Dangerous to Kiss (16 page)

“Jewels?”

He smiled. “Even you could not be that innocent, Deborah. Amber? Garnet? Pearl? Ruby? Oh, no need to look disgruntled. You are still the diamond, still the prize.”

She could not believe what her mind was telling her. Not even
he
could be that steeped in vice. A glance at Nick’s painfully apologetic expression destroyed that faint hope. A warm tide of color crept under her skin. He was going to turn the cottage into his own private den of iniquity, and she was to be a part of it. Numb
with fear, she watched as Nick went to the sideboard and fetched glasses and a bottle of brandy. Sloshing liquid into two glasses, he handed one to Gray.

“I want to go to my room,” she said, looking beseechingly at Nick.

Gray gulped down a fortifying swallow of liquor. “Oh no, Deborah,” he said. “That does not suit me. You, my pet, are going to take part in the orgy.”

Orgy.
The very word brought to mind every wild rumor she had ever heard about the depravity of men of his class. She would be forced to take opium and be passed from man to man, and when they were finished with her, they would sell her into sexual slavery in some brothel or other.

“I’m going to be sick,” she whispered, and made a dash for the door.

Gray half rose to his feet, but Nick was faster. “I’ll see to her,” he said, and grabbing for her cloak, he followed her outside.

Deborah stumbled down the steps and leaned against the outside wall where she retched several times in dry spasms. She was leaning weakly against the wall when Nick caught up to her.

“If you were any kind of man, you would put a stop to this,” she said, trying to sound angry instead of terrified out of her wits.

“I intend to.”

“You are as bad as … what did you say?”

He wrapped her cloak around her shoulders. “Trust me, Deborah. I’ve taken care of everything.”

She wasn’t quite ready to believe him. “What have you taken care of? Why should I trust you?”

“I persuaded Gray to while away an hour or two in the Jewel Box, did I not? Oh, I know. That ploy was not as successful as I had hoped it would be. You’ve become an obsession with him, you see. Women have always come easily to Gray. He doesn’t take rejection well.”

Her mind fastened on the one thing that really mattered to her. “How can I get away from here? The others will prevent it.”

“Gray is in no condition to prevent anything. And you may leave Hart to me.”

Her pulse was pounding with excitement. “Oh Nick, if you would only saddle one of the horses for me.”

He shook his head. “Then Gray would know I had a part in your escape. It’s more than my skin is worth.”

“But I can’t walk all the way to Wells in this kind of weather and in the dark,” she cried out.

“I’m not asking you to. Listen to me carefully. The consignment from the Jewel Box will be here at any moment. The coachmen have orders to return for the girls some time tomorrow. You, my dear Deborah, are going to be in that empty coach tonight when it makes the journey to the King’s Arms. After that, you will have to fend for yourself.”

“Why the King’s Arms?”

“That’s where Gray is stabling his horses, and where the coachmen are putting up. You must see that we can’t have them here.”

“But what about Lord Kendal and Hart? Won’t they come after me?”

“As I said, you may leave them to me.”

A confusion of questions raced through her mind, but before she could put any of them to Nick, the sounds of a coach and horses approaching came from the other side of the house.

Nick’s hand closed around her arm. “It’s now or never,” he said, and began to propel her along the path that led to the front entrance. They paused in the shadows at the corner of the house and watched as the coach came to a shuddering halt. Hart, with a lantern in his hand, stepped forward and opened the coach door. Gray stood, none too steadily, on the front step, with light streaming out from behind him.

“Stay here until I give the signal,” said Nick softly, and he went to join the others.

Deborah shrank back against the wall of the house, concealing herself behind a screen of climbing ivy. Everything was happening so fast that there wasn’t time to sift through all that Nick had told her. But she trusted
him. She clung to that thought, ruthlessly suppressing her vague uncertainties.

Her eyes went wide when the coach’s passengers began to alight. For all that it was September and raining, these ladies looked as though they were dressed in nothing more substantial than diaphanous veils. The wind gusted and the veils flew up, revealing a wide expanse of pink flesh. The girls giggled. The men laughed appreciatively. Deborah shut her mouth with a snap.

