Gail Eastwood (3 page)

“A toast,” proposed Brinton, once Spelling had filled glasses for all of them. “To a journey safe from scoundrels and cutpurses. May your rest be easy this night.”

The twins would not hear of using the bed. They gratefully accepted their hosts’ dry cloaks for bedding, but were astonished to see the earl take up the big kitchen knife and attack the bed hangings.

“Imagine mistaking good coverlets for curtains,” he said wryly, neatly slitting the loops at the top. He offered Gillian his coat to use as her pillow, and raised an eyebrow at Spelling, clearly expecting his friend to do the same for her brother.

“No, please!” protested Gilbey. “The very thought of ruining such fine tailoring would keep me awake!” He went to the portmanteau and opened it, searching for something else he could use. He discovered Gillian’s shawl and, pulling on it, dislodged the leather-bound volumes she had wrapped in it.

“Gillian, what the—?” he exclaimed in astonishment, quite forgetting for a moment where they were.

He held up one slim volume, then another. “Songbooks.” He looked accusingly at his sister. “I thought you said you would leave them behind.”

“I couldn’t do it.” Gillian shook her head, making her voice gruff and hoping no one had noticed Gilbey’s use of her name. She struggled for composure as she felt tears starting. Gilbey was her twin. Why couldn’t he understand? She had left so much else behind. The books were her most prized possessions—her legacy from their beautiful Scottish mother who had died when they were eight. The small collection of books had served Gillian as solace and inspiration, comfort and hope. Not trusting her voice and suddenly mindful of the two strangers watching them, Gillian stared at Gilbey, willing him to read her mind.

“I can’t believe I have been lugging those all day,” he complained, but he laid the two volumes carefully back in with their companions. He left the shawl covering them.

Brinton and Spelling tactfully said nothing during this exchange. When Gilbey came up empty-handed, Spelling reluctantly handed over his coat. The earl and his friend went to bed in their clothes, stripped down only to their shirtsleeves and pantaloons.

***

Gillian could not sleep, despite her exhaustion. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel again the swaying, bumping motion of the coach roof where she and Gilbey had spent hours in the rain. The sound of Gilbey’s soft snoring was punctuated periodically by loud snorts from Lord Brinton’s friend. From Brinton himself she could make out no sound except an occasional cough or rustle of bedclothes. She wondered if he, too, lay awake in the darkness.

He truly was a striking man. His broad shoulders and slim hips had shown to advantage as he had shed his waistcoat and neckcloth, preparing for bed. She felt again the burning of her shoulders where he had touched her so briefly. Was that what it was like between women and men—fire? From her parents somehow she had imagined something gentler.

She shifted, trying to position herself more comfortably. Her muscles ached from tension and fatigue. Despite the layers under her, the floor was hard.

She began to drift off, her mind replaying scenes at random from an intensely emotional day. She worried about her uncle’s anger and how he might deal with their household staff. How long would the servants have put him off before revealing the twins’ disappearance? How soon had he started the search for them? A seemingly endless array of delays and obstacles aside from the weather flashed through her memory—slow market wagons, mud, and vast flocks of sheep, not to mention slow ostlers and missed coach connections. Was their attempt all in vain? The thought of what she would have to endure if they were caught brought a little cry from her throat.

Gillian turned her face into Brinton’s coat, fighting the tears that threatened again. The fabric held a musky masculine smell and a pleasant hint of lime. She buried her nose in it and inhaled deeply, focusing her thoughts on Brinton again.

She didn’t know what to think of him now. He had made it clear that he saw through her ruse, yet had said nothing. He had laughed at her notion he was after their purse, but he still had never quite denied it. Could she possibly have misjudged him? She tried to imagine meeting him in London, attending the theater, dancing at a ball. She shook her head. If only fate had been kinder! She would likely never see London.

***

As Gillian suspected, Brinton, too, lay awake, uncomfortably aware of her restless turnings. He had forgotten Archie’s unfortunate tendency to snort in his sleep, but he knew that was not the cause of his wakefulness. It was the confounded girl.

The embers of the dying fire cast just enough of a glow by the hearth for him to make out her shape under the bed curtains. The moments he had stood behind her, fighting his urge to touch, came flooding back with a vivid image of her hair. How he had longed to sink his fingers into those satiny, chestnut curls! As he listened to her stirring in the semidarkness, his imagination was delivering quite unexpected, uninvited images and sensations he struggled valiantly to subdue.

He was out of control, clearly. How could he be attracted to a little chit hardly out of the schoolroom? Was she such an innocent she had no idea how revealing her boy’s clothing had been? What was the matter with him that his usual cool resistance had disintegrated so easily?

