Midnight Bride (18 page)

"He was hurt, sir.
Knew you wouldn't want to let him go without care."
The coachman shifted nervously under the pale blue gaze that fixed him to the spot. "Mr.
Beckworth
told me to see that you got to London safely, to take care of everything."

"Then you should have done a better job." Just
then a knock cut off his angry words. Calling his permission to enter, Hartley smiled as he watched the coachman's face change as Susan walked in. "Ah, my dear, I believe you know this man. Come in and say hello."

Susan, tossing her head defiantly, put the plate of warm tarts on the table. She flashed an angry look at Hartley and glared at the coachman. Without saying a word she hurried from the room.

"
Cor
, what's she doing here? And all dressed up like the lady of the house?" the coachman asked, his dread of Hartley forgotten.

Hartley laughed at the look on his face. Then he said, "Go and make certain we are ready to leave in the morning." As the other man reached the door, Hartley added, "And send Susan in. I wish to compliment her on her baking." The door closed behind the man, and Hartley returned to the mirror. The punch he had drunk had brought a flush to his cheeks. The sight of Susan created the sparkle in his eyes.

By the time she entered some time later, his smile had slipped. His cheeks were more red because of the punch he had consumed. And his temper was on edge. When he looked up to see her, he said, "I called for you long ago." His eyes raked her as though he were evaluating a horse.

"I'm not yours to command, Mr. Hartley. I am my own mistress."

"Mistress.
Now, there's a fine word.
Yes, mistress."
Hartley slid farther down in his chair, stretching his legs out before him and holding out his cup for more of the punch. He watched as she filled his cup, warming the drink with hot pokers first. When she started to move away, he grabbed her wrist. "Wonder what your innkeeper would say if he knew I
were
the gentleman whose attentions you were escaping. Then I just happened to show up here." He smiled up at her, chilling her as he had done the day he had laughed at her and told her he would never marry a mere maid.

She tried to pull away, but his hand tightened around her wrist. She bit her lips, turning this way and that, knowing that the bruise around her wrist would soon be visible. "What do you want from me now?" she cried.

"Aha! She can talk," he whispered, grinning at her. He pulled her closer to him.
"Talk.
And more if you do not want the innkeeper to discover your little secret." He leaned back so that he could look up into her face more clearly. "I wonder what you would do to keep your true past
secret?
"

By the time he left the next morning he knew. He smiled as they drove off. On the box above him, he could hear the angry rumble of voices. Once he heard "Lord Dunstan."

A few minutes later, the other voice, loud and harsh, shouted, "That Susan's no good. The mistress turned her off. Of course, she'd want to say something bad about Miss
Beckworth
. But I don't believe her. And you should keep your trap shut!" Hartley stretched out, tilted his hat over his face, a faint smile still on his lips, and began reviewing his acquaintance with all the young men recently come to town for the first time.

A few days after Dunstan's surprise visit another letter arrived for Elizabeth.
This time she recognized the hand; the other letter from Dunstan rested in her desk. Every time she decided to discard it, something stopped her.

Taking her letter, she retired to her room more anxious than she wanted to admit. Cautiously she broke the seal, running her finger over the signature. Once again he was "your Robert." She unfolded the paper, running her fingers over the words as she had often dreamed she had run them over his chest.

Had anything been said by anyone at the manor? He had seen several of the men who had been there when he was; their questions had led him to believe their story was known. Was she certain no one had said anything?

Elizabeth gasped and lowered the letter. Her hazel eyes grew serious. Why hadn't he mentioned the gossip when he was here? Quickly she tried to remember everything that had happened the last few days. The servants were gossiping; his surprise visit had seen to that. But there was nothing malicious in it.
Hartley?
she
asked herself. But in spite of her mistrust of the man, he was one of her brother's closest friends. She sighed, admitting that Dunstan's presence was the reason for
the gossip. Even though she had not answered his first letter, she would answer this one and tell him to leave her alone. Telling herself she needed to be able to answer him well, she read the letter again. Why
didn't she
come to London, he asked. They could announce their betrothal; she could enjoy the last of the Season. Then they would marry, joining the rest of the June weddings at St. George's, Hanover Square.

Ignoring everything but the last few words, Elizabeth laughed, more relieved than she would admit to herself that his letter had not been a graceful farewell. Throwing her usual habits to the wind, she climbed up on her bed, her light gold muslin dress a pool of vivid color against the turquoise of her satin bed coverings. But climbing into bed was a mistake. When she closed her eyes, she could remember him there, his long legs poking out from under the covers, his chest brown against the white sheet. Drifting off into a semi-sleep, she turned over, her dress crumpling around her, only to waken to a thump. She turned hastily, expecting to see Dunstan on her floor, but her maid stood there, a box on the floor in front of her.

"Sorry for waking you, Miss Beckworth. It won't happen again, I assure you," the maid said quickly, surprised to see her mistress curled up in bed on a sunny late spring afternoon. "Aren't you feeling well? Should I fetch a compress for your head?"

