Anita Mills (6 page)

“Still—”

“Spare me a surfeit of conscience, my dear.”

“Dash it, Miss Morland, but I knew Beresford—aye, and the others also. Ain’t a one of ’em as wasn’t a bloody blackguard, if the truth was known. Don’t fault Deveraux—there’s them as would decorate him, if they were to find him.”

“Bascombe—”

“Well, she ought to know!”

“Whether she believes me right or wrong is of no moment,” Dominick said abruptly. “After the morrow, ’tis enough that she forgets she ever saw me.”

“Nonetheless, I ought not to have said it.” Shaking her head ruefully, she managed a wry smile. “I’m afraid that in the space of a day, my civility has deserted me. I pray you will forgive me.”

“I repeat: there is nothing to forgive, Miss Morland.”

They were stopped before a small village pub whose sign read “Two Ducks, since 1660.” Albert Bascombe eyed it doubtfully. “Do you think they’d have anything as a lady or a gentleman would eat?”

“We’ve not seen much else, have we?” Dominick Deveraux reached beneath his cloak to draw out a decidedly flat leather folder. Opening it, he retrieved a banknote. “Send Cribbs in with this,” he said, passing it across.

“I thought the Deveraux were all plump in the pocket,” Bertie muttered. “Ain’t much to feed five.”

“Plump enough—until one has to bribe one’s way into the country. And,” he added dryly, “this is scarce the Pulteney.”

“What do yer want me ter buy?” the coachy asked.

“Whatever you can get—feed yourself and Davies also.” Turning to Anne, Dominick inquired, “What would you have, my dear? Your pardon …” He inclined his head slightly. “I forgot—you are not anyone’s dear, are you?”

“I will eat whatever you buy, sir.”

As they waited, Anne gazed down the narrow street. The rain had stopped, but a fog Was settling, giving an air of unreality to everything outside. The lights from a dozen small buildings appeared as hazy yellow circles about to be swallowed into an eerie nothingness. It was as though the world had shrunk to little more than the carriage, as though the only people left in it were Bascombe, Deveraux, and herself. For the moment there was no Mrs. Philbrook, no body on the floor at the Blue Bull. But tomorrow … She did not want to think of tomorrow.

It did not take Cribbs long to return, bringing two paper-wrapped bundles and an armful of bottles. Shifting the latter, he gave the larger package to his master. The savory smell of meat, onions, and pastry filled the passenger compartment as Bascombe unwrapped it to reveal an assortment of folded pies.

“Egad! All of this?”

“Ain’t fancy, I’ll be bound,” the coachy replied, “but me and Davies like ’em.” He passed three bottles in, adding, “Wasn’t enough fer the hock, so I brung port ter yer. The pies is marked—pigeon, pork, and kidney.” Drawing his head back, he closed the door, and climbed up to share the rest with the driver.

“Well, daresay it ain’t what you are used to, Miss Morland, but the pick is yours,” Bertie said. “Don’t know whether ’tis the big P or the little one on top as means pigeon or pork, but it don’t matter.”

“I should prefer pork, I think.”

“Bite into it—if ’tis pigeon, I’ll eat it,” he offered. When she hesitated, he chose one with a K and stuffed a large portion of it into his mouth. “Ain’t bad,” he assured her. “Ain’t half-bad.”

She’d thought she was too tired to eat, but as she watched him devour the pasty with relish, she realized she was truly famished. Taking one from the papers, she nibbled a corner, fearing the worst. She’d never liked eating pigeon, always seeing the plump birds that begged in the parks, but this night she told herself she was beyond caring. Thankfully, she realized she’d chosen pork.

“Which P is which?” Bascombe asked, his mouth so full that crumbs spilled out.

“The larger letter must mean pigeon.”

Dominick reached for a bottle of wine, and using his thumbnail to break the thin coat of wax over the neck, he observed, “Rebottled and cheap.” Turning away from them, he took the cork in his teeth and pulled. It squeaked; then there was a dull pop. He held the bottle out to Anne. “Miss Morland?”

“I don’t have a glass.”

“Neither do we. Have a pull and pass it,” Bertie said. When he saw she did not take the wine, he encouraged her.

“Go on—ain’t any of us got rotten teeth.” Taking the bottle, he lifted it and swigged hugely. When he lowered it, there were crumbs floating in the dark red liquid. He started to hand it back.

“Keep it. Miss Morland and I will share our own, I think,” Dominick murmured.

“Really, I am not thirsty.”

“As you wish.” He opened another bottle, then leaned back to drink.

When she looked across again, he was watching her, his faint smile seeming to mock her. She wondered irritably if everything about her was a jest to him. Determined to appear the proper lady despite all that had befallen her, she tried to eat daintily, taking small bites. Ladies, she reminded herself fiercely, did not gorge themselves even when starving.

