petley once more leaned forward in order to search every inch of her face with his fathomless, dark eyes. “Let us assume for a moment you are lying, hmm? No, no, play along, my lady. If you still carry a torch for Benoit, there are a few things you should be made aware of. For starters, he is not whom he claims to be.”

  She had no idea if it would be to her benefit or detriment to admit she knew the truth about Adrien, so she remained silent and schooled her features.

  “In fact,” Petley continued, in an oh-so-self-satisfied tone. “He is nothing but a commoner, a blacksmith’s son.” He glanced at his knuckles, which displayed a smattering of bruises. “There was nothing blue about his blood.” He winked at her.

  “You wasted your time hurting the monsieur. He truly wants nothing to do with me.”

  “One can never be too careful, my lady, and I needed to make certain Adrien understood the lay of the land.” The carriage rolled to a stop, causing Petley to shift his gaze out the window. Eirene did the same and saw they had arrived at the coaching inn. It was a large, white-washed, square structure with narrow, black-shuttered windows and a sagging roof. A weathered sign swung above the door declaring, The Devil’s Inn, est. 1456.

  “Charming,” Petley murmured before throwing open the coach door and jumping down onto the gravel. He pitched slightly forward as if thrown off balance, then swore under his breath.

  The driver appeared over his shoulder. “Easy, your lordship,” he warned while placing a steadying hand upon Petley’s shoulder. “These stones haven’t seen a rake in God knows how long. You’ll be needing to watch your step.”

  “Yes, quite.” Petley shrugged off the man’s hand, then reached inside toward Eirene. “Do not dawdle, my dear.” He squeezed her fingers and all but pulled her from the coach. The uneven gravel shifted beneath her walking boots, adding weight to the driver’s keen warning.

  Petley tucked her hand around his elbow, then turned to the driver. “See to the horses, and if this place has a decent pair, switch them out. I trust your assessment of the matter.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man doffed his hat and strolled away. It did not take long for him to vanish into the thick shadows.

  Eirene looked about the courtyard. The torch burning alongside the inn door and the two posts marking the entrance to the yard did little to illuminate the vast space. She shivered with unease. Anyone or anything could emerge from the darkness without a lick of warning.

  Petley moved forward, giving her a little tug to ensure she kept pace. “No doubt you are accustomed to more elaborate lodgings, but we paupers must make do.” He shot her a scathing look that even the darkness around them could not hide.

  She hiked up her skirts with her free hand and lengthened her stride. He was a tall man with very long legs. “For a pauper, you play the part of a wealthy lord to perfection.”

  He halted without warning, causing her to almost stroll right by him. “Do you have any idea what would become of me if my lack of financial stability were to become public?”

  “There is no shortage of financially pressed gentlemen cavorting about London, Lord Petley. You would hardly be shunned.” He acted a
s if the only thing standing between life and death was his faux wealth.

  “You know nothing.” He pivoted on his boot heels and began walking again, pulling her along at his side. “My sister’s debut would fail before it had a chance to happen. She would be labeled a treasure seeker and forced to settle for a man twice her age and burdened with children.” He shot her a glare. “I’ll not have my sister suffer a loveless marriage to a man more in need of a governess than a wife.”

  “Yet you have no qualms about forcing me into a loveless match.”

  “This marriage will only last as long as it takes to transfer your wealth into my name.”

  If he hadn’t had a hold of her, she would have stopped dead in her tracks. Had he just insinuated what it sounded like? Did he mean to marry her, take control of her wealth, then dispose of her? By what means? Death? An asylum? A dark attic? If given a choice, the former seemed the most merciful. God help her.

  The inside of the inn was just as dark and unwelcoming as the yard. The ceiling sagged in places, as if tired of bearing the weight of the rooms above, and the floor pitched and heaved, as if the planks had been laid over freshly dug graves. She stepped lightly, fearful of what might lay underfoot as well as the possibility a bed might come crashing down upon her head at any moment. Cautious maneuvering proved a difficult task considering the tables and chairs canted at odd angles in deference to the uneven flooring. Sidestepping one meant knocking into the next, which sent up a thick plume of dust so foul her eyes watered and her throat burned.

