Vanity (5 page)

“Death and damnation!” Her fingernail broke as she struggled with a knot that had unaccountably developed. Her arms and shoulders began to ache with the twisted position behind her back.

“Problem with the laces?” The highwayman spoke from the window without turning round. “Perhaps I can help.”

How could he possibly know! She set her teeth. “Go to the devil!”

“I’m not unfamiliar with the garment,” he observed, and there was a touch of that rich, merry laughter in his voice now.

“You do surprise me!” Octavia renewed her battle, biting her Up in frustration.

“It will take me but a moment if you’d come over here. I’ll keep my eyes closed if you wish.”

“And just how do you intend unlacing me with your eyes closed?” she demanded.

“By touch.” The amusement in his voice was now full-fledged.

Octavia struggled with herself for a second, then stalked over to him. “Close your eyes.”

He turned from the window, eyes obediently closed, and she gave him her back. His fingers moved deftly over the laces, feeling for the knot.

She looked suspiciously over her shoulder, but his eyes were still closed. He was, however, grinning broadly. The recalcitrant knot flew undone, and in a second she was holding the unfastened corset against her body.

“My thanks, sir,” she said formally.

“The pleasure is all mine, ma’am,” he responded. “I find I’m quite an efficient lady’s maid. Is there any other little service I can perform?”

“Turn your back!” she commanded, wondering why she found his mischievous grin so infectious. It struck her as an insane reaction after the insults he’d heaped upon her since she’d been fool enough to pick him for her gull.

She slipped out of her petticoats and pulled the velvet robe over her thin chemise. The robe was warm and thick and voluminous. “You may turn around now.” She bent to gather up her discarded garments.

“The view was getting a little monotonous,” he commented, turning back to the room and coming over to the fire. He took up his tankard of sack and drank, regarding her thoughtfully over the rim. “We really do seem to have got off on the wrong foot.”

“Abduction is hardly a recipe for friendship,” Octavia snapped, folding her clothes neatly, conscious of her near
nakedness beneath the velvet robe and a faint fragrance coming from the garment. It was a lingering mélange of lavender, soap, and pomade with an underlying tang of warmed male skin—the highwayman’s own smell, she realized, one she’d been inhaling most of the day.

“Will I set the table now, sir?” Tab popped her head around the door. “The mistress says dinner’s aspoiling.”

“Then you’d best bring it up without delay,” Lord Nick responded. “I don’t fancy the rough edge of Bessie’s tongue.”

“No, sir,” Tab said feelingly, hastening to the round table with a tray of linen, cutlery, and glasses. Task completed, she glanced at Octavia, still huddled over the fire. “Will I take miss’s clothes to be dried?”

“If you please, Tabitha.” Octavia answered her before the highwayman could reply. “As soon as they’re dry, bring them back.”

“Yes, miss.” Tab gathered up the clothes and hurried out.

“You’ll not need them again today,” Lord Nick observed, going back to the window. “It’s almost full dark, and the storm shows no sign of abating.”

“I’m not remaining here,” Octavia said flatly.

The highwayman merely shrugged. There was no point arguing the toss; the facts spoke for themselves, and she’d have to accept the realities soon enough.

Bessie, Tabitha, and the landlord arrived in a solemn procession, bearing laden trays and, in the latter’s case, two bottles of burgundy that he placed on the table before reverently drawing the corks.

Octavia sniffed hungrily as Bessie lifted the lid of the tureen of oyster soup and began to ladle the contents into two deep pewter bowls.

“Will ye carve the mutton yourself, Nick, or shall Ben come back to do it for ye?”

“I’ll carve, thank you, Bessie.” Lord Nick came to the table. He took a sip of the burgundy that Ben had poured into a glass and nodded his appreciation. “Where’ve you been keeping this one, Ben?”

The landlord’s ruddy color deepened. “I’ve a few bottles left, Nick. It’s by way of thankin’ ye.”

“No need, Ben, no need. They were my friends too.”

The two men looked at each other with the same quiet intensity Octavia had noticed before, then nodded in unison, and Ben backed out of the chamber. Bessie cast a final glance over the table and the steaming leg of mutton on the sideboard; then she waved Tabitha from the room, turning to follow her.

At the door she paused. “She’ll be lyin’ with ye, then?” She inclined her head in Octavia’s direction, the gesture contemptuous and hostile.

“Aye,” the highwayman said shortly. Bessie left, closing the door with a sharp click.

Octavia stood immobile, stunned by her own powerlessness. She was trapped in this place, at the mercy of this man and his friends.

