The Lady’s Lover Page 10

  “I am glad you are already up and about.” He lowered his tone. “I’ve received a note from one of my men.”

  That startled her. “Delivered here?”

  “Yes. Crawford is one of my most trusted men. He has been in Oxford, searching out an old, disgruntled partner in one of Marstoke’s schemes. When you gave me our destination the other day, I sent a fast courier with orders for Crawford to intercept the Bath Road, follow along it and seek out information on Marstoke or the associates traveling to meet with him. I mentioned we would stop here, at least to check for messages.” He allowed his excitement to show. “It’s good news. Crawford found several of the brothel owners stayed here in Reading, and they departed, heading west, only yesterday morning. He heard a mention of Farleigh Wik, as well. You were right! We are on the right track and if we set out quickly, we can reach the place this evening—and surely catch Marstoke still there.”

  “It’s possible,” she agreed slowly. Stoneacre was surprised she wasn’t more excited. “But he won’t linger, once he’s taken everyone’s payment and given new orders. Moving quickly and often has helped him avoid capture for so long, and he won’t stay where so many people have known him to be.”

  “It’s worth the shot, though, I think you’ll agree.”

  “Definitely.” She nodded. “Is the carriage ready?”

  “I’ve just sent for it. If you don’t mind a quick breakfast downstairs, I’ll leave Crawford a note in case he makes his way back here.”

  Stepping aside in the narrow passage, he waved her ahead. They were shown to a private parlor and once they were seated, Stoneacre pulled his notebook from his coat pocket while Hestia was served a plate of shirred eggs and toast.

  “Sir?” Jenny, the serving girl, stared at him with wide eyes. “I know you enjoyed the mistress’s special tea this morn. I could tell. Shall I fetch you another cup?”

  “Yes, that would be just the thing.” Looking to Hestia, he told her, “The lady of the house makes her own blend and adds in cinnamon and spices. It’s lovely. You should try it.”

  “It sounds divine.” Hestia was watching Jenny.

  The girl didn’t notice. She stood rooted to the spot. Her gaze darted to his notebook, then back to his face.

  “Thank you, Jenny,” the earl said gently. “Forgive our haste. We are in a bit of a hurry this morning.”

  “Oh!” Flushing, she dipped a curtsy and hurried away.

  He opened the book and glanced up to find Hestia watching him, a smile dancing around her eyes.

  “What?” he demanded. She pressed her lips together to hide her amusement, but he could see it anyway. “What is it?”

  “What is what?” She was all innocence.

  “That look.”

  “What look?” she teased, but then she laughed outright and relented. “Nothing at all. I just enjoy watching a master at work.”

  “Master?” He wondered if he should be seriously affronted. “Of what?”

  “Charm? Is that not what you called it when you spoke to the girls at Half Moon House?”

  He made a noncommittal noise.

  She leaned in. “A handsome gentlemen, polite, full of smiles and attention. You remembered her name! Heady stuff for a girl like that, it would seem.” Her tone lowered to a rasp that made the hairs on his neck stand up. “Seduction, others might call it. You’ve won a devotee. That girl would be quite willing to show you to an empty room for a few, fevered minutes of passion.”

  “I, however, would not be willing,” he said icily.

  Smiling, she sat back. “And that’s just one of the many reasons why I like you, Stoneacre.”

  He speared her with a mock glare. “You’ve no room, Pot, to call the Kettle black, in any case. Your soft words and quiet smiles have left jaws dropping on every ostler, groom and innkeeper we’ve encountered.”

  She started in on her eggs. “We do use what we’ve been given, do we not? And if it eases the way . . .” She lifted her shoulder.

  “Well, you’ve eased the way and left a trail of daydreaming men all the way back to London, but I didn’t point it out,” he grumped at her.

  “That’s because you are a gentleman and I am no lady. You would do well to remember it, Stoneacre.”

