Anita Mills (3 page)

“You might have warned me you was giving her the heave,” Bertie muttered, standing to lend Anne a hand. “You all right, Miss Morland?” Then, before she could answer, he looked down at the mud on his clothes. “Dash it, Deveraux, but you’ve ruined a good coat!”

“And my gown!” Anne looked down, and felt hot tears sting her eyes. The dress that had cost her four months’ wages, the one she’d wanted to wear to her grandfather’s, was now torn from hem to knee and soiled beyond repair. “ ’Tis my best!”

“Get a new one,” Dominick advised brutally. “Which coach, Bascombe?” But even as he asked, he caught Anne’s arm and started to run, pulling her after him. Rain swirled around Bertie as he broke into a trot to keep up. “The bays, but they ain’t—” The wind seemed to carry his words away.

Hazarding on the largest conveyance in the innyard, Dominick headed for it. Hearing the clamor of men coming out of the inn, Bertie lunged to wrench open the door, and his driver rose up sleepily to protest. Seeing his master, Davies kicked the sleeping coachy awake, and Cribbs righted himself sheepishly. “Sommat the matter, sir?”

“Get inside,” Dominick ordered Anne.

Before she could find the step with her muddy slipper, he’d lifted her, tossing her roughly into the interior. She sank against dark velvet squabs and tried to breathe. Through the sheet of water on the pane she saw shouting men carrying lanterns. Bascombe grasped the doorframe and hurled his slender body past her, falling into her lap.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, righting himself. “Clumsy.”

“ ’Tis all right,” she managed, rubbing her cold, wet arms.

Dominick Deveraux swung up onto the box and grasped the coach whip from its holder. Cracking it, he caught a fellow who tried to grab the lead harness. The four bays sprang to life, surging forward. Inside the passenger compartment, the occupants were thrown back against the seats. As Anne looked out, another foolhardy fellow ran alongside for about a hundred feet, then fell, rolling away from the pounding hooves. Beside her Bascombe wailed, “My cattle—he’ll ruin ’em! Dash it, but I’ve got a packet to catch, come morning! Can’t go racketing about the country! And what’s m’father to say? I’d as lief face the constable as him!”

But the carriage already careened wildly through rain-slicked city streets, the loud spray of water from its wheels hitting the underside of it like birdshot. Lantern lights emerged from the darkness, hurling themselves into view, then disappeared again with shocking speed. Several times the coach tilted precariously taking corners, then righted itself as dark, silent buildings blurred. The driver and coachman exchanged uneasy glances, while Anne held tightly to the pull strap, forgetting modesty for survival. Lightning zigzagged through sheets of rain, illuminating Bascombe’s pale, frightened face. The thought crossed Anne’s mind that if she survived it, it was a ride she’d never forget.

Streetlights faded to the occasional twinkle from scattered houses, then to nothing, and the coach still plunged headlong into a black oblivion punctuated by brief flashes of lightning. The only sound beyond the pounding hooves and rattling carriage was the steady rumble of thunder. To Anne it was as though Thor’s fury had dissipated to mere grumbling, and she eased her grip on the strap long enough to rub her icy, aching fingers. The carriage finally slowed to a steady pace, and the rhythmic beat of the wheels against macadamized road kept time to the rain.

His hands shaking, one of the men across from her tried to spark the wick of the inside lamp. A tiny red speck took hold, then grew to a yellow flame, bathing the dim interior with a flickering, almost eerie light. His companion rubbed at the stubble on his face as though to reassure himself he was whole before casting reproachful eyes at Bascombe.

“Oo’s got me ribbons?” he wanted to know.

Whether it was actually so, or whether it was the yellow-orange glow from the carriage lamp, the color appeared to be returning to Bascombe’s face. He took a deep breath, then sank back into the squabs before answering, “It don’t signify, Davies.”

“Don’t signify?” the driver howled. “Been lookin’ into the pits o’ hell, and it don’t signify?” His voice rose indignantly. “When we stop, I’m-a-gettin’ on the box—else I’m-a-givin’ me notice!”