The pasty was good, but salty. Long before she finished it, she wished she’d not declined the wine. But it was vastly improper to drink with two men. And she could still remember the pain from whatever Quentin Fordyce had given her. Still, she could not help eyeing the bottle of port with regret.

“Another pie, Miss Morland?” Bertie asked. “Got plenty.”

Another one and she’d need a gallon of something to wash it down. Still hungry, she forced herself to shake her head. “No, thank you.”

“Don’t be a ninnyhammer, Miss Morland,” Deveraux advised her shortly. “Surely by now you can acquit Bascombe and me of any designs on your person. Neither of us is a Quentin Fordyce, after all.”

“Egad, no,” Bertie managed between mouthfuls. “It don’t make any difference even if you was to drink a little wine. Ruined, anyway.” Then, perceiving what he’d said, he hastened to add, “Well, you would be if ’twas known you been with us, but daresay it ain’t going to get out. I ain’t telling anybody. Promise.”

She knew she was ruined, but it was lowering to hear it, particularly since the situation had not been of her making. She had no position, no money, and no place to go now—except Newgate. And she ought not to care what an amiable fool and a self-styled rogue thought of her. Not at all. She had nothing to lose but her virtue, and they were apparently uninterested in that. She wavered, then told herself that it was all of a piece anyway. Whether she drank with them or not, if the story were ever told, there would be those who would suspect her of considerably more than that.

Dominick watched her face, seeing the momentary fear, then the resignation betrayed in the brown eyes, and despite his earlier words, he did feel for her. Unlike him, she’d not been totally alone in the world before. For a female, that must be devastating. “Blue-deviled, my dear?” he asked with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Used to his gibes, she was unprepared for the kindness in his voice. Her throat constricted painfully. Swallowing, she nodded. “Yes, Mr. Deveraux, I am,” she managed to answer finally. “But I shall survive.”

“Shouldn’t wonder at it!” Bertie said forcefully. “Got reason, after all, and it ain’t right! Serve Fordyce right if he was to be dead.”

“Bascombe—”

“Very good sort of a girl, I can tell. And if I was in the petticoat line, which I ain’t, I’d as lief offer for you as for Miss Brideport.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bascombe, but I fear I’d decline.”

“You would?” Bertie brightened visibly. “I say, but you
are
a brick, Miss Morland! Most of the females don’t care how they get a fellow into parson’s mousetrap, you know.”

“I would consider it very lowering to wed a man I did not love, sir.”

“The romantic Miss Morland,” Dominick murmured.

“Is everything a jest to you?” she retorted, stung.

“On the contrary, my dear—I salute you. I would that my mother had felt the same. Here …” He handed her the half-empty bottle. “Bascombe’s right, you know—neither of us will tell. Besides, ’twas so cheap, ’tis probably watered.”

She sighed and took it. “I daresay it would not matter if you did tell. Ruined is ruined, after all.” Lifting the bottle, she took a sip of the wine. It was surprisingly sweet. She wiped the opening and held it out to Deveraux. “Thank you, sir.”

“Keep it. You’ll need it if you are to choke down another pasty. Besides, there is still this one.” As he spoke, he held up the third bottle of port.

That settled, they ate and drank freely, polishing off the meat pies with relish. By the end of her third one, Anne was no longer sipping her wine daintily, but had taken to drinking it with as much gusto as the men. Despite the chilly fog and the darkness outside, the passenger compartment of Albert Bascombe’s carriage seemed warm, rosy, and intimate. She was, she supposed, more than a trifle grogged, but this night she did not care. For now, the soft flickering light of the interior lanterns chased the blue devils, and the companionship of the two men comforted her. She allowed herself to forget Quentin Fordyce, Mrs. Philbrook, and her ruined dress. Her stomach was full, her mind mellow, and she was safe. Bone-weary, she fought sleep to savor these last hours of security.

Albert Bascombe hiccuped loudly, then took yet another swig from his bottle. Fixing his rather wine-befuddled gaze on Dominick Deveraux, he announced, “Been thinkin’—too much formality in the world. Deuced nuisance—man cannot say what he thinks for the demned rules. It don’t make sense.”

Dominick’s lips twitched. “Observant of you to note it, Bascombe.”

“Bertie—m’friends call me Bertie. Think I’m a slowtop, don’tcha? Well, I ain’t, precisely. Just don’t think fast, that’s all.” Turning to Anne, he asked, “You don’t mind callin’ me Bertie, do you?”