  He sat back, triumphant, and grinned. “And that is just one of the many reasons why I like you, Hestia.”

  With a raised brow, she conceded him the win and took up a slice of toast. She wouldn’t be so complacent if she knew how true his words were. He tried and failed to imagine Miss Chisholm or another of his mother’s young candidates serving him with a bout of verbal sparring with breakfast. And then he imagined waking every morning to Hestia, to her wit, banter, and her lovely, expressive face—and he had to look down to his notebook again to hide the stab of want that surely must show in his face.

  Slowly, he ripped away a piece of paper and ruthlessly suppressed the emotion. She was not ready for such truths yet.

  “The innkeeper will surely find you some paper, if you do not wish to deplete your own supply,” she said, eyeing his battered journal.

  “No need. Crawford is used to my scribbles.”

  “And knows only to trust a page torn from that book—with a gilded edge and an old ink stain dribbled in the corner?” she asked pointedly.

  With a rueful grin, he snatched a slice of toast from the rack. “You are quick this morning. Am I so obvious?”

  “No. I’ve heard of such careful measures.” Abandoning her eggs, she sat back. “Marstoke has a mark he uses in special correspondence. Did you know?”

  “No.” He frowned. “I can’t recall ever seeing one.”

  “I don’t believe he uses it for business or records. I’ve only found a few instances of it, and usually in messages we’ve intercepted. Direct orders to his highest lieutenants, as he calls them. From what I’ve seen, I think it denotes urgency, but it also authenticates the order.” She nodded toward his journal. “As your unique paper does.”

  “Well, damn him for being intelligent and careful as well as ruthless.” He sighed. “I suppose it’s what makes him so dangerous.”

  “His black heart is what makes him dangerous,” she corrected him.

  “True enough.” He stood. “I’m going to deliver this to the innkeeper. Can you be ready to leave directly?”

  She stood. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  They were on their way shortly, the horses eager in the cool, morning air.

  “I hope you will not mind if I ride inside today,” he said as he handed her in.

  “Not at all.” She gave him a solemn look as he settled across from her. “It gives me the chance to apologize.” She ducked her head for a fraction of a moment, but then lifted her chin and met his gaze straight on. “I do apologize. I should not have . . . jumped at you like that.”

  Stoneacre laughed. “I thought you might demand that I apologize. For once again, I quite enjoyed it.”

  Her lips pressed together and he grew serious. “There is no need for remorse here, Hestia. Tensions are high on this mission of ours. The stakes are higher. Our very lives are at risk—as yesterday proved. Unpredictable reactions are to be expected.”

  “Thank you. It’s true.” She swallowed. “My emotions are unexpectedly wayward.”

  “Well, do not fear. I’m not likely to cry foul and demand compensation for my damaged virtue.”

  That dragged forth a wisp of a smile.

  “There, now.” Switching tones, he went business-like and brisk. “You’ll have to tell me if you object, but I’d planned for us to masquerade as a married couple when we arrive in Bradford-on-Avon. I think we’d do well to switch identities and modes of travel as we go.”

  She nodded agreement. “It will make us more difficult to track.” She worried a loose thread hanging from her pelisse, winding it around her finger in one direction, then another. “A wool merchant would be a good guise, and one that would ring true.”

  “Exactly what I was think
ing. A merchant with an eye to a profitable deal, and a continuing trip to Bath with his wife to celebrate.”

  “It sounds just the thing.”

  Her gaze wandered to the window and he took a moment to appreciate the beauty of her, even with tension creeping back into her spine and tightening the angles of her face.

  “Hestia? What’s worrying you?”

  She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Everything.”

  “Are you thinking of what we’ll find tonight? How do you think Marstoke is handling these people?”

  “He wants something besides money or he wouldn’t have summoned them out here,” she mused.