  Perhaps the date on the sign also indicated the last time a broom had been employed.

  They reached the low counter built into the back wall of the establishment. A low-burning lantern hung on a nearby pillar, illuminating a young girl with a bruised eye, lank, dirty-blond hair, and surprisingly pretty features. She scowled as they approached.

  “We need a room,” Petley announced without preamble. “Your best.”

  Eirene almost laughed. A public mews would likely put this place to shame.

  “I suppose you be expectin’ a hot meal as well, yer lordship?” the girl asked the question while plunking a very large key on the counter, followed by a covered taper, which she lit with shaking, scarred hands. The glass rattled dangerously as she slid it back over the flame.

  “If you have anything decent to eat in this establishment, yes.”

  “Oh, aye, we do. Folks come from all over for our meat pies, they do.”

  Eirene glanced back at the very empty taproom. Perhaps they had missed this evening’s rush of hungry patrons.

  “Yes, that sounds fine. And a decent ale if you have it.” Petley took the key in one hand while tossing a few coins upon the counter with the other. “My lady will require the services of a maid, and a hot bath would be most welcome.”

  Good lord, was Petley blind? They’d be lucky to find an empty chamber pot in their room, let alone a hot bath and a lady’s maid.

  The girl chortled and slid a glance in Eirene’s direction. “Can’t your fancy man unlace you, my lady?”

  Her snide remark earned her the sting of Petley’s backhand. Eirene could not have said which of them was more shocked by his actions, her or the girl. Blinking back tears, the girl ducked her head and mumbled an apology before declaring herself the only servant available.

  “Then I suggest you get busy filling buckets.” Snatching up the candle, Petley stalked toward the narrow staircase, pausing to look back as he reached the bottom. “My lady?”

  Eirene attempted to catch the servant’s eye, but the girl scurried out from behind the counter and vanished through a swinging door. With no other choice, Eirene gathered her skirts and followed Petley. He held the candle aloft, though its flickering flame offered little to no illumination. In addition to the lack of light, the stairs pitched sharply to the left, making for a precarious journey to the top. The narrow, low-ceilinged corridor was no better, though Petley walked with his shoulders back and chin up as though traversing the floorboards of a grand palace.

  She added delusional to his list of faults, which already included arrogant, unpredictable, and after his behavior toward the girl, violent.

  Their room was located at the end of the corridor and up a short flight of stairs. It was large, cold, filthy, and foul smelling, and she was grateful for the pathetic glow of the candle lest a brighter light reveal things best left unseen. Hoping for a bit of fresh air, she moved to one of the two leaded glass windows, but it refused to open. The other proved just as stubborn. Wonderful.

  “Allow me.” Petley nudged her aside and managed to open the window a scant two inches before it stuck. The powerful smell of manure and horse wafted into the room.

  Clasping her hand over nose and mouth, Eirene gagged. “Perhaps we should reconsider the wisdom of spending the night?”

  Petley turned and propped a hip against the sill. “If you are so eager to become my bride, I see no reason to wait for the vows.” He pushed away from the window and stalked toward her. “I’m not keen to have Benoit’s leavings, but for you, I shall make an exception.”

  Eirene backed up until her legs hit the hard frame of the bed. “Do not touch me.”

  Laughing, he reached her in two strides and latched onto her arms with a bruising grip. “You put on such airs for someone who spread her legs for the son of a blacksmith.” He yanked her against his body and lowered his head.

  Eirene twisted away from the descent of his mouth. “We cannot. I cannot.” She looked him in the eye. “I am indisposed, my lord.”

  He released her, as if she had claimed to have the plague. “A convenient excuse, but how do I know it is true?”

