Edith Layton (3 page)

The earl had leaned forward and held Daffyd’s gaze. “Your mother wants to mend matters with you,” he’d said gently. “I don’t think it matters if you succeed so much as that you try.”

Daffyd had kept his expression and his voice bland. “It isn’t the lady I’m trying to please. The runaway wench interests me.”

“You’ve never met her,” the earl had reminded him.

“Lookee, your lordship,” Daffyd had said in a growl, his voice taking on old slum cadences, as it often did when he was upset, “I’m not doing it for the old bitch. I’m doing it because I choose to.”

The earl winced, and put up one hand.

“Your ears grown as tender as your feelings?”
Daffyd had asked sourly. He’d ducked his head and swept out one hand in a mockery of an elaborate bow, though he didn’t rise from his chair. “Excuse me. Didn’t know you’d put on new airs with your new clothes, my lord.”

“I’m not saying what your mother is, or is not,” the earl said mildly. “I am saying that she is your mother, and even if she tried to throttle you at birth, a well-bred man never calls his mother that.”

“But I’m not well-bred, as you well know,” Daffyd said on a strained but wide white smile. “You taught me my letters, my numbers, everything I know that isn’t illegal, in fact. Before you met me, I wasn’t bred, I was only begot. Or should I say: misbegot? You did teach me how to speak too,” he added, when he saw the earl’s slight smile. “But aye—you taught me my manners, too. So I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to offend you, and I did. What I said wasn’t right.”

“Oh, it may have been right,” the earl commented dryly, “it just was not polite.”

They’d laughed together then, and with the atmosphere eased, Daffyd told the earl about his quest.

“I don’t know if I can find the chit,” he’d finally admitted. “She’s been gone for days. I’m definitely going to be sniffing a cold trail. But if she’s in England I’ll find her, if only because runaways always go to ground. And I have so many friends on the ground, and in the fields, and the gutters. Being a gypsy as well as a convict has its uses.”

“A half gypsy and an ex convict,” he’d been corrected.

“The half is enough for most people. And the convict never leaves, even when you leave prison.”

“As well I know,” the earl had sighed. “But a man is much more than the sum of his parts.”

“Aha! Belittling my parts, are you?” Daffyd joked, to lighten the mood. “I never had any complaints. They’re always admired in all the right places. Or rather, in the wrong places when they’re in the right places.”

He’d smiled, but Geoffrey hadn’t. “I have faith in you,” the earl had said seriously. “That’s why I told your mother you were the man to ask for help.”

“
You!
” Daffyd had exclaimed, rising from his chair. “You were the one who turned her on me? So she never wanted me in the first place!” He’d tried to suppress the ridiculous flash of pain he felt. “Well, that makes sense, at least. It’s only habit with her. Well, damn you for such courtesies, my lord. I thought you knew me better.”

“Softly, softly,” the earl had said. “And please sit down. I do know you. She did come to me first, but only to ask whom I might know that could help her find her goddaughter. There was no flattery or honor in that for me. I’m an old lag too, you know, and all she wanted was someone with criminal connections. She wouldn’t have dared ask you on her own. She’s as nervous about you as you are about her, and you’ll agree, with even better cause.”

“I see,” Daffyd said stiffly, though he sat again. “Well, she’s a fine-looking woman. I congratulate you.”

“You know,” the earl had said, keeping his voice even, “if I didn’t like you so much I’d thrash you for that, or try to; I’m not sure I could anymore. But hear this: I do not desire your mother. She
is
fine-looking, but though she’s my age, she is not my sort. Not now, not then, nor ever. I won’t traduce her, but I’m too much of a gentleman to tell you all the reasons why I could if I wanted to. Suffice it to say, she’s not for me. Remove the thought from your mind. But speaking of which, you’ve been in England for a year. Have you found the right woman yet?”

“Nice try at changing the subject,” Daffyd had laughed. “Yes, I have, many times, and I hope many times more, thank you.”

“I mean, a woman to marry. Any chance we’ll have another wedding soon? We can have it here, I’ve got the hang of it now.”

Daffyd had thrown up his hands in horror. “Married, me? Never!”

