Barbara Metzger (15 page)

The viscount was glad Miss Lockharte was safe, of course. The innkeeper's wife reported that the doctor had come and gone, satisfied with her condition. Miss Lockharte had then begged for a bath and a shampoo. Mrs. Murphy had never seen a body more bruised, nor a person rejoice in hot water more. After that, Miss Lockharte had eaten a good hot meal and gone fast asleep, which was precisely what the doctor had prescribed.

A bath, a bed, and a full belly sounded like Heaven to Wynn right now, but Tige wanted to refight his last battle.

"And you say three men abducted her, but only the Heatherstone twins returned her?"

"Right you are, m'lord, and neither of them was wearing a hat."

"What about the third man, the one with the mask?"

"The dastard had a low-crowned beaver, m'lord. But that don't mean nothing."

Wynn was willing to lay money that the third man was Tully Hadfield, who'd left town at the same time. Tripp Hayes had also disappeared, but Hayes was a sober-minded gentleman who would never condone such a stunt. There must have been a wager or some wild dare, Wynn thought. Abducting an innocent woman out of a carriage was just the sort of mad prank the Heatherstone halfwits would pull; shooting his driver was more in line with Hadfield's brand of deviltry. And Hadfield might have figured he had a score to settle with him, after Wynn had refused his request for Susan's hand. But why pick on poor Miss Lockharte?

And then there were the final words from the Heather-pebble popinjays. “Tell me again what those clunches said,” Wynn demanded of Tige.

The driver spat on the ground, to aid his concentration. “They said, m'lord, that they would do themselves the honor—them's the exact words, mind—of calling on your lordship in London, to ask your intentions toward Miss Lockharte."

How dare those two basket-scramblers question his motives? Wynn fumed. He wasn't the one who had held up a coach to drag a sick female off in the rain. “If they dare show their faces at Stanford House, I'll show them my intentions, all right. I'll bang those two heads together so hard, maybe some of the sawdust they use as brains will fall out and there will be room for a thought or two."

Tige wouldn't mind seeing the youngsters get a taste of his lordship's homebrewed, but he was duty-bound to give a full accounting. “They did make her a pretty apology, afore they left in such a hurry when the landlord reached for his rifle. He wanted them to pay for his precious bottle. Said it'd been in the fambly for generations."

"I've already paid him. That's another debt they owe."

"And they gave Miss a kitten, milord."

"A kitten?"

"You know, little furry thing with whiskers?"

"I know what a kitten is, Tige, thank you. Do you mean to tell me they thought that would make up for the terror the poor woman must have undergone?"

"Don't know nothing about terror. She was passed out for most of the argle-bargle at the coach, then was cool as a cucumber when she had to be, when they brung her back. Never seen such shooting, and her not looking like she could lift a finger to scratch her nose. But no, the lads had the kitten aforetimes, it seems. They apologized right handsomely for that, too, said they should have brought her a dog, but this was the best they could do for now."

Wynn was wondering if his life would ever make sense again. “They knew Miss Lockharte?” Something about the kitten—no, the dog—was striking a chord in his memory.
I am dying, and I never had a dog.
Good lord, she'd written to the Heatherstone sprigs, too.

Later, after his own bath and hot meal, Wynn sat with the innkeeper's best brandy in the innkeeper's best private parlor and contemplated his best moves. The female upstairs knew the fools who'd abducted her, and now they wanted to know if he was going to do the honorable thing by her. The whole deuced coil must be nothing but a plot to get a wealthy viscount to the altar, by George! First she fed him a tale of woe until Wynn took her up, then her cavaliers came riding to her rescue, crying compromise, blast them to Hell. That was just the kind of nasty trick a dirty dish like Tully Hadfield would devise.

But could they really be thinking leg-shackles? Perhaps he was the one, now, who was seeing conspiracies in every corner.

Miss Lockharte was a schoolteacher, he told himself, like that skittish spinster back at the academy. Schoolteachers were middle-aged old maids, not marriageable misses. His sister had wanted her for a companion, and although he couldn't remember anything about the female except her unsuitability, he knew that companions were likewise not remotely in the running for a title, especially not his.

