Ashlyn Macnamara (8 page)

“I thank you for your assistance.” She squared her shoulders, held them stiff to reinforce the formality of her tone. “I do not think we shall require any more.”

“Jack, why don’t you run along home?” The boy blinked at the request, his eyes alight with curiosity. “There’s a good lad. Your mama and I will be along presently. Only I wish a word with her—alone.”

“Wait for me, Jack,” Isabelle interjected before turning back to Upperton. “I do not have time to chat. I thank you for finding my son and returning him to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must be off.” Mrs. Weston’s stomach remedy wasn’t going to wait much longer.

His hand lashed out to clamp on her forearm, firm, solid, not quite a threat, but a demand nonetheless. “I would discuss a certain matter with you.”

“What can we possibly have to discuss, sir? We hardly know each other.”

“Mama?” Jack looked from one to the other, his brow wrinkled.

“Go on now,” Upperton said. “Your mama and I will follow.”

Jack, drat the boy, jogged on up the path. She drew in a breath to call him back, but the hand on her arm tightened.

“Unless you’d rather he overhear us discussing him?” Upperton grumbled.

“My son is none of your affair, and I have work to do.”

She moved to follow Jack, and Upperton released his grip but fell into step beside her. Gracious, what could he possibly want with her? She’d appear of little enough account to him with her simple dress. No better than a
servant or a shop girl. Beneath his notice. She retained no outward sign of what she had been.

“What do you want?” She hated the way her voice sounded, so small and feeble faced with him.

“Where is the boy’s father?”

“What?” She quickened her pace, but he lengthened his stride to match.

“His father.”

“Jack,” she called. “Do you remember that plant I showed you the other day? The one you said smelled so good?”

The boy turned and nodded.

“Do you recall where we found it?” Another nod. “I need you to pick some for me. As much as you can. Hurry along now.” She didn’t spare Upperton a glance. A steady stride and she’d be home soon enough. She fully intended to close the door in the man’s face.

“Thank you,” Upperton said. “Best he doesn’t have a chance to overhear.”

“I’ve no intention of discussing this with you. It is none of your affair.”
Keep walking. Just keep walking. Don’t look at him. Don’t acknowledge
.

“Did he abandon you?” His voice took on a hard edge of outrage for her sake. But why should he care? To him, she was nothing. He was so far above her, yet at one time that might not have been the case. Six years ago
she
might well have been above
him
.

“It does not signify. He is not here. That is all that matters.”

“All that matters? That boy needs a father.”

She pulled up short, her hands balled into fists at the memory. “He does not need his true father. His true father was a scoundrel.”

Upperton stepped closer until he blocked even the sky. A salt-laden breeze ruffled his hair, standing it on
end and giving him a roguish look. “He needs a man in his life nonetheless.”

Sudden laughter bubbled in her throat. “Are you volunteering?”

The color drained from his wind-reddened cheeks, and he retreated. “No.”

“Then why broach the subject? Why put your nose where it clearly does not belong?” She strode off again. Jack had disappeared down a side lane, after the mint. Ahead, the first cottages loomed closer. Her cottage, up the street from the vicarage, past the inn. Her refuge.

“It’s only …” He caught up with her once more. “The devil take it. Wouldn’t your life be easier with someone else to help you look after him? He’s going to be getting into more and more scrapes as he grows older.”

“Speaking from experience, are you?” She sent a pointed glance in the direction of the bruises fading about his left eye.

“If you must know, yes. But besides that, he’s lonely.”

“Did he tell you as much?” An odd burning roiled in her stomach. Could it be jealousy that her son had confided in this stranger rather than his own mother?

“Not in so many words, but I could see it. A boy his age needs companions.”

She nodded to a matron emerging from the apothecary. “He has me.”

“You’re his mother. Someday he’ll want a man to tell him about—” He broke off, but the color fast rising to his cheeks filled in the rest of his notion easily enough.

“He’ll want to know about seducing innocent girls into ruin?” That stopped him. Bluntness generally did.

He opened his mouth and closed it again. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. At the same time, a speculative glint in his eye told her he’d taken her point.

“I’d prefer my son not learn such lessons.”

“Then he needs some sort of father even more.”

“And where do you propose I find such a paragon? He’d have to take me into the bargain, ruined as I am.”

His gaze traveled down her body, heating everything it touched, from her face to her breasts to somewhere deep, deep within—somewhere forbidden. And here she was, standing in the middle of a public thoroughfare, letting him ogle her. Time to shut him down here and now.

“That, Mr. Upperton, is precisely the sort of man I intend to avoid.”

CHAPTER FIVE

G
EORGE STALKED
up the dusty road toward a promising-looking establishment. Precisely the sort of man she intended to avoid, indeed. He hadn’t intended to imply anything. As if he could take on another woman’s problems when he had enough of his own.

He eyed the inn—it must be an inn, given its size. An inn meant refreshment might be had. Lord knew a quaff of ale would go down nicely after the morning he’d had. Rejected by an equine and a female. Not that he wanted anything to do with either. Oh, no.

“I say, you’ve come a rather roundabout way.”

George squinted in the direction of the masculine voice. Leach led his horse from the opposite end of the village. Revelstoke followed, along with several of his male guests, each holding a set of reins.

Revelstoke approached and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do I want to know what you’ve done with Buttercup?”

“Who’s Buttercup?”

The wretch fairly smiled. “I recall lending you a horse this morning.”

So the beast was female, too. He might have known. “That was no Buttercup. That was an ungrateful nag that decided to have a lie-in rather than take me on an outing. I’m certain the blasted beast is back at the stables, stuffing itself with oats.”

Revelstoke burst out laughing.