As if the Almighty heard him, the coach pulled to the side of the road, stopped, and Deveraux jumped down. Opening the carriage door beside Anne, he stuck his head inside. Water ran in rivulets from his soaked hair and dripped onto the skirt of her ruined gown.

“There’s none following now,” he announced as though there might have been the possibility. “Everybody all right?”

“Demned fortunate we ain’t dead,” the coachy muttered under his breath.

Deveraux’s eyes flicked over Anne impersonally. “Miss Morland?”

“I am fine, sir.” She did not think she’d ever be warm again, but otherwise she meant it.

His gaze returned to her face, and he favored her with a faint smile. “Not even a mild case of the vapors?”

“No.”

“My compliments, then, Miss Morland.”

“Well, I ain’t all right,” Bertie announced with feeling. “What was you thinking of, Deveraux? You dashed well could have killed us!”

The smile broadened boyishly. “But I didn’t—drove to an inch, in fact. Good cattle, Bascombe—I own they surprised me.

“If yer lor’ship was ter move, I’d get inter the box,” Davies offered, pushing his way out.

Dominick Deveraux nodded. “At Alton, take the road to Reading, then continue north toward Nottingham. Do you know the way?”

“Aye.”

Cribbs looked at the steady rain for a moment, sighed, then followed his superior. “Demned poor night fer drivin’, Mr. Davies, if ye was to ask me,” he complained.

As the two men climbed up onto the driver’s seat, Dominick pulled off his soaked cloak and heaved himself up into the passenger compartment, taking the place across from Anne and Bascombe. Settling in, he extended his boots between them.

“I ain’t going to Nottingham,” Bertie declared. “Hire you a carriage at Reading.”

“Too risky. I might be recognized.”

With one hand holding the seam of her rent skirt together and the other pressing her torn bodice against her shoulder, Anne spoke up. “Sir, I should like to return to London forthwith. As it is, ’twill be difficult explaining to my employer where I have been. And I must contact the authorities about Mr. Fordyce, though I am sure I do not know what Mrs. Philbrook will have to say on that head.” Looking downward at her ruined gown, she sighed. “She’s overgiven to censure anyway.”

“No! Damme if I’m going back to London, Miss Morland. Got to go abroad,” Bertie maintained stoutly. “Put you down at a posting house. As for Deveraux, they ain’t going to be looking for him on the common stage. Me—I got to go to France ere m’father finds me.”

“I assure you Miss Morland will be noted in that gown—every man jack between here and London will be ogling what isn’t covered.” Dominick reached beneath his sodden cloak and drew out his pistol. Laying it across his knee, he looked at Bertie. “Now, I believe I said Nottingham, did I not?” he asked with deceptive softness. As the other man recoiled visibly, he turned his attention to Anne. “Quite fetching, my dear, but were I you, I’d cover myself with a carriage rug ere I enlivened Bascombe’s amatory instincts.” Leaning back, he closed his eyes, murmuring, “And I shouldn’t advise any movement this direction, Bascombe, for I sleep rather lightly.”

“Really, sir …” Anne began stiffly. “If we had not left so precipitately, I should have brought my shawl.”

“It’s all right,” Bertie interrupted her. “I ain’t going to do nothing foolish—and I ain’t got any amatory instincts. Ain’t in the petticoat line,” he added, as though that explained everything. Leaning down, he retrieved a rug from beneath his seat, then straightened to hand it to her. Casting a significant look toward the other man, he murmured low, “Dominick Deveraux is the one with the rep for the females, Miss Morland. He’s the one you got to watch. Not me. I got no address.”

“You give him too much credit, I am sure,” she retorted, “for if he has any, I’ve not yet seen it.”

One blue eye opened briefly. “How very unappreciative you are, my dear. At least you are not on your way to jail.”

The image of Quentin Fordyce lying pale and still rose in her mind, stifling any answer. For a long moment she felt again the panic; then she managed to master it. When she looked up again, Dominick Deveraux appeared asleep. She pulled the carriage rug close about her and tried not to think beyond the present.