Wynn had more questions than answers. Just how old was the woman, anyway? It had been impossible to tell, between the bruises and the pallor and the gaunt cheeks. Plot or not, she had been grievously ill.

If the Heatherstones wanted to know his intentions, they must think she was a lady, if they thought at all. Besides, they would most likely have dumped a female of less stature out on the roadway after they'd had their fun. They would never consider that Wynn should have to marry her. If she was well born, then who were her people and why weren't they caring for her?

No, that wasn't a mystery, Wynn reflected, sipping his brandy. He could easily understand why her family didn't claim such a prickly female. Her other presentiments of persecution aside, Miss Lockharte was definitely dicked in the nob if she thought she could bring him up to scratch. Wynn had enough eccentric relations himself to understand how some unfortunate family could choose to let her shift for herself.

She was not, the viscount promised himself, going to shift him into parson's mousetrap.

His intentions? He was going to strangle her, that's what.

Wynn took the steps two at a time up to the bedchamber across from his. The door was slightly open, so he pushed it in, without knocking. A mobcapped maid was sleeping in a chair in the corner and a lamp was left burning. So was the fire, keeping the room as warm as a bakehouse. Wynn loosened his neckcloth as he approached the bed.

Miss Lockharte was sleeping, and not even the most righteously indignant victim of her machinations would have had the heart to awaken her. She was wearing a clean white flannel nightgown, most likely the landlady's, that buttoned at the chin, and her newly bandaged right arm lay atop the blankets, a small gray fur ball nestled in the elbow above her plastered wrist. The kitten blinked up at him with wide smoky eyes, yawned, and tucked its chin back into the folds of Miss Lockharte's nightgown. Wynn could hear its purring.

They'd washed her hair, he could see, and cut it, most likely as the most expedient way of getting rid of the tangles. The dark and dirty mop she'd had was replaced by a head of wheaten curls framing her face. Now Miss Lockharte looked like a fallen angel, Wynn thought, remembering her celestial blue eyes. The bruises were not so visible under her improved complexion, and the dirt had been washed away. Even the hollows at her cheeks were already less gaunt. She seemed to be resting peacefully, too, without the pained, pinched look he'd seen in the carriage. He glanced at the bottles and jars on the bedside table, wondering if she'd been given a sleeping draft or if she'd wake up soon so he could question her.

Wynn still couldn't tell her years. With the cap of curls, she might have been a child, except for the swelling mounds of her breasts. She was a woman, then, but her hair showed no gray and her skin seemed soft, where it wasn't swollen or discolored. She was most likely of marriageable age after all. Looking at her, though, the viscount couldn't bring himself to think of Miss Lockharte contriving a trap for his name and fortune. The poor chick was too addled, for one, too impaired, for another. No, she'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. For the umpteenth time, it looked like.

Something touched Rosellen's face. “Go back to sleep, Noah,” she mumbled.

Noah? Wynn's hand, which was brushing a curl off her cheek, clenched into a fist. Damn, she looked so sweet asleep, so vulnerable and needing protection, that he'd forgotten for a moment: Miss Lockharte was one of the slipperiest characters he had ever encountered, certainly the most troublesome of females. And he had known a great many troublesome females, the majority of whom did not call out men's names in their sleep. Or if they did, he did not have to know about it.

Wynn must have made some sound of disgust that he had let his imagination lend innocence to the fragile waif, for her eyes opened. They were, indeed, the eyes of an angel, which only went to prove that appearances could be deceiving. “I am sorry,” he said when she blinked a few times, trying to get her bearings. “Sorry that I awakened you and sorry that I am not Noah."

Her face screwed up in confusion. “Why would you be sorry you're not a cat?"

"Noah's your cat?” Good grief, he truly was seeing goblins and ghoulies everywhere. Wynn could feel his face burning, that she might think he wanted to be in her arms like the little gray kitten. Nothing was farther from his mind, by Heaven. “You named your cat Noah?"

"He was found in a flooded ditch, it seems. Noah seemed appropriate.” Her good hand was stroking the soft fur; the kitten was purring again.

"Yes, well, about this afternoon..."

"There's only one of you!” she exclaimed suddenly.