“I know you’ve got a poor opinion of the institution,” the earl had said. “With good reason, considering your history. But surely by now, seeing the happiness the other boys have found, you’ve changed your mind? I tell you straightly, I was married and I loved the state I found myself in.”

“Yes,” Daffyd had said sourly. “Which is why you’ve remarried, isn’t it?”

The earl had sighed. “You joke, but, yes, you’re right, in a way. The only reason I’m not married now is that I’ve decided to not marry again unless I think
my new union won’t shame my old one. I’d prefer to live on what I had rather than spoil that memory with a bad, hasty union for the sake of companionship. Companionship, I can find. Sex, as you know, is easily found, too. Love’s another thing altogether. But then I can afford to refuse marriage because I’m not alone, I have three children—no, five, counting my two new daughters. But you, Daffyd, don’t you want children, one day?”

“Lord, no! I want to be an uncle. I look forward to it!”

The earl groaned and put one hand over his face, but Daffyd had seen his smile under it. “Oh, Gods, what have I done? I forgot. Spare me the famous ‘uncle’ speech, please.”

“But it’s true,” Daffyd had said, grinning. “That’s why it’s famous. Uncles have the best of it. I didn’t have one who’d speak to me, but I’ve seen it and heard it from others. Peasant or nob, it’s always the same. Uncles are fun, uncles are generous: uncles have much better reputations than parents do. They don’t have to raise kids. When they see their nieces and nephews, the brats are trotted out for them, all cleaned up and polite, because they’ve been threatened with death unless they behave.

“One shiny coin flipped to a niece or nephew once in a while by an uncle—especially a rich one, which I plan to remain—is good as years of patient parenting. And when the brats grow into people, they cater to their uncles, however eccentric or crabby they are.
Because they want to inherit their fortunes. Oh, no, I leave the joys of parenthood to others. It’s the uncle’s life for me!”

“Done?” the earl had asked, lifting his hand from his eyes so he could see Daffyd again.

“Not really, I could go on. But you know the rest, so I’ll spare you.”

The earl had laughed. “Thank you. Now, down to business. Tell me what you’ll be doing and where you’re going, so that I can get word to you if I must, and so I can find you should you not return on time. I have to keep track of all my boys, you know.”

And for that, because Daffyd was no more really Geoffrey Sauvage’s boy than he’d been all those years ago, but because he’d always been treated as such, Daffyd told him everything he planned.

Now Daffyd sat in a nondescript inn on the Brighton Road, digesting his meal. He was done with watching the woman in gray at the table behind him. It was getting late, the room was emptying, and she hadn’t done anything new. Watching a pretty female could be interesting, but watching a blurred reflection of one grew boring. Whatever her problem was with him, it wasn’t a thing he’d likely ever know.

He stifled a yawn. Just as well. There was only so long a fellow could linger over dessert. This stop had yielded nothing but an excellent dinner. It was time for bed, so he could be on the trail again at first light. Again, he debated the wisdom of seeking the serving wench’s company until then. And again, he tended to
think such sport was hardly worth his time or effort….

“Excuse me?” a soft voice asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Daffyd’s eyes went wide. He only kept himself from leaping to his feet by steely self-control. But one hand slid inside his waistcoat to grasp the pistol he had secreted there. He looked up.

The woman in gray stood directly in front of his table. He took a steadying breath. She’d done what no woman had done in years. She’d surprised him.

“Yes?” he asked, rising, cocking his head to the side, watching her.

“Oh, please sit,” she begged him. “Don’t let me ruin your dinner.”

Since his dinner was a memory and they both knew it, he could only wait for her to tell him what she wanted of him.

“I mean,” she said, looking flustered, “I don’t wish to disturb you. Only I couldn’t help hearing you ask about your fiancée, the blond lady with the lisp? And after much consideration, I decided I ought to tell you…I have seen her, I think.”

He bowed, suddenly calm as a dead man. He smiled at her, fascinated. “Sit down, please,” he said, holding out a chair, but keeping his eyes locked on hers. “And tell me more.”

