Anita Mills (4 page)

He was drawn to the faraway, almost stricken expression in her brown eyes. She was in a devil of a coil, and he could not help pitying her for it. If Fordyce had any family of note, she could expect little justice from a system more bent on protecting the sensibilities of the wealthy than in discovering the truth.

And yet something was wrong with her tale. Albert Bascombe had said Fordyce was run off his legs, which made Anne Morland’s tale suspect. A man already in dun territory did not steer his barque toward a penniless female. Perhaps Miss Morland had led Fordyce on, hoping for an honorable offer, and when she discovered marriage wasn’t on his mind, she parted his skull with the poker. But that didn’t ring true either. In spite of the circumstances of their encounter, Dominick was ready to wager that she was one of those shabby-genteel respectable females.

“Tell me, Miss Morland,” he asked suddenly, “what is it about you that prompted Fordyce to abduct you?”

His voice cut into her reverie, and for a moment she was not sure she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“What is it about you that prompted Fordyce to abduct you?” he repeated.

“I have not the slightest idea.”

“While your face is passable enough, it scarce seems sufficient to provoke desperate, unbridled passion,” he mused aloud. “And if you are worried about your employer, you obviously have no money,” he added with crushing candor.

“I told you—I don’t know,” she retorted, irritated. “He knew my situation, I assure you.”

“While you are a trifle tall and a bit too slender for my tastes, I suppose it could have been your form that enticed the fellow,” he hazarded. “But I would doubt it.”

“I daresay one man’s beauty is another man’s sow,” she managed stiffly. “But you, sir, are utterly lacking in address.”

He inclined his head slightly, and the faint smile returned. “Being a Deveraux, I am not expected to have any.”

“How unfortunate you were to have been born into a family where apparently even a modicum of manners was not required.”

“High ropes again, Miss Morland?” he quizzed her.

Thinking he merely amused himself at her expense, she sought to give him a solid set-down. “Well, whatever my attraction for Mr. Fordyce, it is not really your affair, is it? If I don’t have the least intimation, why should you? Besides, a gentleman does not pry.”

He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the barb, before answering, “Curiosity, Miss Morland. As profligate as I myself have been, I cannot say I have ever before encountered a female over a man’s body…” One corner of his mouth twitched as he amended, “At least, not over a seemingly dead one.” When she made no reply, he put his fingertips together and continued to consider her. “Morland. Where have I heard the name, I wonder…?”

“I wouldn’t know that either. Obviously I do not travel in your circle of acquaintances.”

“But you have relations, surely. Even I am encumbered with a few.”

“My father’s father is General Morland, but I have never met him. He cut the connection when Papa married Mama.”

“Ah, the
mésalliance.”

“Papa didn’t think so.” She stopped, wondering why she felt it incumbent to justify anything to him. “But you cannot possibly be interested in my family,” she added coldly.

“On the contrary, Miss Morland. As we are now fugitives together, I’d know from whence you are come.” Once again the faint smile played at his mouth. “I collect your mother must have trodded the boards—or something equally unsuitable.”

Her chin shot up, and her eyes flashed momentarily. “My mother was one of the finest opera singers of her generation, Mr. Deveraux,” she declared, daring him to dispute it. “You have perhaps heard of Eliana Antonini?” She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows lift in surprise. “Despite hundreds of admirers, she was never anyone’s ladybird, and there was never the slightest hint of scandal.”

“How unusual.”

She thought he mocked her, and she bristled. “Her papa engaged guards to protect her from the importunities of licentious lords like yourself, in fact. It was merely by accident that she met Papa at all.”

“Acquit me, Miss Morland. Unlike Trent, I hold no title—nor do I have a taste for Italian singers.”

“My point, sir, is that my mother was as much a lady as yours.”

The smile vanished, and he looked to the rising sun beyond the window. When he spoke again, his voice was distant. “My mother would dispute that. She has long thought the Deveraux were not good enough for her.”

“Mama’s family was respectable—the Antoninis go back centuries. If she sang, ’twas because she had the gift, and they were proud of her.”

“And where are the esteemed Antoninis now—when you would seem to be in need of them?” he countered, turning back to her.

“They approved of Papa no more than the Morlands approval of Mama,” she answered simply. “And it is a very long way to Milan. Even if I would seek them out, which I would not, I have not the money for the journey. Besides, I’d not hang on anyone’s charity, sir.”

“Very affecting, Miss Morland, but Eliana Antonini made a fortune with her voice.”