"No, Miller, I am fine." Elizabeth climbed from the bed, the letter still clutched in her hand. She glanced down at her wrinkled gown. "You will need to find me something fresh to wear, though." The maid nodded. Elizabeth walked across the room to the window, staring sightlessly out into the beautiful rose garden below. Then she looked back down at the letter.

Crossing
to her desk, she sat down, smoothing the creases from the paper, letting her eyes follow the sweeps and strokes of Robert's strong strokes that covered the page, remembering him all dusty from a long ride just to see her. Before she realized it, she began to see the two of
them,
walking, dancing, sleeping . . . She stopped. Leaving the letter on top of her desk, she let her maid help her change into something fresh. But often she would find herself looking back at the crumpled sheet of paper.

During the next few days she more than once picked up a pen and wrote a few lines, only to throw them away seconds later. She was so lost in her own world Charles grew worried. After Elizabeth drifted through the salon, ignoring him completely even though he spoke to her several times, he sought out Louisa.

Propped up in bed with her latest novel close at hand and a box of her favorite chocolates beside her, Louisa was enjoying her ill health. When her headache had continued, more from boredom than anything else, her doctor had recommended some time in bed. And she had taken him literally. During the day she indulged herself, rising from her "sickbed" only in the evenings. Then she would lie on the settee in the salon, wilting interestingly. Elizabeth and Charles always hovered nearby and tried to cheer her up by keeping her informed of what was happening on the estate and who had returned home early from the Season because a marriage was in their future.

If her plan went well, Louisa looked forward to an interesting summer in Brighton with her cousin. The letter she had received that day from Lady Ramsburg had renewed her determination that she and Elizabeth would enjoy the balls, the
Vene
tian
breakfasts, and the walks on the
Steine
this summer.

Picking up another chocolate and nibbling it, she read on fascinated while the heroine, trapped in an ancient castle filled with evil, foiled the villain once again. Then the door to her room burst open. Louisa jumped, dropping her book. She looked up frowning. Then her face became concerned. "Charles, dear boy, what is the matter?"

"Elizabeth! Louisa, have you talked to her lately?" Charles ran his hands through his hair as he usually did when he was upset. He walked nervously around the room, brushing small tables containing porcelain figures.

Louisa held her breath and closed her eyes, certain that at any moment her treasures would go flying. When one of her favorite Sevres vases trembled precariously, she was no longer able to remain silent as she waited to hear what he was thinking. She said firmly, "Charles." He looked up, startled, as if he had forgotten where he was. "Sit down before you break something."

He had the grace to look embarrassed. Then he pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. Realizing that he could not see his cousin's face from that angle, he sat down beside her on the bed and picked up her hand. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But Elizabeth is acting so strangely."

"Tell me about it." Louisa patted his hand encouragingly.

"My valet said that Elizabeth's maid found her in bed asleep this afternoon. I was worried. When I tried to ask her about it, she ignored me." He paused for a moment, his brow creased. "No, that isn't right. She did not seem to hear me. Do you think she could be ill? I have heard that maiden ladies . . ."

"No, dear boy."
Louisa stopped him, trying not to laugh. "When I saw her last evening, she was fine. She may have had something else on her mind."

"But she has never ignored me before." This time even Charles recognized how childish he sounded. "That is not what I meant. You must know, Louisa, how I worry about her."

"Yes, my dear, I do. And you must not. Elizabeth is a sensible person. You know that. Maybe there was a problem with the servants." Louisa reached up and brushed back a lock of blonde hair that had fallen over Charles's forehead. "By tonight I am certain she will be her usual self. If not, I will discover what is wrong. Will you leave it to me?" she suggested, putting her finger under his chin and raising his head until he had to look her in the eye. She had perfected the gesture when he was small.

He nodded. Then he smiled and reached down to hug her, picking her up from her pillows and disarranging her lace cap that covered her fading blonde curls. "I love you, Louisa," he said quietly.

"I know, Charles, and I love you." She patted him on the shoulder. Then she straightened up. "Now go talk to Carstairs or someone so that I can continue my ill health in peace." He laughed and slid off the bed.

Just before he opened the door, he turned. "And how long do you plan to be ill?" he asked, his face mischievous.

"You leave that to me, you young scamp," she said firmly, her face reflecting his laughter, her cheeks delightfully rosy.

When she came downstairs that evening, the roses were gone. Wearing a brown silk gown that she had purchased in a moment when she was
feeling old
and neglected, she drifted lifelessly into the salon. As she had discovered when it arrived, the gown made her look sallow. As a result she had hidden it away in the back of her clothespress, determined that she would be rid of it as soon as she stopped feeling guilty over wasting so much of her cousin's money. But for this evening it was perfect. She lay back in her chair, her eyes closed. Charles smiled. But when Elizabeth walked in a few minutes later, his face was suitably worried.