“H
eartsease,” that’s what they were, Daffyd suddenly remembered. He didn’t know much about flowers, but he thought that was what they called those velvety things that popped up in meadows every spring. Yellow, they were, or violet, with brown markings, their arrangement of petals making them look like winsome little faces. This woman had such a face. He was more used to full-blown roses, but had to admit she was very taking.

He listened to her soft voice and thought about what she was saying. Her face was much better than her tale. He didn’t believe a word of it.

“And so,” she concluded, “although I never thought I’d do something so bold as to approach a
strange man, I felt so sorry for you I had to speak up, even though we are not acquainted. You see, I overheard your telling everyone about how you’re searching for your runaway fiancée: a blond girl with blue eyes who speaks with a lisp, like a lady. I’m traveling down south, and did hear about such a woman.”

She paused, flushed, and in the absolutely worst recover of a slip that he’d ever heard, added, “That is to say, the maid cleaning my room was chatting with me and said she’d just had another lady stay over in the same chamber, and thought it unusual, because they didn’t have many ladies traveling without maids…. My maid became ill and will join me soon,” she added quickly. “The point is,” she went on doggedly, “I heard about a pretty young lady who lisped. But she had black hair.”

“That could be a wig,” he said. “My love is fond of masquerading.”

Her big brown eyes snapped wide and looked far less innocent as she studied him. “I don’t wish to pry,” she said. “But I also heard she was in the company of a dark man. Which would of course, have been you, sir. Unless she met another such man, but that’s improbable, wouldn’t you say? Except there are many dark gentlemen…To be sure we’re speaking of the same woman, when did you last see her?”

The turning of tables was done so awkwardly that he was amused. Whatever she was, this woman was not only a bad liar, but also a terrible interrogator. He relaxed, marginally. She could also be a superb liar who knew how to act like a novice.

“I last saw her at her home, when I called on her,” he said. “That was just the other week.”

Her expression said the triumphant “aha!” she was obviously suppressing. That wasn’t all she suppressed. She sat straight upright on the edge of her chair, like a bird that might fly off at any minute. He smelled soap and a trace of lemon. She smelled like good furniture, he thought, repressing his own smile. Prim, proper, not his sort at all. Or was she?

Now it was clear she thought she’d caught him in a lie. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him again. He could almost see her thoughts as she decided what to say next. Whether she was a professional or an innocent, he hadn’t been so entertained in days.

“And her name is…?” she finally asked.

She seemed to have forgotten that it wasn’t her business to question him. By doing so she was letting him know she wasn’t a casual traveler who had simply heard about the runaway.

“Her name is Rosalind,” he said, making his voice sound lover-like, and his eyes distant and dreamy. “Rosalind Osbourne.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath. Her eyes grew wide again. He could see the invisible wheels of her thoughts turning, and waited, politely, for them to arrive at their destination.

“She wasn’t your fiancée,” the woman finally blurted. “I advise you to tell me why you’re looking for her, this minute! I’ll have you know the Bow Street Runners are looking for her, too…” Her
voice dwindled. “Oh,” she asked. “Are you a Runner? Is that it?”

“God forbid,” he said honestly.

She bit her lip. He realized they were beautifully shaped. In fact the closer he looked, the better she looked. She had pale, fine-grained skin and a faultless complexion. Her hair was thick, brown as hazelnuts, and looked lovely even though it was ruthlessly tied back. Her nose was insignificant, her eyes, her best feature: they spoke, they glowed. Everything else about her was understated. She talked softly and stepped lightly. He was charmed. She wasn’t the sort of female he usually noticed, but now he was glad that she’d cropped up in his path, whatever her motives.

He watched as those honey brown eyes widened again, and she took in a deep breath. “Then—did you abduct…No, that’s wrong of me,” she corrected herself. “Forgive me. Did she run off with you, and then change her mind and run away? Is that why you’re searching for her? If so, I implore you to let her go. She’s young and foolish; surely you know that. Her father will doubtless pay a great deal to get her back safely, but it would be much safer for you to give the information and let someone else find her. The Osbournes are honest, they’ll see you get your reward.”