  “Will he welcome them as guests, do you imagine? Or will it be direct to business?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, suddenly sharp as the knife in his boot. “We could find anything at Farleigh Wick. Anything at all. He could be throwing a lavish party or marching them in like the meanest supplicants. It depends on his mood, and what he might need from them and whether he believes he’ll be more likely to get it using charm or his fist.” She drew a deep breath and shook her head. “I gave up trying to predict his ways long ago. I also refuse to give him any more of my time than absolutely necessary.” Drawing a deep breath, she gave a half smile. “Surely we can find a more enjoyable way to spend our day of travel.”

  Chapter 9

  Opera dancers and actresses—I send you fair warning. Lord M—appears to have a singular antipathy for those women who take to the stage. Many of your numbers have come forward with tales of his cruelty.

  --from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  * * *

  She’d phrased that badly. She could see it in his cutaway glance and feel it in the heavy pause that weighted the air between them.

  “You were right, yesterday, when you said that we were friends and should share. It truly passed the time.” Shifting in her seat, she eyed him, contemplating. “Never let it be said that I don’t play fair. It is my turn, is it not? You shared something you hated.”

  She narrowed her gaze, thinking, while some of the tension faded from his frame.

  Inspiration struck. “Ah, I know! Have you by chance noted the very fine astrolabe hanging in my private parlor?”

  “Yes. It is a lovely piece. I have wondered about it.”

  “I loathe it,” she said simply.

  He blinked. “Loathe it?”

  “I do.”

  “Was it a gift?”

  “No. I purchased it myself. It is exactly like the one my father kept in his study.”

  She could see him pondering. “Did he sail?” he asked.

  “No. He used it to survey field placement, or when he added new land to an estate. He would use it to consult the stars on exactly the right day to plant seed or harvest crops. I was fascinated with the thing. Dazzled by the shine, all the markings. I would stand before it, marveling at its intricacies and longing to know its mysteries.”

  “Did he teach you the use of it?”

  “No. He refused. He would not burden a girl’s mind with such heavy matters. He taught my cousin, however. A boy of twelve. The heir presumptive for my father’s title and wealth.”

  “Ah.” Wisely, Stoneacre said no more.

  “It was one of the first things I bought, once I had a decent amount of money of my own. I hired a student to teach me the workings of it.”

  “And do you use it?” He was patently curious.

  “I occasionally use it to calculate the exact time of sunrise or sunset, if a particular raid or enterprise counts on such things. But no. For me, its most important function is to be there when I am told that I cannot or should not do something. When someone reminds me that something important is out of my sphere. When I am told I am too young, or too old, too weak, or something is beyond my reach because I am a woman. Then I go and I stand before it and I think of all the things I have done and accomplished in the face of such opposition.”

  The look he gave her was full of warmth and approval. She wanted to lean forward and bathe in the heat of it, but she stayed where she was.

  “Then it is a valuable piece, indeed.” He folded his arms. “And now that you tell me, I believe that I love it.”

  She laughed. “Ever contrary.”

  “Oh, yes. I fear so. I’m surprised you hadn’t sussed that out yet.”

  “I should have known, when you said you were resisting your mother’s attempts to marry you off,” she teased, just to remind them both not to enjoy this too much.

  “Oh, I started my career in stubbornness much earlier. When I was barely breeched, my family likes to remind me, I heard someone say that a man was known by the strength of his swing and the cut of his blade. They were talking of earlier times, I realize now, but back then I went straight to the library, climbed a table and took down a rusty sword from the wall. Somehow I managed to knot the thing to my belt and I wore it everywhere. I went outside every day to practice my swing. I refused to be parted from it for weeks.”

  She snorted. “My father would have loved that, if he’d had a son. As it was, I spent a large portion of my childhood attempting to do every small thing a daughter was not supposed to be able to. He enjoyed it for a time, but as soon as I sprouted breasts, I became . . . expendable. An asset to be bartered, perhaps, for something more useful. ”

  “He sounds like a damned fool,” Stoneacre said baldly. “Perhaps fatherhood does something to men. Certainly, my father has had his moments of foolishness.”