Rafferty was not a notorious rake. What dalliances he allowed himself were pursued with the utmost discretion and selectivity, to the disappointment of the gossipmongers and a string of London beauties who would have been willing partners. At least half of England knew the Earl of Brinton was not looking for any entanglements. Between the cadres of ambitious mothers and daughters on the matrimonial prowl and his own mother and five sisters, Brinton quite believed his own half of the species to be endangered.

He wondered what made him so certain this girl was the gently bred innocent he took her for. What sort of breeding led a girl to go haring about the countryside dressed as a boy?
I should never have gotten myself involved with her and her young man
, he thought. Yet he had to admire her courage and spirit. None of the females in his acquaintance could have brazened out the awkward situation in the room with him and Archie, not even his sisters. Who was she? Who or what in her life was so terrible that she had been forced to run away? Who was the young man with her?

His desire to know went beyond all reasoning, but then he seemed to have lost what little sense he’d ever had. How could he have wagered Tristan—his favorite mount, his glorious black stallion—against Archie’s grays? How the devil was he to prove that he was right? He had not the slightest inkling of how to postpone parting with his guests in the morning, or of how to learn what he needed to know.
I would never have made a good spy
, he thought ruefully.

Finally, he must have slept, for some unknown disturbance awakened him later. As his eyes adjusted in the gloom, he saw that his guests were gone.

Chapter Three

The darkness in the room had lessened only slightly when Gillian roused her twin. Stealthily they had gathered their belongings and slipped out, closing the door softly behind them.

“This is the best way,” Gillian whispered in the hallway. “They will never know who we were, so no one’s reputation will be in question.”

“I can hardly credit that the champion hoyden of all Devonshire is suddenly worried about reputations!” Gilbey teased her. “I would more likely believe you are just relieved they cannot go to the constable.”

As he struggled with the portmanteau on the stairs, Gillian touched his shoulder. “I apologize for being in such high dudgeon last night,” she said. “I think perhaps you were right . . . about everything.”

It was a sweeping admission, but Gilbey decided he would let it go, at least until later. It was enough to know she trusted him and admitted her error. He answered with a grin he wasn’t certain she could even see in the darkness of the stairwell.

The ripe smell of the unwashed multitude still snoring in the passageway downstairs hit the twins like a slap in the face. They stood for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Spaces vacated by some early risers offered a winding path through the semidarkness to the door, and the pair followed it, stepping carefully. They were not prepared for the thick wall of fog that greeted them when they opened the door. All recognizable traces of Taunton had disappeared in the eerie grayness.

“How in blazes are we to find The George in this?” Gilbey asked, more to himself than in expectation of an answer. To his and Gillian’s surprise, the innkeeper materialized behind them.

“Eager to quit us, eh?” the man inquired with an ironic twist to his voice. “Accomodations not to your liking?” His blustery tones had been reduced to a whisper, and lines of fatigue showed in his face.

Gilbey bit back the smart retort on his tongue. He pitied the man. After all, the circumstances of the previous night were not of his making. “We need to get to The George,” he stated instead. “We are booked on an early coach.”

The hosteller snorted. “You’ll not find them running in this. T’ain’t fit for ducks, nor man nor beast.” He shrugged, and told them the way.

Navigating by feel, sound, and instinct rather than sight, the twins set off, baggage bumping at their knees. With a care for their footing on the treacherous wet cobbles, they slowly progressed up the narrow street, using the walls to guide them.

At the first cross-street they experienced the disorienting sensation of being adrift, with no point of reference except their feet on the ground. The looming outline of a street-lamp, still flickering faintly with the remains of the night’s oil, marked a corner for them, and they proceeded, thankfully anchored once more against ancient solid walls. They were cautiously negotiating the open space of the second cross-street when someone crashed into Gilbey from behind.

“Ho, there!” Gilbey cried, dropping the portmanteau. He was preparing to excuse himself when he realized that there were hands on his arms and inside his coat, and there were more than one pair. He struggled against a strong grip, trying to extricate himself from one set of fingers as he tried to grab at the others. “What the devil?” he cried in confusion.

Strong arms attached to a hulking shape also grasped Gillian. Incensed beyond caution, she fought back. “You bullying blackguard! Unhand me! Vile, base-born, brandy-faced guttersnipe!”

Her language befit a stable boy, but unfortunately she forgot to disguise her voice. Her assailant turned her roughly for a closer inspection. “B’God, it’s a little vixen!”

