Barbara Metzger (16 page)

Warning bells were clanging in Wynn's head. A vicar's daughter? Genteelly educated to be a governess or such? That species was not bred to be the playthings of bored aristocrats.

She was going on: “That's all, except for the short time I spent with my uncle and his family in London."

He noted that she did not give a name to the loose screws who'd thrown her to the wolves this way. Merchants or shopkeepers, he supposed. Better-connected females were all too quick to puff off their consequences. “And I suppose that was where you met the Heatherstones.” It was just like those numbskulls to strike up an acquaintance with cits and hangers-on.

Rosellen stared at the cat, who was trying to get the button off her sleeve. “Yes, I met them in London, briefly."

"Briefly is usually enough, with those two. It was long enough, however, for them to remember you when they decided to kidnap a defenseless female."

She glanced up to see his lowered brow. “Oh, it wasn't like that at all. They thought they were rescuing me, you see."

"From me?” Two glasses of lemonade could be chilled by the ice in Wynn's voice.

"More from the masked rider, as far as I could understand."

"Ah, yes, the third highwayman.” The woman looked and sounded sincere to Wynn, as if she actually believed Hurly and Burly Heatherstone were not involved in stopping his coach and shooting his driver. Then again, she believed Reverend Merrihew had pushed her down the stairs. If she was not in on the wager, she was most definitely being used as the bait to set the trap. But a vicar's daughter fallen on hard times, what could be more of a cliché? Or more respectable?

Wynn hardened his resolve not to be caught in the snare. “And they just happened to be in the neighborhood? Doesn't that seem rather fortuitous?"

Rosellen wasn't surprised at anything anymore, not after the viscount had shown up and come to her assistance. “It seems that I wrote them letters also. While I was so ill, you know.” I Viscount Stanford knew her letters all too well.

"And your message sent them riding
ventre à terre
to your rescue?"

"Not precisely. The gentlemen somehow got the impression that when I died I was going to haunt them from beyond if they did not mend their ways."

"Now I wonder how those two gullible fools ever got that idea,” Wynn said, noting that Miss Lockharte was having a hard time keeping her swollen lips from curving up in a smile. Little gold flecks were dancing in her eyes. He stepped back in a hurry. He had no business noticing the eyes, merry or otherwise, of a vicar's daughter.

"I am sure I cannot imagine,” she said with a definite lilt, “but you can see where it would behoove them to keep me alive. They were only trying to rescue me this afternoon, I am convinced of it."

And Heaven knew what they were trying to do now: rescue her from poverty? From spinsterhood? The devil take all of them! Wynn still wasn't sure of Miss Lockharte's place in the ruse. “Tell me, what will happen if you cannot recover the blunt?"

"I could starve, I suppose.” She raised her bandaged arm. “I cannot work and I have nothing to sell. Offering my body, even if I were willing to take a woman's last option, which I am not, does not seem to be an alternative, considering your reaction this afternoon.” Rosellen hoped to pass off her hideous presumption as a joke.

"I am sorry, miss, I shouldn't have laughed, but I do not go around offering
carte blanche
to the victims of horse tramplings. What else will you do?"

"Quite frankly, I have been worrying myself sick over the dilemma. I suppose my only hope is to throw myself on my uncle's mercy. He didn't seem to have much of that commodity in the past, but I have no other choice.” She sat up straighter, pulling the covers to her chin. “Do not think that I am looking for sympathy or handouts, my lord. You have done enough, and I do not mean to add to my debt to you. Uncle will have to provide."

"As well as he has provided in the past? Just who is this uncle who would see his own flesh and blood working for a witch like Miss Merrihew, anyway?” Wynn meant to have a word with the blackguard when he returned to London.

"Uncle Townsend is my mother's brother. Baron Haverhill."

Haverhill? The devil! Wynn rocked back on his heels, suddenly wishing the maid wasn't sleeping in the room's only chair. Then again, thank goodness the landlady's daughter was present to play propriety. Haverhill!

"So that's why he was coming here,” he reasoned out loud. “It was no coincidence at all. You wrote to him, too, didn't you?"

"He was coming? You relieve me. I did not want to think him so heartless.” Rosellen sighed. “And if he cared enough to come for me, he will repay you, of course. I am sorry you had to go to the bother. Uncle would have helped me."