“They’ll pay a gypsy lad for luring her away, and not clap him in irons?” he asked in rougher accents, to see what she would say. “Ho! Try pulling the other one, it’s got bells on.”

She frowned. Then she put her head to the side. “You’re a gypsy?”

“Half,” he said abruptly. “But half’s as good as a whole in the eyes of the world.”

“But how could you have done it?” she murmured almost to herself. “It’s not possible. I knew where she was every moment. And if she’d met a gypsy….” She sat bolt upright. “You’re making a May game of me.”

“It’s September,” he said. “Now, my turn. Who are you?”

The serving wench saved her from replying. “Anything else, sir?” the girl asked, staring with disdain at the woman at his table. “Or are you satisfied? I thought you were the sort of man who needed more than what I see you got.”

He smiled. The woman at the table was turning scarlet. “I’ll have another round of your excellent home brew, and bring one for the lady. I should celebrate. This gentlewoman may have heard about my runaway bride,” he told the serving girl. “She’s being kind enough to tell me about it. Please,” he said to his crimson companion, “will you join me?”

She murmured something. With a suspicious glance and a decided flounce, the serving girl went off to fill his order.

“Now,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows, “your name, and the reason you’re involved in this. Don’t try to lie. You’re either a bad liar, in which case, I’ll know if you do; or you’re an adventuress, in which case I won’t let you go so easily.”

She looked around wildly. Then, though white-faced, she shook her head. “You can’t do anything to me. This is a public place.”

“Yes. But it’s a long night and a longer way to get anywhere else from here. A long, lonely way. I advise you not to lie,” he said coldly. “Because you’ll pay for it, and eventually tell the truth, too.”

He sounded like a bully, and disliked himself for it. But the time for amusement was over. He needed to know who she was and why she was here.

She scowled. “How do I know you aren’t the dark man she was with? How do I know she isn’t running away from you?”

“Because if I’d got my hands on her, she’d only be going in one direction: home. And she would not get away.”

She believed it; he could see it in her eyes. She let out a breath, and sat up straighter. “I am Margaret Shaw,” she announced.

He waited.

The fact that he hadn’t reacted to her name seemed to make her relax a little. “I am Rosalind Osborne’s companion. And now I think I’d be surprised to find out you ever met her.”

He smiled. “Right. I haven’t. So, where is she?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Right,” he said again, in bored tones. “So what are you doing here?”

“Looking for her.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Well, the Bow Street Runners are looking,
too, but I’m not with them, and I don’t think they’re following me.”

He paused. That was foolish of her to tell him. Unless of course she knew where the runaway was. And that, at last, made sense.

“So where is she? You might as well tell me,” he said, sitting back and stretching out his legs. “Her godmother sent me to find her. I’m very good at finding things. So why not tell me now, save time, and possibly her reputation?”

“Her godmother?” she asked slowly.

“A lady born, who doesn’t want her name brought into this,” he answered in a bored voice. Then he leaned forward again. “Listen. I’m on the square, in this, at least. The lady asked me because I know all the bad places a young chit might find herself after pulling a caper like that. Running off in the night looks good in books. It’s bad in real life. Really bad. I’m here to save your Rosalind from herself and whatever she picked up on the way. Believe me, a girl on her own will pick up a lot worse than fleas. I’ve never met her. So if she was with a dark man, it wasn’t me. I aim to find out who it was, though. I’ll save the wench from herself or whomever she got involved with. Now, tell me what you know, and you can go home.”

He didn’t expect her to answer right away. She surprised him.

“I won’t go home until I find her!” she declared. Then looking uneasily around the room, she lowered her voice. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” he said. “Tell me where she is and I’ll bring her back to you. Even if she’s just down the road, it might be dangerous. Who knows what rig the man she’s with is running? I don’t want a female along. So, spill it. Where’s the girl?”

Her gaze fell to the tabletop. “Well, that’s just it. I’m not sure.”

“Oh, wonderful,” he said. Then he studied her. “S’truth?” he asked.

She nodded, and examined her fingers.

“Then what the devil are you doing here?”

“I think I know where she’s going,” she said softly.