When Gilbey heard Gillian cry out behind him, he became desperate to free himself. He used his shoulders, elbows, and anything he could against his attackers. Finally, he threw all his weight away from the arms locked around him. Unfortunately, whoever was holding him chose that moment to let go. Gilbey pitched headlong onto the wet cobblestones.

“Clear out!” called one ruffian to the others. As the man holding Gillian turned to join them, she managed a sharp kick to his shins and watched him hobble in obvious pain for an instant, before the fog swallowed them. Then she rushed to Gilbey’s side.

“Are you hurt?”

“Are you?” Sitting on the pavement, he brushed gravel from his coat and inspected his sleeves.

She shook her head mutely. “I asked you first.”

Gilbey appeared dazed and shaken, but amazement filled his voice as he responded. “‘Base-born, brandy-faced guttersnipe’? My word, Gillie, where on earth did you pick up such language?”

***

At the Ram’s Head, Brinton lay motionless in bed for a moment, straining to recapture whatever sound it was that had awakened him. All was silent in the dim grayness, however. He wasn’t even sure it was morning. He could not tell if his guests had been gone for hours, or if the closing of the door behind them had startled him awake.

They could already be miles away
, he thought. He made a little grimace of self-derision. So much for all his ponderings and lost sleep. He had never anticipated this turn of events. The depth and bitterness of his disappointment surprised him.

He eased himself from the bed carefully, not wishing to wake Archie. He almost immediately stumbled over his boots. Cursing softly, he looked back at his friend. Except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of the covers, Archie gave every appearance of being dead.

It seemed extraordinarily dark, and Rafferty moved to the window as he made a fumbling attempt to arrange his cravat. At least the darkness prevented him from seeing how dismally rumpled he must be after sleeping in his clothes! He had been wise to leave Tyler, his valet, behind for this trip.

He pushed the window open, only to discover the fog hanging like a curtain on the wrong side. No wonder it was so dark! There was not a breath of air, nor even the usual dawn chorus of birds, as if the fog had effectively muffled all other signs of life as well as the light.

The earl searched about the room for his coat, finally discovering it neatly folded on the chair with a small purse of coins and his hat beside it. The foolish pair had left payment for their night’s shelter. He swore under his breath, snatching up the hat and purse and shrugging into the tight-fitting garment as he hurried out the door.

At the bottom of the stairs he was confronted by the same scene and stench as had greeted the twins. A few more people were stirring groggily, and he threaded his way between them. It was still dark enough to require candles, and he noticed fresh ones had been lit. He could make out the scent of coffee and followed its trail to the taproom. The innkeeper was supervising some attempt at breakfast for such guests as were awake.

“Any likelihood you saw those two lads this morning?” Brinton asked him with studied casualness.

“Steal your purse, did they, my lord?”

Brinton’s face darkened. “More like they left one behind,” he said in cold, clipped tones that made the man regret his impudence. “Did you see them?”

“Aye, milord, I did. They wanted The George and asked me the way. ’Tis no fit morning to be out, but they were insisting.”

“I can imagine. How long ago was that?”

“Not long at all—not above ten minutes, I’d guess.”

The earl clapped his beaver onto his head and showed every sign of going out. The innkeeper looked at a loss.

“Coffee, my lord?”

“Later, my good man.” Brinton’s humor had improved immensely. “Just tell me the direction of The George.”

***

Gillian blushed at Gilbey’s reference to her language. She knew a proper young lady should never even have heard such words. “I suppose I have been spending too much time in the stables. But, really, Gilbey! Didn’t you think it was perhaps appropriate to the subject?”

“Dash it!”

She had not expected an oath in reply to her intended humor. She looked at her twin with renewed concern as he attempted to rise, unsuccessfully.

“You
are
hurt!” she cried.

Gilbey subsided with a grimace. Pushing the wet folds of his greatcoat aside, he uncovered a large rent in his pantaloons and an angry, raw knee showing through. With Gillian’s help, he again tried to get up, but when he put weight on his knee he was rewarded with a sharp protest of pain. The weight he put on Gillian was more than she could bear, and they both sank back onto the pavement.

“Now we are in it, aren’t we,” Gillian said gloomily. Gilbey just looked at her and blinked.

Gillian needed to know the full extent of the disaster, although she suspected she was beyond solutions. “Did they get everything?” she asked gently.

Gilbey groaned in reply, feeling his pockets as if somehow it was all a mistake. “Purse, tickets, the lot.”

Gillian looked at her noble brother, sitting indecorously in the middle of the wet street, and suppressed a bubble of hysterical laughter. How had she ever supposed things could get no worse? Gilbey could not walk, and she could not even get him up. They had no money and no coach tickets—no way to leave this abysmal city she hoped never to set eyes on again. She regretted the coins she had left in the room at the Ram’s Head now. She considered trying to retrieve them, but Lord Brinton might be awake, and how could she leave Gilbey here alone?