Her hands clenched over the folds of the rug in her lap. “Like most English gentlemen,” she said evenly, “Papa was a gamester, and when he died there were debts to be paid. I count it a credit to Mama that she discharged every one of them ere she fell ill herself.” She met his gaze as she added pointedly, “But I expect you would not understand that, Mr. Deveraux, for gentlemen do not seem overly given to paying for anything.”

“You may acquit me of that also, Miss Morland. I settle every quarter-day with the tradesmen—and I never play where I do not win.”

He seemed incapable of being set down. Frustrated, she lashed out at him. “If you are neither a rake nor a gamester, Mr. Deveraux, how is it that by your own account you are a rogue?” she demanded acidly. “A disagreeable temper seems insufficient reason for a bad reputation.”

Bertie Bascombe opened his eyes at that, and struggled to sit. “Tell that to Beresford—or to Templeton and Whitfield, Miss Morland. He ain’t bad—he’s downright deadly! Crack shot—them that provokes him gets planted,” he added meaningfully. “It ain’t just temper, it’s Deveraux temper. Only a fool would duel with him. He’s just like Trent!”

“Bascombe—”

“And you ain’t quarreling with me, Dominick Deveraux, ’cause I won’t meet you. I ain’t bleeding for nobody.”

Anne stared at the man across from her. “You’ve killed
three
men?”

“Daresay they all deserved it, Miss Morland,” Bertie hastened to admit. “Bad fellows. Like Fordyce. Don’t say they abducted females or anything like that, but … well, ain’t too many as misses ’em, I can tell you. Thing is, Beresford’s papa is saying—”

“Quit rattling, Bascombe!”

“Mr. Deveraux—”

“It don’t matter,” Bertie assured her. Raising his arm, he wiped at the window with his sleeve and peered outside. “More to the point is where we are.”

“We are for Nottingham,” Dominick reminded him.

“Dash it, but there ain’t anything in Nottingham! I got to go to France! And if you was thinking of your skin, you’d be going with me. What if you are caught? More’n likely they’ll charge me and Miss Morland with aiding you, don’t you know?” When Dominick didn’t answer, he threw up his hands in disgust. “What the deuce is in Nottingham, anyway?”

“Penance.”

“What?
Well, if that don’t beat the Frogs! You hear that, Miss Morland? He don’t have to drag us halfway across England for that, does he? There’s churches everywhere!”

Dominick fixed his gaze on his own window for a long moment, then exhaled heavily. “I had word of Trent that my mother is very ill.” His mouth twisted briefly; then he managed to murmur, “Fool that I am, I’d go home again.”

There was no mistaking the pain in his voice. His earlier gibes forgotten, Anne leaned across the seat to touch his arm. “I am sorry,” she said softly.

He continued to stare out the window. “Save your pity for yourself, Miss Morland. You have the greater need of it.”

An awkward silence filled the carriage. “Well,” Bertie conceded finally, “I don’t suppose m’father’s going to look for me in Nottingham. Never been known to frequent the place before, after all. Daresay when we get there we can get Miss Morland a dress and put her on the mail coach bound for London.” He hesitated, then asked her, “That all right with you? If you ain’t got the blunt, I’ll frank you.”

“It will have to be, won’t it?” She sighed. “I suppose one more day is not like to make any difference …” Her voice trailed off, and she settled her shoulders. “Well, I shall have to tell the authorities, and then I suppose nothing will make any difference.”

“Can’t do it in Nottingham,” Bertie decided. “Won’t fadge at all—more’n likely ’twould make ’em look for Deveraux. Wait until London,” he advised. “Better yet, forget the whole thing—world’s better off without Fordyce. Havey-cavey fellow anyway. Be like Dominick here—he don’t repine, ’cause he knows he had the right of the quarrels —ain’t that so, Deveraux?” Not waiting for an answer, he rattled on, “Besides, we don’t
know
he’s dead, do we? What if he was to wake up, I ask you? It don’t do him any credit to have the tale told, you know.”

“Even if I could do it, which I cannot, Mrs. Philbrook knows I left London with my cousin, sir. And I very much doubt he survives.”

“Well, think on it—no need for haste, now, is there?”

“Mr. Bascombe, I have scarce thought of anything else.”

Abruptly Dominick Deveraux roused and straightened in his seat. His blue eyes were distant, his manner almost brusque as he apologized, “Your pardon, Miss Morland. My pride ofttimes causes me as much difficulty as my temper.”

The carriage, which had slowed to a snail’s pace, rolled to a halt, and Cribbs hopped from the box. Albert Bascombe, who’d been dozing, came awake as the coachy wrenched open the door to announce, “Team’s tired, sir—the lead pair’s about ter drop. We got ter stop ere they are lamed—or worse.”