  She brightened. “We could entertain ourselves for hours if we compare the ridiculous things our families have said.”

  “Too easy.” He raised a brow. “Tell me instead, something they said that turned out to be true.”

  She stared at him. After a moment, she shook her head. “You do like to challenge me, Stoneacre.”

  He laughed. “I do. I truly do enjoy it, I confess.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Her voice lowered and she startled even herself when she heard how much she sounded like her father. “You’ll go out and meet many people in your lifetime. They will seem fine, upstanding, even pleasant, but the vast percentage of them won’t care two farthings for you or what happens to you.”

  His eyes widened.

  “A harsh truth,” she said evenly. “Harsher still to discover that he was part of the vast percentage.” She’d suffered many instances of being forced to concede her father had been right—and had despised him anew each time.

  She was, after all, the infamous Hestia Wright. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people knew her name. Thought they knew her story. She’d met a great many of them, too. They greeted her with a variety of reactions. Avid curiosity. Palpable desire. Disdain. Fascination. Mortification. They all wanted to meet her. Damned few wished to know her. Fewer still cared those two farthings worth.

  Stoneacre, however, appeared supremely unaffected by this basic, terrible truth. “Eh.” He lifted a shoulder. “One only needs a few real friends in life. It doesn’t matter if the circle is small as long as the caring is real.”

  She was impressed. It had taken her a long time to understand this was true, as well—and it had saved her. It didn’t help her now, though, as she was starting to care for him.

  Another harsh truth. Beyond his broad shoulders and fine, strong cheekbones, and the utter masculinity that kept tickling her senses and reminding her how sweet it was to react with prickling skin and tingling nerves and a thumping heart, she liked better his wit and quick smile and ready courage.

  Her mouth opened. Closed. But then she said it—the further bit that made her feel even more miserably like her father. “Yes. A few are enough, as long as they are the right ones.”

  He wasn’t the right one. Not for her. She had to keep reminding herself. Reminding him. They were spending this time together with a purpose. Once they’d dealt with Marstoke, she would go back to Half Moon House and he would go haring off wherever Prinny sent him—and he would eventually go to the altar wi
th one of those sweet, innocent girls his mother pushed at him.

  Damn the truth, anyway.

  “My father told me that people will admire your virtues but remember your mistakes,” he told her.

  She grimaced. “He was right about that.”

  “Also, to always give substantial vails to the servants at coaching inns and house parties. It is the largest part of their livelihood and your best path away from scorched meat, lost buttons and scuffed boots.”

  She laughed. He was clearly trying to lighten the atmosphere. She followed him into an exchange of amusing-but-true advice until he left her laughing with a last gem from his father.

  “In case I was worried about growing older,” he said. “My father reassured me that an elderly man might find it takes longer to cock the gun, but his aim is just as true.”

  She laughed, imagining his reaction to hearing the innuendo. “And I always heard your father is straight laced!”

  “He is.”

  “Oh, well, it must have been something that was worrying you greatly, then, for him to loosen up, so.”

  “I wasn’t worried about it all, until he brought it up!”

  They both laughed then and Stoneacre shifted on his bench and she abruptly realized that one of the reasons she’d been feeling so warm and comfortable was because one of his long legs had been pressed to hers, in the narrow space between them. And she hadn’t even noticed. Or allowed herself to notice.

  She straightened, moving away, and then they both looked up as the carriage noticeably slowed.

  Stoneacre lowered the window and peered ahead. “We’re in Lambourn already,” he said, surprised, as he drew back in. “We’ll be able to stretch our legs while the horses are changed.”

  It felt good to walk about a bit. Hestia spoke with the wife of the inn’s owner for a few pleasant moments, but there was no news of any trouble or of any obvious London bawds. Mindful of Stoneacre’s life lesson, she gave the woman a coin and turned away with a smile as the earl came hurrying from the stables.