Elizabeth Thornton (12 page)

On a teary sniff, she began to cross the vestibule to the front desk. She caught a movement from the corner of her eye and turned slightly. A gentleman was sitting at
a small table in the same window embrasure she’d occupied the night before.

“Hugh?” she said faintly, hoping desperately that she was wrong.

Hugh threw aside the newspaper he’d been reading, got to his feet, and crossed to her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked rudely.

His reply was no more civil than hers. “I promised Olivia that I would escort you to London, and I mean to keep my word. She was worried about you, Abbie.”

“I absolve you of your promise.”

“The promise wasn’t made to you but to Olivia.” He paused. “I’ve just finished breakfast. Why don’t you sit yourself down, and I’ll order something for you too? That’s what I like about the Castle. You can order anything you like at any time of the day or night.”

His conciliatory words did not soften her. “Now you listen to me, Hugh Templar. I do not want your escort, do you understand? In fact, I never want to see your face again.”

With all the dignity of a queen, she made to step by him, but he caught her wrist and brought her to a standstill. In a low, driven tone, he said, “Will you stop behaving as though I were a seducer of young innocents? We’re both adults, for God’s sake. Last night, I made a mistake, an error in judgment. You corrected it. So come down off your high horse and stop acting like an outraged—” He stopped.

Two flags of color bloomed in her cheeks. “Oh, don’t stop there,” she said through clenched teeth. “Like an outraged
what
, you lecher?”

He spoke through clenched teeth as well. “Like an outraged old maid.”

She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly and audibly.

“Abbie, I’m sorry. That remark was uncalled for. But if you—”

She rushed into speech. “I’d rather be an outraged old maid than a … an unscrupulous libertine. You disgust me, Hugh Templar, and that is no exaggeration.”

He lowered his head till they were practically nose to nose. “I didn’t disgust you last night. You were on fire for me.”

She tugged to free her wrist, without success. Her voice rose a notch. “Last night I had too much wine to drink.”

“Liar!”

She gave him a shove that rocked him back on his heels. Finding herself free, she picked up her skirts and marched to the counter. The spotty-faced clerk appeared to be busy, but he was wearing a snide smile that Abbie was sorely tempted to wipe from his face.

“I have a bill to pay,” she said.

The desk clerk’s smile widened. “Mr. Templar paid your bill, Miss Vayle.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Her gray eyes sparkled with anger.

Hugh was right at her elbow. “Yes, I took care of everything, Abbie. I knew you’d want to get off to an early start, so I settled our accounts before I sat down to breakfast. You can settle with me later.”

The glitter in his eyes warned her not to make a scene in front of the desk clerk. As though she needed a lesson in manners from a libertine! In as natural a voice as she could manage, she said, “I have a maid who has to be cared for.”

“I’ve already made those arrangements, Abbie. Rest assured, she’ll have the best of attention until she’s fit to travel.”

Abbie smirked. Obviously, since there was no record of her in the attics, Hugh had paid for the room “they” had reserved for her. She hoped it had cost him a fortune, because she had no intention of ever repaying a penny of that debt.

“Fine,” she said, “then I’ll be on my way.”

The clerk came from behind the counter and unlocked the back door for her. Hugh was right beside her. When the clerk had locked the door on the inside, she said tightly, “If you attempt to enter my chaise, I shall have my postboys throw you out.”

Hugh ignored the threat and went to speak to the ostler on duty. When he returned, he said, “We’re not traveling in your hired chaise.”

“What does that mean?” she asked sharply.

“It means,” said Hugh, “that I took the liberty of telling your postboys that you’d be making the rest of the journey in the comfort of my carriage.”

“You did what?” she cried.

“I told them that we wouldn’t need their services, and that when your maid is fit to travel, they’re to return her to Bath. Oh, and your boxes have been transferred to my coach as well.”

She bristled. “I’m not going to make the journey to London in that, that … hearse you call a carriage! A snail could outrun us! And I’m in a hurry.”

“A hearse? Oh no, Abbie. My carriage was built by Robinson and Cook of Mount Street. It’s made for speed and stability. I’ll get you to London in good time, weather permitting.”

“Your carriage,” she said scathingly, “was built in the last century. It must be at least twenty years old. It may have been all the rage then, but it’s past it.”

He scratched his chin. “I suppose it is rather shabby,
but it’s still got many good years left. Trust me, Abbie. They don’t make carriages like they used to.”

Her voice rose a notch. “A carriage is only as good as the man who drives it, and your coachman knows only one speed—slow, slower, and stop.”

“That’s three speeds, Abbie, and Harper can be a daredevil when the occasion arises, but with the roads in the state they are now, and with snow threatening, it wouldn’t make any difference if Isaac Walton were to take the reins. He was a mail coach driver, by the way, and could pick a fly off his leader’s eyelid with a flick of his whip. Quite an achievement, that.”

“I don’t care who Isaac—” She broke off in midsentence. This was all beside the point, and she didn’t know why she’d allowed herself to become involved in such a useless argument.

She breathed slowly and deeply. He was doing this on purpose, keeping her arguing here till his coach was brought round so that she wouldn’t have time to think of how she could escape him. But she couldn’t escape him, not as long as he had her boxes. And if she caused a scene, she would only draw attention to herself, and even now, they might be watching her.

The decision was taken out of her hands. Hugh’s coach, with its team of matched bays and lamps glowing, came rattling over the cobblestones toward them.

Her voice betrayed her fury. “If your idea is to seduce me once you have me alone in that carriage, you can think again.”

“God have mercy!” He sounded thoroughly bored. “Can’t you understand that I’m only fulfilling my promise to Olivia? You can’t go traveling around England without an escort. That’s asking for trouble.”