“Where are we?”

“ ’Bout a quarter-mile ter the Red Hart, Davies says.”

“Which is where?” Bertie demanded querulously. “The Red Hart don’t mean nothing to me.”

“Between Reading and Northampton—closer to Northampton,” Dominick answered for the coachy. “I’d say we are about halfway to Nottingham.”

“Davies says we got ter change horses,” Cribbs spoke up. “Says the bays ain’t going to make it without a full day’s rest on oats.”

Anne’s gaze dropped to where the carriage rug covered her shoulders. “I cannot go into an inn like this.”

“ ’Course you can’t!” Bertie looked to Dominick. “Demned if I know why I came—ought to be in Bedlam for it,” he muttered with feeling. “Cannot go on ’cause the horses is tired, and cannot stop ’cause Miss Morland ain’t got enough left of her dress to go into a respectable place. All right, you tell me—what’s to do now?”

Nearly too bone-weary to think, Dominick passed a hand over sore, burning eyes, then rubbed the dark stubble of beard on his cheek as though he could somehow clear the cobwebs from his brain. It did not seem as though he’d slept in days, and he felt the lack acutely now. As much as he wanted to say they’d go on, he knew it was impossible. The horses had traveled more than a hundred miles from the coast in nearly eleven hours, and neither the driver nor the coachman had had any sleep since they’d left the Blue Bull. He reached into his coat, drew out his watch, and blinked to focus on the dial.

“Half-past ten,” he muttered.

“And we ain’t eaten,” Bertie remembered, adding to his grievances. “Dash it, but I didn’t even sup last night!”

Realizing she was the sticking point, Anne exhaled before offering, “If you would but send one of the men out with food, I’d stay in the carriage.”

“No.” Dominick turned his bloodshot eyes to her, and for a long moment he studied her speculatively. “You are nearly as tall as Bascombe,” he decided. “Wear his greatcoat in, and once a chamber is bespoken, put on his clothes.”

“I say, Deveraux, what the deuce … ? I ain’t… No!” Bertie fairly howled. Then, perceiving that the other man was serious, he argued, “Dash it, but she’s a female! Can’t go racketing about in breeches!”

But Dominick continued to consider her. “The hair’s nearly short enough, and the form is slight enough to pass,” he mused aloud. “I think Bascombe could claim you for his nephew perhaps. Are you a game one, Miss Morland?”

“Well, I—”

“I can tell you she don’t like the idea! Respectable female, ain’t you, Miss Morland? What was you thinking of, Deveraux? Dash it, but it ain’t done!”

“I don’t know about you, Bascombe, but I could use a shave, a meal, and a decent bed for a few hours. Besides, who’s to know?” Dominick countered softly.

“Anybody who looks at her, for one,” Bertie retorted.

“I don’t think so. We bundle Miss Morland into the greatcoat, tell the innkeeper your nephew’s too carriage-sick to go on, and we help her up to a chamber. There she changes into a coat and breeches ere she is seen, and then, apparently feeling better, she joins us for a nuncheon in a private parlor,” he explained patiently. “We rest the horses, get some sleep, and pronounce Miss Morland better ere nightfall. Before dusk, we press on for Nottingham.”

“Really, I do not mind staying in the carriage, sir,” Anne said. “Perhaps one of you could borrow a needle and thread of the proprietor’s wife, and I could restitch my dress whilst you are gone inside.”

“ ’Twould cause too much comment. Besides, if Cribbs and Davies elect to remain with the carriage, they’ll need to sleep on the seats. If not, you are open to the importunities of any who might discover you.”

“Still—”

Dominick turned to Bertie again. “I presume you did not intend to go to France without clothes, did you, Bascombe?”

“No, but dash it, I—”

“Then ’tis settled. I am quite certain Miss Morland would welcome a bed as much as you or I, for she looks positively hagged.”

Between fending off Albert Bascombe’s head from her shoulder and contemplating the awful fate that surely awaited her in Newgate, Anne had slept very little also. The appeal of a bed was almost too great to deny. And her stomach had been rumbling uncomfortably for hours. “But I have no money, sir—not even a shilling.”

“He’ll frank you—won’t you, Bascombe? He’s got deep pockets—earl of Haverstoke’s heir, after all.”

“Don’t mind the money,” Bertie conceded, “but I dashed well don’t like the idea of lending her m’clothes! Took Stultz a month to get the coats right, don’t you know?”

