A Lady’s Secret (10 page)

“Thank you,” she said as coolly as she could.

The postilion returned then to say the road was firm enough. “Though there could be deep places still, monsieur.” The man’s eyes flickered to the bound women. “Begging your pardon, monsieur, but what do you intend to do with them?”

“We must deliver them to the law.”

“If you say so, monsieur.”

“They tried to kill us all.”

The man shrugged. “I was asleep.”

“A natural sleep?” Robin asked.

The man’s eyes shifted. “Can’t say, sir.” He must be a local man. A customer here? Whether that was true or not, he clearly wanted no part of arresting the women.

“Why would I lie about it?” Robin demanded.

The man’s jaw worked as if he were chewing very tough meat. Eventually, he said, “No reason, I suppose. But…”

Robin’s eyes met Petra’s, and he completed it in English. “But you are a cursed English heretic and probably mad.”

Petra frowned a warning. Speaking English then was the worst thing to do.

“They truly did try to kill us,” she said to the man in French. “
I
would not lie.”

But clearly her sharing the coach with a man, even as supposed brother and sister, had tarnished her halo.

“We take them,” Robin said firmly. “In their cart. Harness their horse.”

The postilion went off muttering.

“Take them where?” Petra asked.

“To Nouvion, I assume. Or back to Abbeville.”

“No!” It escaped sharply.

“Ah yes. The screeching Sodworth.”

Ah yes, the vile Varzi.
But they must not be delayed by this. “What if the women claim that we attacked them?” she asked. “They might be believed.”

“You want to leave them to prey on others?”

“I don’t want to be delayed. What if Lady Sodworth catches up?”

“Stay out of sight. She can’t know you’re with me.” He turned and walked away.

Petra ungritted her teeth and hurried after. “We could simply report the crime and continue our journey.”

“Leave them tied up here? Not very charitable, Sister.”

“More charitable than hauling them bound to justice.”

“Which they deserve.”

“They are local people and we are strangers,” she pointed out, “and the postilion doesn’t seem likely to support the story. We could be held here for days or even arrested ourselves.”

“I know people around here. The Guise, the Montaigne. Leave this to me, Petra. I promise, we won’t end up in prison.”

“But we’ll be
delayed
.”

“At least it’ll be in decent lodgings. Of course, if you told me why you’re in such a hurry…”

He’d switched like a conjurer from light to serious, leaving Petra off balance. Her troubles had driven secrecy deep into her bones. She’d survived by the code “Tell no one, trust no one,” but she had to change his mind, so she had to tell him some of the truth.

“Someone might be pursuing me,” she said.

“W
ho?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter. I might be wrong.”

“Why, then?” he asked patiently.

It felt like pulling out one of her own teeth. “Because someone in Milan didn’t want me to leave.”

“The convent?”

“Why do Protestants think like that? No.” Reluctantly, she added, “A man.”

“Ah.” The knowing word made her want to hit him, but at least he was taking her seriously now. “A dangerous man?”

“Yes.”

He considered that a moment. “Then we had best make all speed. I can write letters to make sure these wretches don’t harm anyone in the future.” He turned to tell the postilion to forget the cart and bring in the post horses, and his men to help ready the chaise. Petra was left mutely staring at crisp efficiency.

She had her way, however, and hurried to fold her cloak, muddy as it was, and stuff it into the boot. Did she have time to change into her cleaner habit? Or privacy in which to do it?

Robin came over. “If you’re pursued, we should change your appearance.”

“Out of the habit?” Petra felt the old reluctance to leave its concealment, but it might confuse Varzi. “How?”

“We could look in the house.”

“Steal?”

“We’ll leave money.”

“Anything in there will be dirty.”

“A nun is a very easy trail to follow.”

Indeed. Why hadn’t she thought of that back in Milan? She’d not thought anyone would pursue her beyond the Alps, however.

“The old woman’s in there,” she warned.

“Is she likely to have a gun?”

“I don’t think so. Wouldn’t they have used a gun last night if they had one?”

“Then we can handle her.” He took his own pistol out of his pocket, saying, “What do you think she
has
done?”

“Drunk herself silly, if she has the means.”

“Very well. Come on.”

The yard was still muddy, but not deep enough to cause trouble, even for her sandals. Robin opened the door and they stepped inside. There was no sign of the old woman, but something—rats or mice—leapt off the table to scurry away. The fire was dead, the candle merely a puddled lump.

“Could she have run away?” Robin wondered.

“Impossible.” Petra pulled back the curtain into the sleeping area. “She’s in bed. Or on the bed.” He joined her and they went to where the crooked woman lay, slack mouthed. Petra leaned to check for a pulse, but was already sure. “Dead.”

“How?”

Unwillingly disturbed, Petra drew one side of the coverlet over the body, then straightened. “Shock, rage—who can tell? We should have checked on her.”

“And possibly been stabbed for our trouble.” He plucked a wicked-looking knife from among the covers. “You thought her as bad as the rest.”