She pressed her lips together as the coach came to a stop.

“Good mornin’ to you, Miss Vayle.”

The greeting came from Tom, Hugh’s assistant coachman. Abbie liked this young man. He was always smiling, always cheery. She wasn’t going to take her temper out on Tom. “Good morning, Tom. And good morning to you, too, Mr. Harper.”

Harper was Hugh’s head coachman. He merely grunted a reply, but that came as no surprise. He was taciturn to the point of rudeness, and Abbie had never understood why Hugh did not get rid of him.

When Hugh handed her into the coach, everything was just as she expected. Hugh really was meticulous about details. There were hot bricks for her feet and a sheepskin blanket to keep her warm, and, in case they got bored, there were newspapers to read. But none of this mollified her.

The first thing she did when she was settled was pick up a newspaper and retreat behind it. There wasn’t enough light to read by, but she didn’t let that deter her. If he said anything, she would hit him.

“Abbie?”

“What?”

“If you’re hungry—”

“I am
not
hungry.”

“Fine.”

He yawned, adjusted his broad shoulders in a corner of the banquette, and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was snoring.

She rustled her newspaper, but it made no difference. He continued to snore. After a while, she lowered the paper. Since she couldn’t read and couldn’t vent her anger
on her companion, she tried to sleep too, but her head was buzzing with thoughts. As time passed and her temper cooled, inevitably she thought of George.

She could picture him as if were sitting beside her on the banquette. His hair was much lighter than hers, a true blond, in fact. They had the same gray eyes, the same mouth and smile, but George smiled far more often than she did. He’d been born with a sunny disposition. Everyone who came into the nursery remarked on what a happy child he’d been. And he’d grown up into a fine young man.

He was only twenty. His whole life was in front of him, and though he hadn’t made much of a mark on the world yet, that would come. He wasn’t ambitious; he might never excel in law or politics or the army, but there were other ways of excelling. George was one of those people who knew how to enjoy life one day at a time, and that was a rare gift.

This shouldn’t have happened to someone like George.

Isn’t that what everyone said when someone they loved was hurt? Colette and Jerome would have had loved ones who would have wept over them too, just as she was weeping inside for her brother.

Where is the book Colette passed to you?

She still had no recollection of Colette, much less a book the girl was supposed to have passed to her. But she was certain that all the books she had acquired in Paris were at the customs house in Dover. She just prayed God she had the right one.

She’d begun to think more about Colette and Jerome since she’d embarked on this terrifying journey, and she’d racked her brains to try to figure out how they fitted into the picture. If they were not booksellers like herself, she didn’t know what they were.

Yet, it didn’t seem likely that Colette was a bookseller, not if she’d been married to Michael Lovatt of the British embassy. Again, her memory failed her. She’d attended the odd reception at the embassy, but she had no recollection of meeting a couple by that name. Then, she had no memory for names.

She quietly folded her paper and looked at Hugh. He was still sleeping, still snoring. He might know something, but she was reluctant to ask him. He seemed to know that she was in some kind of trouble, and that seemed odd. He’d also told her that Olivia was worried about her, and that seemed odd as well. When she left Bath, Olivia had been in her element because she’d been left in charge of things. As she said, she’d never been left in charge of a cabbage patch much less a thriving book business.

So why was Hugh here? Why was he hounding her? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone?

She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Her anxiety for George was making her suspicious for no good reason. Hugh was here because … because—she pursed her lips—because he was a libertine and he thought she was an easy mark.

She let out a long sigh. There was no getting round it: if she wanted to find out about Michael Lovatt, she’d have to talk to Hugh. But she would have to do it casually, without rousing his suspicions, or she’d never get rid of him.

Colette. The girl seemed to haunt her. If Colette had passed a book to her, she must have done it in secret. But why would Colette have chosen her, Abigail Vayle? And what did Colette want from her?

She pressed her face to the cold window as the thought turned in her mind.

Abbie was sound asleep with her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, and his arm was loosely encircling her waist. He’d tried budging her a time or two, but all that did was make her nestle closer. He had no doubt that when she finally woke up, she would accuse him of taking advantage of the situation, and it wouldn’t do a bit of good to point out that she had crowded him into his corner of the coach. No. He was the villain of the piece, and that was that.

Libertine. That was a baseless accusation, as she knew very well. He’d had his share of women, but he wasn’t a skirt chaser. And since taking up residence in Bath, he’d become as celibate as a monk. She must know that, because he’d never even looked at another woman. As for being unscrupulous—now that really stung. He hadn’t tried to seduce her. He hadn’t misled her. She had misled him. From the very beginning, she’d made it clear that she wasn’t the marrying kind of woman. And he’d certainly made it clear that he wasn’t the marrying kind of man.

He had good reason to avoid the trap of marriage. His wife had been a nice, conventional girl when he’d met her, and she’d cost him his peace-of-mind, his reputation, and his self-respect. He’d married Estelle soon after he arrived in Portugal. She was pretty and sweet, with eyes the color of cornflowers. And he was abysmally ignorant about women. He was an academic, having just given up his fellowship in Oxford to fight for king and country.

It was odd how things had turned out. The last thing he’d ever expected was that he would become a soldier, and he never would have if Bonaparte had been content
to be ruler of France. Like many academics, he’d admired Napoleon, but that admiration had turned to ashes when his hero had tried to make himself master of Europe. It was idealism that made him decide he had to do his part to put a stop to it. And that’s when he met Estelle.

She was visiting her brother Jerry, who was one of Wellington’s aides, and he, Hugh, had fallen hard for her. Two months after the marriage, he discovered he’d married a shrew.