“And don’t you dare point out the last rider that foul creature threw was a child of six,” George added. “I shall have to demand satisfaction.”

“You can call Buttercup out if you’d like, but you’ll have to ask someone else to stand as your second. We were coming to the inn for a drink, but perhaps you wish to decline the invitation. You’ll need the time to walk home.”

“That’s quite all right. I can use the drink.” He glanced at the others. Revelstoke’s brother and brother-in-law, the Marquess of Enfield and the Earl of Highgate respectively, flanked Leach. “If one of you happens to have a pack of cards, that wouldn’t go amiss, either. What do you say?”

A slow grin spread across Leach’s features. He reached into his topcoat and pulled out a small packet. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Revelstoke nudged him. “About the card games.”

“What’s that?”

“My wife’s decided she doesn’t want any deep play at the house. Too tempting for her father.”

Leach frowned. “That’s going to leave us with nothing but parlor games for entertainment.”

The lines about the marquess’s eyes deepened as he laughed. “If you’re fortunate, the older ladies will look the other way for Kiss the Candlestick.”

“Knowing my mother,” George said, “she’ll encourage it, and then claim I’ve compromised some young miss.”

“That decides it, then.” Leach replaced the pack in his topcoat and patted the pocket. “The morning’s exertions have left me decidedly parched. What say we sample the local brew? And perhaps any other delights this village might hold?”

Highgate raised his brows. “What sort of delights might those be in a place this size?”

“Good God, save me from the parson’s trap. Has marriage completely coddled you?” Leach let out a bark of laughter. “You can’t tell me the inn doesn’t house a willing wench or two.”

“I can’t say that it does,” Revelstoke said.

“Yes, another one caught. It only means you haven’t looked hard enough, I daresay. I wouldn’t want to wager Upperton here has beat us to what pickings there are.” He elbowed George in the ribs. “Eh? What about it? Have you been sampling the local talent while the rest of us jounced about working up a thirst?”

George stepped back. Ordinarily, he’d be in the thick of such speculation, if only for a bawdy laugh or two. Not now. For some reason, Isabelle’s image floated through his mind. He’d caught a glimpse of her house when she flounced in—tidy, yes, but tiny. Whatever her station had been—and her manner of speaking told him it was high—her circumstances now were far reduced.

And what if, out of sheer desperation, she resorted to the sort of undertakings Leach hinted at? What if she already had sold herself to any who might have a few coins in order to feed her son or maintain the roof over their heads? Such a risk, and if she attracted the wrong man …

That, Mr. Upperton, is precisely the sort of man I intend to avoid
.

What if she already had?

The notion hit him like a blow to the gut and forced the air from his lungs. Not if he could help it. But what could he do? For now, at any rate, Leach didn’t know anything about her. He need only ensure such remained the case.

“It took me half the morning to reach here on foot, I’ll have you know.” He hoped the others would interpret the edge to his voice as simple injury at having his
horse unseat him. Buttercup, indeed. “Now what about that drink?”

Anything to get them out of the street.

Arse aching from his spill, he led the way into the inn. The common room lay dark beneath heavy-beamed ceilings and a few high windows. A fitful fire burned on the hearth, pumping more smoke into the space than heat. Grayish wisps floated through the weak shafts of sunlight slanting down from the eaves. A broad-bosomed woman glowered at them from behind the bar.

George nudged Leach and pointed with his chin. “There’s your local talent.”

Leach frowned and flopped into the nearest seat. “Let’s get on with it.”

A few hours later, George was cheerfully willing to overlook any lingering ache in his nether regions in favor of concentrating on heavier pockets, at least sometime in the near future.

“You’ll have to accept my marker.” Leach pressed a slip of paper into his hand.

“What’s this then?”

Leach’s cheeks took on a ruddy flush, more so than could be attributed to any ale he’d consumed. He mumbled something too low for George to hear over the chatter in the taproom.

“Come again?”

Leach cleared his throat. “I said unless you’d like to make an arrangement with your sister.”

George closed his fist around the marker. “Here now. What’s Henrietta got to do with an agreement between gentlemen? You’ve no call dragging her name into it.”

Leach’s eyes narrowed, the merest tightening of the muscles above his cheeks, the movement nearly imperceptible in the shadows of the taproom. “She cleaned me out last night, all right?”

Revelstoke burst out in a fit of false coughing, which only served to darken Leach’s expression.

“Cleaned you out?” George drummed his fingers on the table. “How did you get those kinds of stakes past Julia?”

Leach shrugged. “Don’t suppose she was paying close enough attention.”

“That’s what you get for letting Henny win.”

“I didn’t let her win,” Leach grated.

George ignored the warning note in Leach’s reply. This was just too delicious. He threw back his head and laughed. “In that case, I owe you thanks for teaching her properly. If it weren’t for her reputation, I’d have to think of a way to spirit her into my club. I might reverse a few of my own fortunes.”

“That’s it.” Wooden chair legs scraped loudly on planked flooring as Leach unfolded himself. “I’m off.”

George studied the other man as he turned and stalked out of the taproom. His pack of cards still lay spread on the table. The tightness about his mouth and the rigid set of his shoulders spoke volumes.

Turning to face the others, George picked up his tankard and swallowed the last of his ale. “And where did he come from? I can’t recall ever coming across him before, and you’d think, among friends, I’d know the other guests.”

Revelstoke sat up a bit straighter, his gaze panning toward the door. “He’s an acquaintance of the Wentworths’. At least, he came out from Town with them. I wasn’t about to turn him away, as a friend of invited guests.”

“Rather touchy for a hanger-on, don’t you think?” George said. “What do you suppose his problem is?”

Highgate leaned across the table. “Did you have to rub it in?”