Petra pulled herself together. “She was. She poisoned the soup. But…”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he pointed out.

“Except that we can be accused of murder as well as assault and theft.”

“True. Let’s get out of here.” He threw back the lids of chests to inspect their contents. He pulled out a skirt striped in green and red and a bodice of shiny scarlet. “These look to be the cleanest.”

“They look like whore’s clothes.” Petra searched the chests herself, but her choice seemed to be between grubby and gaudy.

“It’s only for a little while,” he said. “We’ll buy you better as soon as possible, but if your pursuers are looking for a nun, they won’t find you in these sorts of clothes.”

Petra looked at the horrible clothes, but said, “Wait in the kitchen.”

It didn’t take long to strip down to her shift and put on the striped skirt and satin bodice. They smelled, but mostly of a cheap perfume. The skirt was too short, however, and the bodice too small. This must be an outfit of Solette’s. Something of Jizzy’s would be loose, but she couldn’t bear the thought of more searching here, especially with the crone’s corpse on the bed.

She laced up the front of the bodice but it still gaped, showing two inches of her shift. The bodice was also very low, but at least her shift wasn’t.

The only spare footwear was some backless, heeled slippers that would be ridiculous and impractical. If she was willing to try wearing clogs, she’d have to take them off their prisoners’ feet.

She had to take off her veil and cap. She bundled them, her belt, pouch, cross, and rosary in her habit, wishing she had something for her head. She saw a mobcap hanging on a hook and took that, praying it held no nits. At least the floppy frill would hide her face. She felt like a thief, but they’d pay for everything. Or rather, Robin would. She couldn’t afford to use any of her small store of coins with the future so uncertain.

Uncertain and dangerous.

She unwrapped her bundle and took the dagger out of her pouch. It was in a leather sheath that had straps to fasten it around her leg. She put it on. It felt strange there, but she wanted it at hand, and her pouch didn’t fit this outfit at all.

She put Robin’s velvet coat back on to hide some of her outfit and returned briskly to the kitchen. His brows rose in a humorous way, but there was another type of look in his eyes. Petra tugged the edges of the coat together and wished her ankles weren’t exposed. “I’m ready.”

“So, my pet, am I.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Petra tried to resist, tried to make herself resist, but this seemed as inevitable as thunder after lightning, and the lightning had been sizzling for a long time.

It had begun when he’d kissed her in the storm. Or perhaps at first sight. It exploded now, after danger of death, with a searing passion that had her gripping his face and exploring deep in his mouth as his hands pressed her hard against him.

He still wore only his breeches and shirt, and she felt almost skin to skin. She slid a hand down inside his shirt, to truly touch his flesh, firm, strong, hot beneath her fingers….

“Sir?” A voice out in the farmyard.

They sprang apart, staring, wild-eyed, and breathless.

“You all right, lad?” That was Powick, coming closer.

Petra turned, pressing hands to her cheeks. “That should not have happened and must not again. Never, never, never!”

He shushed her. “Everything’s in order,” he called. “We’re just borrowing some clothes.”

See how quickly he recovers. He’s kissed a hundred women, a thousand. You’ve kissed only one other man.

“Remember to leave some money for the clothes,” she said briskly and went outside. Powick’s jaw dropped at the sight of her.

“At least I don’t look like a nun,” she said to him.

“I’ll give you that, lass, but is there any reason not to look like a nun?”

Clearly Robin hadn’t told him, but he needed some explanation. “Someone might be looking for me.”

He pulled a face. “What did you do, then?”

“Nothing wrong,” she assured him.

“Some man fell in love with her,” Robin said, “and didn’t accept rejection well.”

“Not a nun, then?” the groom asked, still not happy.

“I had every right to wear that habit, but I’m willing to disguise myself for now.”

“Right you are,” Powick said, “but don’t go wandering the streets unless you want to live up to expectations.” He seemed resigned to odd adventures. Another indication of the sort of man Robin Bonchurch was.

The horses were already in place and the postilion mounted. Robin went to speak to him, and Petra headed for the chaise. Robin’s valet stepped into her way. “The coat, ma’am.”

His tone was even more sneering than usual, but she shrugged out of it and passed it over. He clutched it as if it were a stolen babe. Petra didn’t want to part from her prayer book and what it contained, so she carried her bundled-up habit into the carriage with her. Robin scooped up Coquette and put her in the carriage, closing the door.

Petra watched him go to the women. He said something and then slit their bonds. The younger ones scrambled up, clearly stiff. Mère Goulart didn’t try, but a sudden thrusting of her lower lip might be in response to him telling her about the old woman.

A mother was a mother, Petra supposed.

He walked back to the coach and let Fontaine help him with waistcoat and jacket. He fastened the waistcoat buttons, but refused a neckcloth. Petra heard him say, “No point in trying to look respectable with our female companion in such a state.”

He came to the chaise, but when he opened the door, he said, “I’m riding. Fontaine will travel in here.”