She counted five girls. Two of them looped their arms around Gray’s neck. She almost snorted. By the look on his face, it would be hours before he would remember the existence of Deborah Weyman. He led the way into the house, and Hart and the other girls followed. There remained only the coachmen and Nick.

“We shall see you tomorrow, then,” said Nick, “toward noon.”

“Aye, sir. That you will,” answered the driver.

“Hang on a moment. This door is not shut properly.”

Nick strode to the nearside door and jerked it open with one hand, signaling to Deborah with the other to come out of her hiding place. She crept forward, flattened herself against the back of the carriage and quickly moved to the door Nick held for her. When she had climbed in, he slammed the door closed.

“That’s better,” he said. “One of the girls must have left it open. Goodbye, Jenkins. Goodbye, Rankin. Oh, and good luck,” and with that cryptic remark, which Deborah knew was meant for herself, he entered the house.

The stench of cheap perfume inside the coach put Deborah in mind of the perfume she had smelled on Gray’s skin. It was just the right note to steady her nerves. Teeth chattering, she shrank into the folds of her cloak, not daring to draw breath as the coach lurched into motion.

It was the longest drive of her life, not because Wells was far distant from the cottage, but because the driver went at a snail’s pace, fearful, she supposed, of coming to grief with his lordship’s horses in that filthy weather.
At every moment, she expected to hear the thunder of hooves in hot pursuit. There was nothing but the moan of the wind and the driver’s incessant chatter to the other coachman, cataloguing his master’s amorous adventures, which were legion by the sound of it. From their laughter, she deduced that the coachmen did not take as dim a view as she of Lord Kendal’s depravity.

By the time they reached Wells, her nerves were stretched taut. She could not believe how easily everything had worked out. She gave Nick the credit for it. Without his intervention, she would never have made it so far. He had deliberately engineered her escape, from the moment he had persuaded Lord Kendal to while away an hour or two in that disreputable bawdy house to the carriage that had been made available to convey her to Wells. Even now, he had provided the means to keep Kendal and Hart occupied while she made good her escape. One day, God willing, she hoped she would be in a position to thank Nick for all he had done for her. As for his brother, the earl …

She would never see Lord Kendal again. The knowledge did not act on her as she thought it would. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she felt an odd tightening in her chest, and she was appalled. She wasn’t sorry to see the last of him, she told herself devoutly. She couldn’t be. He had wormed his way into her confidence, tricked her, abducted and abused her. A sane woman would hate him with a passion. A sane woman would be thinking of boiling oil and the rack in her lust to be revenged on that cur. If there was any lingering regret, it was for Mr. Gray, and since that gentleman did not exist except in her own imagination, there was nothing to lament.

She came to herself with a start when the carriage made a turn and rolled into the stable yard of the King’s Arms. Ears straining, heart thudding, she sank down and carefully closed her fingers around the door handle. As soon as the carriage came to a stop, she opened the door and jumped down.

Ostlers came running, but they paid her scant attention as they ran to unharness the horses. She slipped by them, then chanced a quick glance over her shoulder.
Lord Kendal’s coachmen were only now descending from the box, and even if they had caught sight of her, she did not think it would occur to them that she had been a passenger in the coach. Anyone seeing her now would take her for a woman of the lower orders whose business had taken her to the inn. She wore no gloves or hat. Her shoes were scuffed; the dress that peeked from beneath her cloak was mired and stained from her labors that morning. She looked like a scullery maid or a washer woman, and it suited her to play that role. An unescorted lady would attract attention. A working woman could come and go as she pleased.

It surprised her that the inn’s common rooms were filled with patrons. Wells was a small place, and country people went early to bed. From the cultured accents and snatches of conversation, it seemed that most of the inn’s patrons were visitors. Head well down, she traversed the corridor, passed the common rooms, and came to the front doors.

Here, she hesitated, and made as though she were glancing around casually. Having assured herself that no one was watching her, she pushed through the doors and into the High Street. It was dark, much darker than it should have been given the hour. She looked up, but an overcast sky veiled the moon and the constellations of stars. The only light to guide her steps came from lanterns hanging outside every other house and building.