Oh, lud. “Yes, I know, I couldn't be in two places at once. Still, I am sorry I wasn't there to defend you. I should not have ridden off and left the coach unguarded that way."

"No, I mean that I'm not seeing double anymore! The doctor assured me the condition would improve, but you cannot imagine what a relief it is that he proved correct."

"Yes, I'm sure it was disconcerting, but—"

"To say the least. That's why I, ah, the carriage..."

Her voice faded to an embarrassed murmur and a blush spread across her cheeks. A maidenly blush, Wynn decided, giving further credence to the Heatherstones’ presumptions. “Think nothing of it, Miss Lockharte. You were ill, and the carriage is already as good as new. You seem much improved also, which is more important."

"Thanks to Mrs. Murphy and the excellent doctor. I can never thank you enough for bringing me here, my lord. And I am sure that by tomorrow I can find a ride into Brighton to see the constable, so you need not be bothered with me any longer."

"It's no bother, I assure you."

"Nonsense, of course it is,” Rosellen said in her best tutorial voice. “You have been more than kind, so you don't have to lie. I am sure you want to be off about your business, so I won't keep you."

Wynn was irked that Miss Lockharte was so positive that he wouldn't help her. The cheeky female was dismissing him out of hand, to go off on her own into Zeus knew what trouble. His mother and sister came to him with every minute dilemma, from overcharged bills to overdue lending-library books. Miss Lockharte, with less strength than her kitten, thought she could handle thieves and murderers on her own. Even if the criminals were running amok in her own mind, she should be turning to him.

But she wasn't, obviously because she didn't think he had enough human kindness to inconvenience himself for a mere schoolteacher. Although that was exactly his intention, to wash his hands of her at first light, her assumption irked him. Before the Heatherstones arrived, he'd been planning to send her to one of his properties. Now he was determined to stay on and see what became of Miss Lockharte and her cohorts, see if he didn't. Besides, Wynn saw a good way of gathering the information he sought.

"Tomorrow is much too soon,” he told her. “The physician said you shouldn't be moving about for a week."

"Oh, no, I have to get to Brighton long before that. I have to see about my fifty pounds so that I can repay you and Mrs. Murphy for the costs of my keep."

Did the ninnyhammer think he would take money from her, besides? Either she knew nothing about gentlemen, which was possible if she'd been associating with the Heatherstone duo, or she did not consider him one. Wynn would have slammed his fist on the nightstand if the maid hadn't been sleeping.

"Mrs. Murphy has been paid. And I shall undertake your errands in Brighton. I have business there myself,” he fabricated.

"Will you, truly? I don't know if it's the constable or the magistrate that I need to see to lodge a complaint about the Merrihews. I need to find Fanny also."

"Right, the missing maid who knows all about the cryptic coach and the purloined purse."

Her eyes narrowed and her hand stopped petting the kitten, who complained. “You do not believe me. You are humoring me like a fractious child."

The woman might be deluded, Wynn thought, but she was no dunce cap. “I am only looking at it from the magistrate's viewpoint. You are unclear yourself as to the money's source and the Merrihews are upstanding citizens in the community. You have no proof of your allegations."

"I have a broken wrist!"

"Yes, but you have no evidence that you did not simply lose your footing, out of weakness after the fever. No, it would be better for me to make a quiet investigation, to see if I cannot locate the maid for you first."

"I suppose that makes more sense,” Rosellen reluctantly agreed. Truly she was not fit to go traipsing from door to door looking for a missing maidservant. The viscount, she supposed, could simply send one of his own retainers while he sat in some smoke-filled gaming den.

"Good. I shall need a bit more information before approaching the magistrate, in any case, such as how long you have been at the academy and where you were before. He'll want to know your bona fides. Legal types are thorough chaps, don't you know."

Rosellen actually knew very little about the law, that being another subject considered beyond a mere female's understanding. So she gave Wynn what information she could. If he was going to any trouble on her behalf, which she doubted, he deserved to know all the facts.

"I was with the school for two years, before which I lived near Upper Stoughton, in Lincolnshire. My father was the vicar at St. Jerome's there before he passed on."