  “If it is proof you require…” She gathered fistfuls of her skirt and began to lift it. As the material rose to knee height, Petley blanched and held up his hands in surrender. Relieved that he had fallen for the ruse, she dropped her gown and smoothed out the wrinkles.

  “No matter, your lack of virginity plays in my favor. Whether I touch you or not, your body will show proof of consummation, rendering our marriage legal and most binding.”

  Sound reasoning if not for one minor flaw. Her virginity was still very much intact, giving her a weapon she would not hesitate to employ.

  ****

  Adrien tightened his hold on the reins in order to coax Chevalier down to a trot. It frustrated him they had not seen a hint of Petley’s carriage, let alone overtaken it as he believed they might, but he’d been pushing his faithful stallion hard for hours and would do neither of them any favors by keeping to the punishing pace. The horse needed to rest, and he needed to give his ribs a break from the painful jarring. Besides, it had become too dark to safely continue without fear of misstep. He’d never forgive himself if Chev came up lame.

  The road ahead offered no clear pull off, so he merely guided Chev onto the grass and under a large, heavy-limbed tree. The horse snorted and tossed his head, excited by the much needed moment of rest.

  “Easy, boy,” Adrien cooed. He slid his hand under the thick, black mane to check for signs that he’d pushed his mount too hard, but the quivering flesh was devoid of lather. Giving Chev a hearty pat, he swung a leg over the front of the saddle to dismount. His ribs protested the jarring impact of his feet hitting the ground, but after a few shallow breaths, the pain eased.

  Turning his attention to securing Chevalier, he tossed the reins over a low branch and went to work removing saddle and blanket. Chev gave a mighty ripple of relief as the weight was lifted from his back.

  “Enjoy while you can, my friend. We can’t rest for long.” Adrien set the saddle at the base of the tree, covered it with the blanket, and took a seat against it. He stretched out his legs and lifted his arms over his head to work out the kinks that came from being in the saddle for an extended time. The movement did his ribs no favors, but he ignored the pain. He’d come to the conclusion that nothing was broken, and he was fairly certain no one had ever died from a bruised rib. It was too important t
hat he find Eirene to allow a bit of pain to stop him.

  Completing the stretch, he drew up his knees and lowered his arms to cross them over his chest. How far had Sam and Eirene managed to travel in the last eight or so hours? It would be days before they reached Gretna, and he had no doubt that was Sam’s intended destination. Assuming they put up for the night, if for no other reason than to rest the horses, Chev should overtake them at some point. Plus, there was the fact Sam was traveling with a woman and concessions had to be made for her comfort. Hell, if luck were on Adrien’s side, perhaps Sam would decide to spend an entire night at a coaching inn—

  “Mere de Dieu,” Adrien cursed as the unthinkable filtered into his mind. If Sam laid a single finger on Eirene, he would pay dearly for it. Though knowing Eirene, she no doubt believed herself perfectly capable of handling anything Petley might throw her way. But unless the woman had armed herself before taking her ill-advised stroll, she would find herself at a severe disadvantage. Petley was the sort of aggressor who would not stop until the fight was won. He was a wild boar intent upon charging until someone put a bullet between its eyes.

  God willing, it would not come to that. Adrien had no desire to shoot Cyril’s cousin. In fact, he had vowed not to. But Cyril had to realize, Eirene’s safety trumped Petley’s well-being. After all, she was the woman Adrien loved. Whether she ever accepted his affection or not, it did not change his need to see her safe. If she wished to live out her days secluded in the country, c’est la vie. He would respect whatever decision she made, but not before he laid his heart bare one last time.

  But first he had to find her.

  Chevalier chose that moment to toss his head and dance in place. The stallion’s agitation brought Adrien to his feet. Running a hand along the horse’s side, he cooed softly, but Chevalier refused to settle.

  “What is it, boy?” Adrien searched the darkness. The sliver of a moon offered little to no illumination, but he’d had hours to acclimate his eyes to the night. He saw nothing. Whatever had spooked Chev, likely a rabbit or fox, had moved on. And they should do the same.