Turning up her collar against the light drizzle, she struck out in the direction of the marketplace. Before long, she turned left onto a street of two-and three-storied buildings, many of them commercial properties, which overlooked the wide expanse of the cathedral green. There were still pedestrians about, and the odd carriage and rider, but they seemed as eager as she to make for home and get in out of the rain. No one gave her a second glance. As she approached a draper’s shop, her steps slowed, and she looked up at the private dwellings above the shop front. From one of the windows, a lone candle cast a feeble glow. Deborah tried not to stare, tried not to give in to the flood of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. She shouldn’t be here, she
shouldn’t be putting Quentin in danger like this, but without money or friends, she didn’t know where else to turn.

Moving with less caution now, she made a turn, then another, and came out onto the walled lane at the back of the houses. There were no lights here, and she exclaimed softly as she stumbled unsuspectingly through puddles and muddy potholes. At the fourth gate along, she stopped and crouched down, tracing the pattern of the bricks in the wall till she came to the one she wanted. Beneath a loose brick, she found the key to the back gate. Her breathing was audible and her fingers trembled as she let herself into the garden and locked the gate behind her. At the back of the draper’s shop, there was an outside stone staircase leading to the floor above. On mounting that steep staircase, she paused to even her breathing. From this vantage point, she could see over the walled lane to the backs of the houses in the next street. There were a few lights at windows, but all was quiet, all was as it should be. Not even a cat was stirring in that dreary night.

She used the edge of her cloak to blot the moisture from her face. Exhaling a long, shivery breath, she rapped softly on the stout wooden door that barred her entrance. Some moments passed, and Deborah rapped on the door again, this time with more force. When the door creaked open, Deborah swiftly pushed into the house and shut the door behind her.

“Deborah! What brings you here at this time of night?” Mrs. Nan Moffat was close to sixty, and her light brown eyes, which were usually as bright as buttons, were shaded with alarm.

Deborah knew she must look like a wild woman with her dripping wet hair plastered to her head, and her mud-spattered garments, but she was in no mood for explanations. There would be time for that later. She had to see Quentin, had to assure herself that he was safe and well.

“Quentin,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Give me a few minutes alone with him, all right? Then I shall come down and speak with you both.
No, there’s no need to look like that. Everything is fine, really. I just want to see him.”

Mrs. Moffat looked as though she might argue the point, then her plump face softened. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, “and tell John you are here.”

“Nan? Who is it? Who are you speaking to?”

As John Moffat came out of the back parlor, Deborah turned and quickly mounted the stairs that led to the attics. Quentin’s door was the first she came to. Turning the handle, she pushed open the door and quietly slipped into the room.

Though the boy was sleeping, the candle on the wooden mantel was lit. Ever since the night of his father’s murder, Quentin had been afraid to go to sleep in the dark. Crossing the room on tiptoe, Deborah halted by the bed and stared down at the sleeping child.

In looks, he took after his father, dark hair and eyes, but whereas Lord Barrington had enjoyed robust health, his son was delicate. It had been a great cause of concern to them all, and still was. Added to that was a new anxiety. Quentin never talked about his father and Deborah never forced him to.

Had she done right by him? There was no sure answer to that question. She had done the best she could. She had left him with people he knew and trusted. Before her marriage, Nan Moffat had been nurse to Quentin, and to his father before him. John Moffat had once been Lord Barrington’s steward. When the time came for them to retire, they had surprised everyone by marrying and setting down new roots in Wells where they had opened a draper’s shop.

They’d been shocked when Deborah had shown up at their door with Quentin, and even more shocked at the story she had told of events in Paris. She had told them almost everything. What she had kept from them was Lord Kendal’s name. The Moffats had known him since he was a boy. They liked him, trusted him, and Deborah was afraid they would not believe a word she said if she accused him of murdering Lord Barrington. And so she had told them she didn’t know who was pursuing them, but that Quentin’s life was in mortal
danger. She’d done more than that. She’d told them a bare-faced lie. She’d said that Quentin’s uncle in the West Indies was now his guardian, and they must wait until he came to fetch the boy.