He left before she could argue, and Petra supposed he was wise. Given what had just happened, privacy in close quarters was the last thing they needed. She bit her lip, however, to stop stupid tears.

The valet entered, taking his seat as if he wished to be anywhere else in the world. Did he dislike all women? Did he hold her responsible for their misfortunes? Or was it simply because she’d caused him to have to ride in the rain? Certainly her present appearance couldn’t help.

He slammed the door shut, and the chaise rolled out through the gates to lurch back to the Boulogne road.

Once they reached the road their way was smoother, though the road had obviously suffered in the storm. With the rising sun shining on flourishing fields, the macabre night seemed like a nightmare. It would be easy to pretend that it had never happened, and Petra wished she could. Instead her mind worried over how to avoid further disaster.

If she’d imagined Varzi, all should be well as long as her willpower was strong enough to resist Cock Robin’s seductive wiles. But what if she hadn’t imagined him?

He would probably have searched the inn and Abbeville before deciding she’d left, and by then the storm would have stopped him. He’d set off early today, however, assuming she was continuing to Boulogne. She thanked God that she was now about five miles ahead and also getting a very early start. Better still, since she’d told Robin the reason for her urgency, he’d travel as fast as possible.

Even if Varzi caught up, he couldn’t know who she was; she looked nothing like Sister Immaculata. As long as she concealed her face, he’d never recognize her. Yes, perhaps she would reach England after all.

To begin with they saw no other travelers, but after about an hour, they passed a group of young people walking to a harvesting job. A little later they worked around a slow cart loaded with vegetables and sacks, probably going from a local farm to Nouvion.

Nouvion, where they’d change horses, which meant a new postilion. During a slow maneuver round a hole in the road, Petra let down the window and called to Robin. When he came over, she asked, “Won’t the postilion tell everyone about the events last night?”

“Not with the bribe I’ve paid him, or not immediately, at least. Stop worrying.”

Petra raised the window, knowing it was wrong to be irritated by his self-assurance, but she was sure he’d never been involved in true danger before. And she hadn’t truly explained the nature of the pursuit.

They arrived in Nouvion as the town was just stirring, though a bakery spilled a stomach-tormenting aroma of fresh bread. Petra would have been willing to delay there long enough to buy some food, but they sped by and stopped at the posting house on the far side of town. It was a long, low building amid fields full of horses.

As soon as the chaise stopped, Fontaine climbed out. Coquette jumped down, too, before Petra had a chance to stop her, but she raced to Robin. Petra stayed in the coach, out of sight.

A short, sinewy man hurried out of the house, still tucking his shirt into his breeches, and she heard him exclaiming at their early arrival, and at the hour they must have left Abbeville. Robin spoke to him, and then came to the chaise.

“We’re too early. He hasn’t brought the morning’s horses in from the fields, and the postilions are still abed. He offers breakfast as we wait.”

There was no help for it, so Petra climbed down. “A decent breakfast would be very welcome. I’m going to get my cloak, however, muddy as it is, to hide these clothes a little.”

He helped her find it and helped her put it on, which caused a warning frisson. Every moment, every touch made the effect more powerful.

“How long to Boulogne?” she asked, swallowing.

“If God provides good roads, we can make it for tonight’s sailing.”

“Then I’ll try prayers, but dressed like this I fear they’ll be even less effective than they were before.”

“I can’t imagine a rational God caring. Come along.”

The posting house was a two-story building, but the ground floor was laid out much like the Goulart place. It resembled it in no other way, however, being clean and fresh, with a cat, a dog, and a baby in a cradle. The smell of grinding coffee already filled the air. Petra thanked the pretty young matron for her hospitality. She knew that the smaller staging posts didn’t normally offer food or lodging.

“Such a storm!” Madame Crespin exclaimed. “And Madame Goulart’s! Ai, ai, ai! No wonder you left so early.” All the same, she was looking askance at Petra’s clothes. Petra couldn’t clutch the cloak around her without looking extremely strange.

“Is there anywhere I could wash, madame?”

“I’ve no hot water yet, but you can take this bowl out to the pump in the back.” She gave Petra a metal bowl, a pot of soap, and a thin towel.

Petra thanked her, followed directions to a fenced yard where hens pecked and some piglets ran around squealing, and was soon scrubbing her hands and face. The soap had a harsh smell, but it got rid of Goulart grime. She wished she could wash all over, especially her feet, and that she’d taken the time to change her shift. No point in that, however, with everything else so soiled. She poured the water onto the ground, rinsed out the bowl, and returned it to the kitchen.

A short, sinewy man came into the room from another direction, yawning, his shirt hanging loose, muttering about early travelers. Madame Crespin shot a warning look at Petra and he turned. Then leered.

Petra did clutch her cloak around herself then, and went in search of her protector. Robin was talking to their old postilion, probably impressing again the need for secrecy.

A lad came running with a basket of bread and soon everyone was around the kitchen table, enjoying warm bread rolls and raspberry preserves. The postilions got thick slices of ham, as well, and flagons of something. It was probably part of their pay.