But Haverhill hadn't even shown up, Wynn thought but forbore commenting. He looked to the door to make sure it was open. Thunderation, Miss Lockharte was Clarice Haverhill's cousin!

As if reading his thoughts, Rosellen asked, “You must know Uncle if you knew his intentions. Do you know my cousin, Clarice, also? No, ignore my curiosity,” she answered herself. “Of course you do. She is a Toast, after all.” Clarice and this Corinthian obviously shared the rarefied ether of the elite society.

He nodded distractedly, trying without success to place a poor relation in the beauty's entourage. “But I was not in the habit of attending debutante balls and the like until my sister came to Town. I must have missed your London Season."

She lauhed, but without humor. “Oh, it was no Season, more of a sennight in Hell. But I do not recall you from then either.” And she would have, had the dark-haired, dashing viscount formed part of Clarice's court.

"How much older are you than Miss Haverhill?” he asked, pretending to be dredging his memory still.

She shook a fold of blanket at the kitten. “Actually, I am two years younger."

Wynn felt the sands shifting beneath his feet. Miss Lockharte was not only a vicar's daughter and a baron's niece; she was that most dangerous of manhunters, a woman of marriageable age. And here he was, in her bedroom at night in an inn, alone except for a sleeping maid. Uncle should pop in at any moment, with a loaded rifle. No wonder he hadn't fetched her out of the attics at the academy; Haverhill was waiting for bigger fish. The baron couldn't land the prize with his beautiful daughter as bait, so now he thought to use his little minnow of a niece. Damn them all to hell.

"Perhaps your uncle will arrive in the morning,” he said. “I thought he was leaving town before me, but I must have been wrong."

And he was wrong to be there. Wynn was in a hurry to leave, making sure his neckcloth was straight before he stepped into the hall. Lud, he was in a sweat, and not just from the heat of the room. He tried to slick his hair back with unsteady fingers. “For now, you need your rest. Good night, Miss Lockharte."

Her eyelids were already drifting closed. “Good night, Lord Stanford. And I am sorry for believing you were a pompous prig. God bless you for being a better person than I thought."

Rosellen was asleep in minutes. She was comfortable and secure for the first time in forever, it seemed. Her future might be as uncertain as the weather, or as variable as a certain viscount's moods, but she was protected for now. If his lordship wished to practice his charitable inclinations on her, that was fine. She'd pay him back by disappearing as soon as she had her fifty pounds, so he wouldn't find her an embarrassment.

Meanwhile, whatever else his faults, Lord Stanford would not abandon her. That is, he might leave, but Rosellen felt sure he would lend her enough money to see her through until she found her own stolen fortune or another position. Although she had doubts about his original intentions, she believed the viscount had taken her under his wing, and she was content to be there for now. Just as Noah was curled up in the space between Rosellen's shoulder and her cheek, knowing he wouldn't be hurt, so she trusted his lordship. She wasn't sure why, but there it was.

And there Wynn was, trying to sleep in his carriage. He was awake for hours. First he'd put his feet up on the seat opposite him, then he'd tried leaning sideways against the door panel. Nothing worked, but he'd be damned if he went back inside that inn. Damned to a life with a crackbrained viscountess, he'd be the laughingstock of the ton. Even his mother would rather see him remain unwed than make such a misalliance.

But what to do with Miss Lockharte, that was the question keeping Wynn awake. He couldn't suffer sleeping in his carriage for a sennight and he couldn't simply walk away. There was the rub. Sending her off to Yorkshire now that he knew she was young and gently bred was no longer a viable option. The people there would immediately assume that she was his castoff mistress. They'd treat her accordingly, making her life a misery. Even that, however, might be better than the life she'd lead as Clarice Haverhill's poor relation. Bedlam might be better. Wynn would have to make other arrangements.

He spent the next hour trying to think of anyone he knew who needed a governess or a companion. Fotheringill's children were little savages, though, and Beaumont's mother was a shrew. Wynn even considered forcing one of the hatless Heatherstones to marry her. They were the ones who'd had her unchaperoned in the open curricle, after all. No, Miss Lockharte deserved better than that, too. Hell, her kitten deserved better.