“Stultz?” Dominick’s eyebrow rose. “My dear fellow—”

“Oh, I tried Weston, but he was wanting to pad m’shoulders too much to get the fit,” Bertie remembered in disgust. Then, recalling the matter at hand, he argued, “She still don’t look like a fellow to me. For one thing …” He reddened uncomfortably. “Well, for one thing, the front of her … well, you know, she’s …” His hands gestured to his chest. “Dash it, but you ain’t blind—look at her!”

“She can move her zona up and tighten it. There’s not too much to flatten.”

Anne stiffened at the perceived criticism of her person. “Sir, but you are—”

“Offending your sensibilities?” Dominick supplied for her. “ ’Tis the truth, after all. Let us face the facts of the matter, Miss Morland—for at least another twenty-four hours we are fugitives together, are we not? We are speaking of survival rather than sensibility.”

“See, she don’t want to do it!” Bertie crowed triumphantly.

Ignoring the younger man, Dominick went on, “Now, when we reach the Red Hart, Bascombe will go in and procure a private parlor and bedchambers for us, saying you cannot travel further, for you have cast up your accounts all the way from …” He paused to consider a likely place, then finished with, “… St. Albans.”

“I am never carriage-sick, sir.”

He favored her with a decidedly pained expression. “Today you are, my dear—desperately so, in fact.” Leaning toward her, he ran his fingers through her hair, trying to rearrange it. “ ’Tis a trifle too long for a decent Brutus, but perhaps ’twill not be noted,” he decided. Sitting back, he surveyed his handiwork and sighed. “Not a very fashionable cut, I’m afraid.”

“Not even a bed and a meal could prompt me to cut it again,” she managed evenly. “And there is no need to insult me, is there?”

“Decent-looking female,” Bertie hastened to assure her. “He don’t mean you ain’t—just thinks you don’t look much like my nevvy, that’s all.”

“Bascombe, when I am in need of interpretation, I will ask for it. Now, Miss Morland, once you are in your chamber, Bascombe will bring you a change of clothing and hand it through the door. You will answer only when he knocks twice.”

“But she don’t even know how to tie a cravat, I’ll be bound!”

“Being a schoolboy, she’ll be forgiven. But if it worries you, tie it for her.”

“A schoolboy in Stultz’s best,” Bertie muttered. Nonetheless, he sighed his resignation. “I ain’t registering in my name, you know. And I ain’t tying her cravat.”

“What about shoes?” Anne looked down at her ruined slippers.

“Stuff something in the toes of Bascombe’s.”

“No! Dash it, but the coat is enough! You ain’t a-giving her m’boots! Let her wear yours! Hoby—”

“Mine are far too large for her.”

Cribbs, who had been listening, bemused by it all, spoke up. “Beggin’ yer honor’s pardon, sir, but what’m I ter tell Davies?”

“Tell Mr. Davies we are to stop at the Red Hart,” Dominick answered. “And tell him that if anyone asks, we are come from St. Albans.” He looked to Bertie and Anne. “And for the time being, you are both employed by Mr… er … Wrexham—Thaddeus Wrexham and his nephew … Oliver, I think. And I am the boy’s tutor, Mr. Bendell.”

“I’d rather be a Smith,” Bertie grumbled.

“Ordinary names tend to arouse suspicion, Bascombe.”

“How the deuce am I supposed to sign that? I don’t—”

“W-r-e-x-h-a-m.”

“Well, I ain’t putting anything more’n a T for the other one, I can tell you.”

But Dominick’s attention had returned to Anne. “Miss Morland, while we are stopped, I suggest you get down and wrap yourself in his greatcoat. And when you arrive, you will lean on me and pretend to be sick. Cover your mouth in such a way as to obscure your face. Bascombe, give Miss Morland something for her feet.”

“Deuced cold fish about this, ain’t you?” For a long moment Bertie eyed Dominick Deveraux with dislike; then he sighed. “Cribbs, get the top boots.” Turning away, he mumbled under his breath, “Knew I ought to have brought m’valet—he wouldn’t have stood for this.”

But as Anne stepped down from the coach and reached for the heavy coat, she heard him repeating softly, “W-r-e-x-h-a-m” over and over.

“Oh, the poor lad,” the innkeeper’s wife clucked over Anne’s wan face. “Had me one like that meself—couldn’t ride in the farmer’s cart e’en. Well, you bring him on in.”

“Need a cold collation in a parlor,” Bertie ordered importantly. “And beds for the day.” As the woman’s eyebrows lifted, he amended, “And perhaps the night, if m’nevvy ain’t able to travel.”

She nodded. “I’ll give ye a chamber of yer own, sir, and have Hannah show them up t’the other. ’Tis two guineas apiece fer the rooms, and extra fer the meals.”