The storm had abated, replaced by an enveloping mist that beaded rather than trickled. Inside the carriage, the windows were steamed over, obscuring the graying dawn. Anne Morland shifted her weight uncomfortably, seeking ease for her cramped limbs, and wondered where they were. Taking a corner of the carriage rug, she wiped at the window, but there was naught to see outside. Her gaze moved to Dominick Deveraux, then to Albert Bascombe, and she asked herself dispiritedly how they could sleep, for she certainly could not. Not with the awful pounding in her head.

A scant twenty-four hours ago she’d been snug in her bed at Mrs. Philbrook’s, blissfully unaware of what was to befall her. Quentin Fordyce, her newly discovered cousin, was yet to come for the promised visit to her grandfather. He had not yet revealed himself as the unprincipled blackguard that he was.

How could she have been so deceived? Had her eagerness for acceptance by her father’s family made her foolish? Mentally she reviewed her brief acquaintance with Mr. Fordyce, wondering if she’d somehow missed something, some clue that ought to have warned her. But he’d seemed so kind, so interested in righting an old wrong. And she, seeking escape from the intolerable burden of Mrs. Phil-brook’s grudging charity, had been taken in by his dashing, elegant manners. She could not have known he would turn into a lecherous fiend, she consoled herself. But he had.

Once inside his carriage, he’d shared a basket of sinfully rich pastries from Gunther’s, something she’d only heard of but had never tasted before. And then he’d plied her with a bottle of expensive wine, all the while paying lavish compliments to her face, her form, her hat, and her dress, until she’d begged him to be serious. But he’d pronounced himself smitten from the first, saying despite the brevity of their acquaintance, it was his hope to make her his wife. As his hands had possessed hers, she’d begun to feel quite odd, as though the carriage were spinning, separating her mind from her body. She remembered accusing him, hearing herself say, “You never intended to take me to Oakhill, did you?” But if he’d answered her, ’twas after she’d sunk into a drugged oblivion.

The next thing she could recall was her painful awakening in that miserable inn. And Quentin Fordyce’s amorous advances. She closed her eyes briefly, seeing for perhaps the hundredth time his inert form upon the shabby carpet. And the awful fear that he was dead, that she’d killed a man, once again assailed her, knotting her stomach. She swallowed hard, thinking she ought to have stayed to face the authorities, to have explained she’d done it to save herself. But she’d panicked, allowing a stranger to persuade her to flee. A stranger whose own past was apparently utterly notorious. A stranger who’d killed someone also.

And now she was in another carriage with him, bound for Nottingham, a place utterly unfamiliar to her, with little hope of getting back to London before Mrs. Philbrook turned her off. Not that she really wished to return to her elderly employer, for even if she somehow were exonerated in the matter of Mr. Fordyce, if she somehow managed to keep her position, she’d be certain to hear of her folly long and often.

“Humph!” the old woman had snorted when Quentin had come calling. “Cousin indeed! Mark my words, missy—a man of any substance don’t waste his time on a penniless female. Plain as the nose on your face—he thinks you no better than your mother! And this faradiddle about your grandpapa wanting to see you—why, ’tis utter nonsense! The Morlands is too high in the instep for the likes of an opera singer’s daughter!”

“Mama was as much a lady as you!” she’d wanted to shout back, but somehow she’d held her tongue. Now she wished she hadn’t. Just once she’d like to speak her mind to the woman without fear of the consequences.

Instead, it would be she listening to her employer’s smug crowing. Mrs. Philbrook would be sure to linger over her paid companion’s foolishness, sniffing yet again that she ought to have known better than to waste her money by dressing above her station. And after cataloging Anne’s follies, the old woman would discharge her, then wait for her to beg to stay. And, in the absence of any other opportunity, Anne would have to do it.

She did feel utterly foolish. She’d squandered the awesome sum of ten guineas on a dress length of expensive green silk nankeen, then spent more than a week sewing herself her first new dress in two years. And there was another four guineas wasted on the rest of her toilette, including her missing paisley shawl and now-water-soaked kid slippers. Her hand crept to her newly cropped hair, feeling the flat curls, wishing she’d not done that either. What was it Burns had said about the best-laid plans? That they gave grief and pain for promised joy?