Wynn could not think of a decent alternative, but he did find a less uncomfortable position, curled on his side with his knees touching his chest. He'd be stiff in the morning, but better a sore back than a batty bride. With visions of Miss Lockharte in a white lace gown tumbling down the stairs of his mind, the viscount finally fell asleep, so he missed the fire.

Murphy woke him before dawn by opening the carriage door. The innkeeper had a grin on his face, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a purse of money in the other. He thrust the latter two at the viscount. “Here, gov'nor, ‘tis the money what you gave for the blue bottle. That little gal saved my inn last night, she did. I'm thinking of renaming the place the Lucky Lady in her honor."

Lucky? Miss Lockharte? Even half asleep, Wynn knew better. Miss Lockharte was the most unfortunate female he'd ever encountered. Otherwise, he wouldn't feel so accountable for her welfare. “She isn't lucky; she just has more lives than that cat of hers. What did you say she did?"

"She saved my bacon, that's what. Put out the fire with that man of yours. I was surprised to see him there instead of your lordship, but lucky for me he was. Iffen it was yourself in the room where you was supposed to be sleeping, the bathwater wouldn't've still been in the room. But the water wouldn't've turned the trick, not without the little miss screaming loud enough to get your coachman's attention. It was the cat what first smelled smoke, too, and after my wife wanted to put the poor thing outside after supper. My, my, what a night."

Wynn had the man by the lapels of his frieze coat. Coffee and coins were both on the floor of the carriage. “What fire, by all that's holy?” he shouted. “And is Miss Lockharte injured?"

"The fire in the hall outside your room. One of the guests must have been castaway enough last night that he dropped his candle on the way to bed without even noticing. Like I said, the young lady and your man had the fire out by the time I could get up the stairs. And her with a broken wrist. My, my, I said to Mrs. Murphy, that one's a game pullet if I ever saw one. She went right back to sleep, she did. Said there was no reason to wake your lordship."

"But is she all right?” Wynn demanded.

"Better'n when she came,” the innkeeper declared, but Wynn was already on his way across the inn's courtyard, headed for the stairs.

"My, my,” Murphy said, watching the viscount's quickly disappearing figure. “My, my."

Wynn was halfway up the stairs before he remembered he wasn't wearing a neckcloth. Hell, he wasn't even shaved. But he could smell smoke, so he kept going. Lud, these old timbers could go up like matchsticks. No wonder the landlord was grateful.

The door to Miss Lockharte's room was partially open, so the viscount rushed right in. The female could have inhaled the noxious fumes or been burned in her bravery, despite the innkeeper's assurances. At the very least, she could be in hysterics. His mother would have had a spasm for sure; his sister would have swooned; Maude would have needed to dose herself with laudanum for a week. But Miss Lockharte, he saw when he entered the room, Miss Lockharte needed to wash her hair.

She was sitting next to the fire, with her back to him, trying to fluff her curls dry with one hand. The kitten was in her lap, batting at the towel she was ineffectively wielding.

"Here, let me do that,” Wynn said, taking the towel away from her.

Rosellen licked her lips, which Wynn noted were not nearly so swollen, and glanced nervously toward the door. “I don't think you should...."

"I am not trying to compromise you, miss. Trust me, that is the farthest thing from my mind. Furthermore, the door is open and Mrs. Murphy assures me that she is on her way upstairs with your breakfast."

Rosellen looked down at the borrowed robe, which enveloped her from chin to toes, twice around. Of course she did not appeal to his lordship's taste, she told herself. She was being foolishly missish again. Still uncomfortable with the presence of a man in her room, though, and a man in disarray, with a dark shadow on his jaw besides, she found herself chattering more than was her wont. “I am so glad to be rid of my long hair. This is so much easier to manage. I just had to be rid of the smell of smoke."

While he gently patted her curls, Wynn was trying to decide on their color. The soft tendrils were not an insipid blond or a common, mousy brown. They were somewhere right in the middle, he decided. Sunlight or lemon juice would make golden highlights, he was sure. His sister would know. For now it was enough that not a single hair on her head was singed. Catching himself woolgathering, he asked, “Where is the girl I hired to tend to you?"