“No!” Anne choked.

“Eh?”

Dominick’s arm tightened about her waist in warning; then he spoke up. “Actually, I should prefer a separate chamber myself. Oliver is given to nightmares, I’m afraid, and he tosses and moans when he sleeps.”

“Ye don’t say!” The woman peered more closely at Anne, who quickly covered her mouth as though she were about to retch. “Hannah!” she bawled. “Come help! Now! Oh, lawks—not on my clean floor! Hannah! First door on yer right at the top o’ the stairs, sir—you go on. Aye, and ye can have the one next to it.”

As Dominick Deveraux helped her up the steps, Anne could hear the woman telling Albert Bascombe, “Mrs. Grendell’s boy was like that, sir—they couldn’t sleep a wink fer his thrashin’ about. Mr. Marsh said ’twas worms that did it. A sprinkle o’ gunpowder and five draps of kerosene o’er a lump of sugar put an end to it, ye know.”

Bertie shuddered. “A wonder it didn’t put an end to him.”

“Now, I could fix ye some, and ye could give it her him ere he eats, ye know. Best to use it whilst the stomach is empty. It don’t work otherwise, Dr. Marsh says.”

“Makes me queasy to think on it.”

“Sometimes, Mr. Wrexham, ye got ter do what’s right fer the boy.”

At that moment Anne’s stomach rumbled audibly. Dominick dropped her arm and leaned against the hallway wall, his shoulders shaking. “What, pray tell, is so terribly amusing?” she hissed at him.

“Nothing, Miss Morland—nothing at all.” He regained his composure and moved to open the chamber door.

The room was small but clean, furnished rather sparsely with a bed, a chair, and a washstand. While she surveyed it, he walked to the single window and looked down into the innyard below. “If you stand to the left, behind the curtain, you cannot be seen from here,” he decided. Swinging around to face her, he added, “You will not, of course, leave your chamber unescorted. After Bascombe brings the clothes to you, you are to dress, then knock on the wall. One of us will tie your neckcloth for you. Then we will go down to eat together.”

“I am not swallowing gunpowder and kerosene to satisfy that woman. Nightmares indeed—never in my life have I heard such a faradiddle, Mr. Deveraux.”

“Bendell,” he corrected her, starting to leave. “Mr. Bendell. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d best get down and help Bascombe spell ‘Wrexham’ for the book. Besides, I need to be certain of his discretion.”

“Is this elaborate scheme truly necessary?”

He stopped and turned back, and his mouth curved into the faint wry smile. “Yes. Yes, it is my dear. A few ill-advised words from you or Bascombe, and we are fleeing again.” His eyes met hers, and his expression sobered. “I do not mean to be taken ere I reach Nottingham. I have not come all the way from Lyons for naught, Miss Morland.”

Torn between hunger and a desire to sleep, she sank onto the chair after he left, and she waited for Mr. Bascombe to bring her his clothes. Massaging her aching neck with both hands, she wished wearily that she could wake up in her bed at Mrs. Philbrook’s, that somehow she was only dreaming that this was happening to her. But her torn and muddied dress was real, as were the two sharp raps at the door.

“Feeling more the ticket, Oliver?” Albert Bascombe called out, his voice booming too loudly.

“Coming, Uncle.” She rose to let him in.

“Here.” He thrust the neatly folded garments into her arms quickly, then leaned closer to whisper, “Have a care for m’coat, will you? I ain’t easy to fit.”

“I will.”

Backing out the door, he raised his voice again. “Daresay you’ll be fine as a fiddle once you eat.”

He was gone as quickly as he’d come, leaving her to sort through the clothes curiously. He’d included everything down to his smalls, but she was by no means certain that she could wear all of it. The underclothing and the breeches appeared decidedly little, while the shirt, coat, and vest looked as though they might possibly fit. The snowy starched cravat was another matter entirely. There was no way she could make anything out of a flat, stiff piece of cloth.

“Well, she’d come this far, she told herself, and she’d not have Deveraux mock her for being a coward. She carried the clothing to the bed and removed her ruined gown. Laying it lovingly upon the coverlet, she fingered the neat, careful stitches she’d taken, and she wanted to cry. No matter what Dominick Deveraux thought of it, she knew she’d never have anything nearly so fine again.

Well, she had not the time to linger over broken dreams and torn dresses, she reminded herself, not if she would eat. She stepped from her petticoat and picked up Bascombe’s smalls resolutely, then sat to draw them on. They were almost too tight for comfort, but she was loathe to go without them. The breeches proved only a slightly better fit, a challenge when it came to buttoning the front of them.