“What time do you suppose it is?” she asked, wondering if they were still in danger and trying to think what to do. When Gilbey did not answer, she followed his glance down to the torn and empty pocket of his waistcoat. “Father’s watch,” she realized numbly. They stared at each other in mournful silence.

Almost as if summoned by her thoughts, Brinton’s tall figure suddenly loomed out of the fog, nearly tripping over the twins.

“What the devil has happened here?” he exclaimed, so surprised he gave no thought to his language.

Gillian felt indignant at his tone.
It would have to be him
, she thought irritably.
Why couldn’t it have been anyone else?
But a little voice reminded her that she would have been far more distressed to see her uncle.

“We’ve been robbed,” she said in a flat voice, making no attempt to disguise her natural tones. “We don’t normally indulge in street-sitting, especially at such an early hour.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Are either of you hurt?”

“Yes, my lord,” Gilbey answered, showing a spark of life at last. “I am. Could you give us a hand?”

“Where is the problem?”

“My knee.”

Brinton looked carefully at Gilbey’s injury. “Will it not stand your weight? Sprained, then, most likely, in addition to being scraped and bruised.”

“You sound like a surgeon who has seen a hundred such knees,” Gillian couldn’t resist commenting. Was the man really such a know-it-all, or did he just always take charge of everyone and everything?

The earl did not reply at first. He held out a hand to Gillian and helped her up from the stones, motioning her to one side of her brother. “I have seen enough of these to know,” he said finally. Something in his stern tone forbade further remarks.

He moved the twins’ baggage into the recess of a dooryard, promising to send someone back for it. Then he took up a position on Gilbey’s other side and helped him to his feet.

Gilbey groaned.

“You have hurt more than your knee, haven’t you?” Gillian said in alarm.

“What you need is a warm bath,” Brinton declared.

The earl and Gillian provided very unbalanced support for Gilbey as they hobbled back along the road. The difference in their heights made it difficult for Gilbey to help them and Gillian needed to stop and rest every few steps.

She found she was quite distracted by the feel of Brinton’s muscled arm, linked with hers to brace her brother. What kind of lord had such muscles, she caught herself wondering. Her hand could not span the hard forearm she gripped. Warmth radiated along her own arm from the spot where his hand grasped it. She tried to catch a glimpse of Brinton’s face to see if he was suffering any similarly odd sensations, but he stared straight ahead into the fog.

They had stopped twice for her to catch her breath when Brinton suddenly stopped again, his face ashen. He deposited Gilbey on a conveniently placed mounting block and turned away, seized by a spasm of coughing.

“My lord, are you ill?” Gillian realized that Brinton had been trying to ease her load by supporting most of Gilbey’s weight himself. She took a step toward him, uncertain as to which helpless man needed her more.

Brinton shook his head. He stood quite still, slightly stooped with one hand braced against the shop wall beside them. After another moment he straightened and turned back to the twins.

“Forgive me,” he said, returning to Gilbey’s side. “It is just an occasional inconvenience,” he added when Gillian looked at him hesitantly. “Let us proceed.”

***

They took Gilbey back to the Ram’s Head.

“You two again!” the innkeeper exclaimed as a group of curious onlookers made way for the trio. “What has happened, my lord?” He waved them into the coffee room, which was less crowded now with the arrival of morning, and pressed a few people to give up their seats.

Depositing Gilbey into one chair, Brinton and Gillian sank gratefully into two others.

“A cloth and some water,” the earl commanded, “The lad’s been hurt. And coffee now, if you would be so kind.”

Amid the hubbub and questions of the surrounding crowd, Gillian was impressed to see how quickly his orders were carried out. Nervously aware of this new attention focused on them by their mishap, she let others minister to Gilbey’s injury, lest she appear too sisterly. She slouched a little in her chair, pulling at the collar of her cloak and adjusting her hastily retrieved cap to cover more of her hair.

“Attacked by cutpurses!” Gilbey moaned. “I feel so foolish!”

Gillian risked a glance at Brinton. He appeared less than perfect this morning, and she found it disturbingly appealing. He had not shaved and a dark morning shadow ran along his jaw and upper lip. His hair looked hastily arranged and his neckcloth was tied in a simple style that was slightly askew. He looked vulnerable, she thought, quite in contrast to his autocratic behavior. He showed no sign of being ill. In his rumpled disarray he looked more like a charming rogue than anything else, and she felt herself softening toward him.