He waited.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked, looking at him as though judging his worth, hoping to find he was a good bargain.

“Good question. How about because the lady who sent me did so on request from the baron Osbourne? And,” he added as she took that in, “because I want to get this over and done. Now, if you don’t tell me, it’s too bad for you, because I’ll follow you like a burr on a dog’s tail from now on. And there goes your reputation, right? So you may as well.”

He looked up to see the serving wench coming. He gave her a gold coin and a wink, and let her leave laughing. Then he turned to Margaret Shaw again. She was staring into her mug of ale.

She lifted eyes the same color of the amber brew, and just as wet, to his. “I have no reputation,” she said sadly. “I’m only a companion, and that’s only a
glorified servant. And if I don’t get Rosie back, I’ll have no livelihood either.” She raised an imploring gaze to his.

“Forget it,” he said roughly. “I don’t travel with females, not even for my comfort. I take that as it comes.” His gaze went boldly to her breasts.

She stiffened and rose to her feet, one hand going to the top of her gown as though to block his view. “I see,” she said coldly. “I also see you’re right about one thing. I’m obviously in far over my head. But I don’t think it wise to tell a stranger I met in a tavern anything about my charge, not even my wildest guesses. And that, I see now, is all that I had. Except I’ve also had enough. I’ll be writing to the baron, but I’m going home now. Good evening,” she said, inclining her head in a slight bow. “Mr….” she hesitated, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Daffy,” he said without thinking, coming up with the name the earl and his brothers jokingly called him.

“Well then,” she said, “Good night, Mr. Daffeigh, and good-bye. I’ll trouble you no more, and will thank you to do the same for me.”

Meg went up to her room, bolted the door, and sank to the bed. She was trembling like a tuning fork. That man!

He was the most unusual fellow she’d ever met, by turns charming and threatening. There had been moments when she would have sworn he was a gentleman. And then he spoke like a man pushing a barrow
in the street. And those eyes! Deep dark blue, and always searching. He was a gypsy, he’d said it. Where did a gypsy get such eyes?

She frowned. What did she know of gypsies, really? For all she knew they might have eyes all the colors of the rainbow. She reviewed what she did know: Gypsies did dress like rainbows. They told fortunes and stole chickens and babies, mended pots and pans and worked at traveling carnivals. Their women were stout and wore dozens of skirts. Their men were swarthy and had Roman noses. This man had an impressive nose, but it could as easily be considered aristocratic, since it was narrow and elegant, as were his other features. He had high cheekbones and a severe and shapely mouth.

His skin
was
olive, and his hair was jet black. Still, he dressed soberly and well. But clothes, after all, didn’t make the man.

Yet surely he’d been joking. Even if he were really Romany, what connection did a gypsy have to a viscountess, or the baron Osbourne? She didn’t believe him.

She could believe he’d find Rosalind though. There’d been an air of competence about him, of surety. He wasn’t a muscular man, like a laborer, or even like the dashing Corinthians she’d seen in London, fellows who rode to an inch, boxed and fenced, and lived the active outdoor life. But he was lean and fit, and emanated an aura of power.

He didn’t wear a fob or a quizzing glass, and his boots, though clean, were serviceable, not polished
like looking glasses and hung with tassels. But he could act like a Bond Street beau when it pleased him. He was also manipulative: glib and pleasant, fierce and menacing, as it suited him. And when he looked into a person’s eyes it was impossible to look away. It was like looking down from a high cliff and feeling pulled down to the dark sea far below.

Meg rubbed her hands along her upper arms, and then hugged herself. What had she gotten herself into? It was too late to turn back. She, Margaret Shaw, companion, had taken to the road to find her missing charge, and ought to be prepared to face the dangers she met along the way.

The danger she faced if she didn’t find Rosalind was clear enough. At first she’d been accused of helping Rosalind run off. Who knew what would have happened to her if the baron and his wife hadn’t eventually decided she wasn’t in league with their runaway daughter? Thank heavens Rosalind had left merry little notes for everyone, including Meg, saying she was in no danger, and promising to write and tell them all about her adventure when she got where she was going.