“Well, I—”

“Get tired of being the Honorable Albert Bascombe. Get deuced tired of being Haverstoke’s heir too. Don’t even want to be an earl.” He hiccuped. “Sorry. Ain’t got anybody but m’friend Patrick—ain’t got no female friends at all,” he confided. “But I like you—you ain’t like most of ’em.” His pale eyes met hers earnestly. “You know what, Miss Morland? You got sense—lots of it. Most females I know, they’d a been waterin’ pots the whole way, but—”

“Another bottle of wine, and he would offer for you, Miss Morland,” Dominick observed dryly.

“Asking her to call me Bertie, that’s all. You too.”

“Well, as we have already dispensed with proper discourse between us, I cannot see that it matters anyway. I see no harm—”

“Not Albert—Bertie. Hate Albert—m’father calls me that when I’ve vexed him.”

She nodded. “Then Bertie it is. And you may call me Annie.”

“Friends?”

“Yes.”

“What about you, Deveraux? You ain’t answered.”

“The name is Dominick, and I cannot say I care very much for it either. But …” He straightened in his seat. “You may use it, if it pleases you.”

Bertie grinned happily. Lifting his own nearly empty bottle, he proposed. “To friends—to Dominick and Annie.”

“To Bertie,” Anne answered, clinking her bottle against his.

“To three souls together,” Dominick murmured.

“If you are saying we are foxed, I ain’t,” Bertie declared. “Don’t think Annie is either.”

“Positively bosky,” Anne contradicted him. “And I am beyond caring.”

“Hold the devil away until morning, eh?” Dominick asked softly.

“Yes.”

“It does not work, you know. I’ve tried.”

“Sometimes, Mr. Deveraux, I get tired of thinking on the morrow.”

“Dominick.” Once again the faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Dominick,” he repeated.

“I thought you did not like the name.”

“I like it as well as Mr. Deveraux.”

Giving the lie to his earlier words, Bertie Bascombe’s empty bottle slid to the floor, and he cradled his head against a seat corner. His soft, rhythmic snoring seemed to blend with the beat of the horses’ hooves against the hard-surfaced road. Anne reached for the carriage rug and laid it over his shoulder. Slowtop or not, one could scarce help liking him, for beneath his frivolous appearance he was far kinder than most of his class.

Settling back, she pulled Bascombe’s greatcoat close around her, then looked across to Dominick Deveraux. His smile had faded, and he was regarding her almost soberly.

“What
are
you going to do?” he asked suddenly.

She drew in a deep breath, then exhaled fully. She didn’t want to think about that, but she answered, “As soon as I obtain a dress, I shall seek accommodations on the mail coach bound for London.”

“And then?”

“Once there, I shall return to Mrs. Philbrook’s, where I shall be denounced rather roundly ere I am turned off. But I shall collect my things, then visit the constable.”

“What if Fordyce survived?”

“ ’Tis most unlikely—he was out for rather a long time, sir.”

“Dominick,” he reminded her. “But if he did—there is no possibility that this Philbrook woman would keep you?”

“If I am properly chastened, perhaps. Really, sir—Dominick—I’d rather not—”

“Are you quite certain the Morlands will not aid you?”

“I should perish ere I asked them.”

“If only for family pride, I cannot think General Morland would wish his granddaughter in jail.”

“Perhaps not, but—”

“Which brings me back to my first question, Annie—what will you do? For the moment, let us assume Fordyce lives.”

“Well, if I am not in jail, I shall seek employment, of course. Without a character, ’twill be difficult, but not entirely impossible. I shall consult an agency and hope to be referred to an elderly female of better disposition than Mrs. Philbrook.”

“What—not the opera? Considering your mother’s fame, I should think you’d have entrée there.”

“Alas, but I cannot sing, I’m afraid—my voice is rather flat. However, I speak creditable Italian.” She took another deep drink of the wine. “But ’tis not your concern, is it?”

“No.”

Emboldened by the port and by the intimacy of the small space between them, she cocked her head to study him. “And you—what will you do? Your case seems quite as desperate as mine, you know.”

“I shall either see or bury my mother. In any event, I mean to go back to France.”

“Did you never think to turn yourself in?”

It was as though his face closed, and for a time he did not answer. He stared into the blackness, then finally sighed. “I cannot. My mother would never forgive me the scandal. ‘Twould be the final sin in her eyes, I’m afraid.”

“You do not appear the murderer to me.”

“Dueling is illegal, my dear.”

Having no answer for that, she leaned back, and as the sudden silence was broken only by Bascombe’s snoring, she took refuge in what was left of her port. Why had he asked about the morrow? Why had he forced her to think on the future she did not have? On the morrow she would part from Dominick Deveraux and Bertie Bascombe, and she would be alone. And despite the wine, her spirits plummeted. She blinked back hot tears of self-pity and lifted he bottle to her lips. Just this once, she’d drown her fears in what was left of the port. She’d have a miserable head on the morrow, but she no longer cared.