But she hadn’t wanted to arrive on her grandfather’s doorstep looking utterly poor and out of fashion. Perhaps it was merely a matter of pride, but she’d not wanted to give him any reason to pity her, to think she meant to hang on his sleeve. All she’d wanted was to meet him, to discover the family that had refused to acknowledge her mother’s existence. But Quentin Fordyce had lied to her. Her grandfather hadn’t wanted to see her after all.

She looked down again at her dress, seeing the torn fabric and the mud, and she wanted to weep as she thought of the expense of it. And she’d not even counted the ten shillings she’d paid Clara Smith, a neighbor’s dresser, for the miserable haircut. She had to stop thinking on that also, she decided wearily, else she’d drown in her own self-pity.

Beside her, Mr. Bascombe turned in his sleep, and his head slipped once more to rest against her shoulder. For at least the tenth time she pushed him gently away, then pulled the carriage rug up again.

“Sorry,” he mumbled without actually waking. His head again fell back against the padded top of the seat, stretching his neck, and he resumed snoring softly. For a moment she studied him, wondering how he came to be with the one called Deveraux. Despite his apparent wealth, he was physically and socially clumsy, and even on short acquaintance it was obvious he lacked the intelligence and the daring of the other man. How very different they were in appearance also, Bascombe pale, slender, fair-haired, and amiable, Deveraux dark in more ways than his looks.

When she looked up, she thought she detected a faint, slightly derisive smile on Mr. Deveraux’s face. It was, she supposed enviously, that he dreamed.

To take her mind from the ache in her head and her plummeting spirits, she dared to consider his face openly, studying the incredible handsomeness of it—the thick black hair that waved slightly where it lay against his forehead, the black lashes that fringed above the strong planes of his cheeks, the straight, well-chiseled nose that reminded her of one on a Greek bust. Unlike so many of his class, his chin was defined and the line of his jaw strong, solid. If he had a flaw, ’twas that the rather sensuous mouth curved downward, giving him the appearance of a cynic much of the time. When he was awake, he seemed to have a wry, derisive quality, a devil-take-you attitude that set him apart from other gentlemen.

But if he possessed none of that, she still would have been struck by the size of him. She judged him to be six or seven inches taller than herself, well-muscled and quite solid for a gentleman. She closed her arms beneath the carriage rug, remembering the strength of his grip when he held her on the roof. No doubt he was the sort who patronized Jackson’s boxing saloon—when he was in the country.

Still, he was a fugitive crossing England, and she could not help wondering precisely why the authorities sought him. What had Mr. Bascombe said to him?
Can’t be found with another body—got to escape ere you are taken…
The awful thought went through her mind that she’d possibly jumped from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. But just now, as she watched him sleep, he did not seem so very dangerous.

Dominick Deveraux. She racked her aching brain, trying to place where she’d heard the name Deveraux before, and it came to her. The notorious Marquess of Trent was a Deveraux. Of course. But surely this man was not Trent, for the scandals of that lord had ended with his
ton
-stunning marriage to a nobody. No, this Deveraux was not the marquess, she decided. A relative perhaps. An equally wild relative. A younger relative, for despite the cynicism, just now he did not appear to be much over twenty-five or twenty-six. When awake, he’d looked to be past thirty, but perhaps that was weariness rather than age.

Her gaze dropped to the pistol that still lay against his knee, and for a moment she considered taking it while he slept. Once it was in her hands, she could demand they turn for London. She stretched to reach for it.

“I wouldn’t, Miss Morland,” he said softly.

Startled, she looked up again, and his blue eyes met hers across the small space. The reflection of the dying coach-lamp flame in them mocked her. She recoiled guiltily.

“Really, sir—”

“I sleep rather lightly.”

“More likely you were shamming it, sir,” she retorted. “You could scarce be awakened by a glance.”

“ ’Tis a sense that keeps me whole.” He straightened in the seat, shrugging his shoulders, settling them. One of his hands brushed back an unruly lock of black hair, then moved to rub at the dark stubble along his jaw. “Wine,” he muttered more to himself than to her, “tastes devilish bad the morning after.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them as though he could somehow clear his mind. “I haven’t had a head like this since my salad days.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much.”

His gaze raked her bare shoulder where the rug had slipped again, and one of his eyebrows shot up as a corner of his mouth turned down. “My, how prim you are this morning, my dear. But fetching.”

Her hand reached to tug at the offending blanket as her face reddened. “A gentleman does not note such things, sir,” she managed stiffly.

“Ah, but I am not often a gentleman, Miss Morland.” He leaned forward slightly and enunciated clearly, “I am a Deveraux, you see.”

She felt out of reason cross, and his manner did nothing to lighten her mood. “I think you are still foxed,” she muttered.

“Fortunately, there aren’t many of us,” he added, ignoring the accusation. “And the world isn’t repining over the lack, I assure you.”

“Not knowing any of the Deveraux, I am afraid I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Up in the bough this morning, eh? You know, you are in a deuced bad temper yourself,” he chided.

She looked out the streaked window for a long moment and sighed heavily. “If you would have the truth of it, sir, my head aches also. I suspect it was the drugged wine.”

“Weasel-bit?” he asked more sympathetically. “What you need is a hair of the old dog.” It was his turn to sigh. “Alas, but my flask is empty, else we’d share it.”

“Thank you, but I should decline. I doubt I will ever drink anything stronger than ratafia again,” she responded with feeling.

“Drugged wine, eh?” He leaned back and surveyed her lazily. “ ’Twould seem Fordyce displayed a shocking lack of address. For all my faults, I have never had to resort to such measures to seduce a female.” The faint smile played again at the corners of his mouth. “Never.”

“Really, sir, but this is most improper. I cannot think—”

“I told you, I’m not a very proper fellow, Miss Morland. I have never been invited to Almack’s,” he added significantly. “Nor do I wish to go there.”

“Do you always declare yourself a rake to females upon acquaintance?” she inquired curiously.

“Not a rake, Miss Morland—a rogue. There is a difference.” His smile faded. “Women are but one of my faults.”

“You are a gamester,” she hazarded.

“No more than any other.” Briefly his voice betrayed a trace of regret; then his jawline hardened, and the planes of his face seemed suddenly harsher. “I have a devilish temper, Miss Morland, and it oft leads me where I would not go.” He picked up the pistol, hefted it in the palm of his hand, then slid it beneath the cloak that lay beside him. When he looked across at her again, he noted brusquely, “You ought to sleep—’tis a long way to Nottingham.”

They lapsed into silence, and for a time there was only Bertie Bascombe’s rhythmic breathing, which seemed to keep time to the roll of the wheels. Finally Anne could stand it no longer.

“If you are a Deveraux, sir, you must be relation to the Marquess of Trent,” she blurted out.

“He is my cousin,” was all he said.

His answer did not invite further conversation. As he retreated into silence, there was naught for her to do but return once more to her own thoughts, to the need to confess the killing of Quentin Fordyce. She almost dreaded the thought of going to London, of facing the magistrate. For a brief moment, hope flared. What if her cousin were not truly dead? The hope flagged immediately, and she sighed. To think he could have survived was no more than wishful thinking, and she knew it.

No doubt she’d made matters worse, compounding the situation by fleeing, for there would be those who would declare that proof of her guilt. So she was a fugitive without so much as a tuppence, utterly dependent on a rogue and a slowtop. Viewed in that light, her predicament made the matter of Mrs. Philbrook seem rather inconsequential. She did not need to worry about employment when she was headed for Newgate.

He leaned back to scrutinize her from beneath lowered lids, speculating on the truth of her story. Assessing her person dispassionately, he cataloged the obvious: she was considerably taller than the ordinary, with good straight features accentuated by warm brown eyes. Unfortunately, any claim to looks was marred by unfashionably brown hair that, having been soaked, had dried flat against her head, giving her the appearance of a drowned Brutus. Her gown, or what was left of it, clung to a less-than-voluptuous figure. She reminded him somewhat of those unfortunate females who sat undiscovered through a Season on the Marriage Mart. In appearance he decided she was relatively unremarkable. But, beauty or not, she had his grudging admiration—on the roof of the inn, and later during the wild ride, she had shown herself to be pluck to the bone, a rare quality in a female.