“Before you start heaping abuse upon my head again, Miss Morgan …” Lord Nick held up an arresting hand. “This is no place for a woman to He alone.”

“Before you robbed me, sir, I had sufficient funds to pay my own way,” Octavia declared, finding her voice and relieved to hear that she sounded much stronger than she felt.

“We have an interesting morality here,” he observed. “Come to the table before the soup cools…. To what extent can it be said that a robber can ethically be guilty of robbing a robber?”

Octavia followed her nose to the table, too hungry to fight enticement. “Clearly you’ve never heard of honor among thieves, Lord Nick.”

“On the contrary …” He held out a chair for her, then reached into his pocket and dropped the lambskin pouch onto the table beside her. “You will find that I’ve simply retrieved my own property, Miss Morgan.”

Octavia had not yet had the opportunity to examine the proceeds of her morning’s work. She weighed the pouch in her hand, for the moment forgetting both her hunger and the dark, swirling currents of frustration and
apprehension. If she had money, she could leave this place. She could hire a carriage to take her back to London. She could hire a bedchamber until the storm died. She would not be dependent on the mercy and whim of the highwayman.

She could even pay for her own dinner. She laid the pouch beside her place again and calmly picked up her spoon.

“The Royal Oak,” the highwayman said, picking up his own spoon, once again reading her mind with uncanny accuracy, “does not cater to stray travelers. There are no bedchambers available for hire.”

She looked up sharply. “How could that be?”

“Other trades are plied here.” He cut into a loaf of barley bread and passed her a slice on the end of the knife, that little mocking smile playing over his lips. “The business we conduct at the Royal Oak is best kept to ourselves, Miss Morgan.”

“A den of thieves,” she said bitterly. “Why?” She dropped her spoon in her sudden vehemence. “Why did you bring me here?”

“A whim,” he responded, dipping bread into his soup. “You intrigued me … I’m not usually taken advantage of … and besides …” He smiled lazily. “I had thought, once we’d settled our business, we might come to some arrangement for a pleasant evening.”

Octavia’s fingers closed around the stem of her wineglass. “I trust you’ve now had second thoughts, sir.”

He shrugged. “I confess I hadn’t expected that you’d still be in possession of your maidenhead.”

“And now that you know differently?” she asked tautly.

“Oh, I daresay I can live with the disappointment,” he responded carelessly, pushing back his chair. “May I carve you some mutton?”

“But why, then, did you tell Bessie I would lie with you?”

“Because you will not keep your maidenhead for more than five minutes, Miss Morgan, if you do not,” he said
with a touch of impatience. “I thought I had explained that.”

“So I’m to trust
you?”

“I don’t see that you have much choice, my dear.” He placed a laden platter before her. “Eat your dinner, Miss Morgan. You’ll sleep all the better for a full stomach.”

M
iss Morgan’s appetite was undiminished by her present circumstances, the highwayman reflected in some amusement, carving another slice of mutton for her as she heaped roast potatoes onto her platter and reached for the bowl of onion sauce.

Her countenance was now delicately tinged with pink from the warmth and the food and wine. While she offered no conversational sallies, she seemed relaxed for the first time since she’d crossed his path that morning, as if she’d come to some acceptance of her situation.

Such a woman would not be picking pockets at Tyburn for the fun of it. He sipped his wine, regarding her closely through half-closed eyes. Presumably she was no stranger to hunger and cold, despite the elegant gown and the smooth white hands that didn’t look as if they’d ever performed a menial task.

He’d first taken her for an occupant of one of the exclusive nunneries around Covent Garden. Mrs. Goadsby’s for instance, where clients were ruthlessly vetted by the abbess, and the young ladies educated and cared for like the most precious daughters of any noble house. In such establishments one could find many a young woman of elegant
appearance waiting for a rich protector, or even a husband, and many an aristocratic rake had been lost to the artful wiles of such a genteel seductress.

It was by no means unheard of for such a lady to take her place at court without causing so much as a raised eyebrow. He thought of Elizabeth Armistead, who had recently graduated from Mrs. Goadsby’s into the arms of the Prince of Wales, her past very much a thing of the past.

For his own part, though, he’d be chary of marrying such a one. A man would be imagining a pair of cuckold’s horns at every turn, the highwayman reflected. His gaze rested on the serenely beautiful countenance opposite him—such innocent beauty concealing the talents of a successful thief and the devil only knew what else. He’d already seen evidence of a murderous temper. She and Philip … what a pair they would make.

His long fingers idly stroking around the rim of his glass suddenly stilled as the idea rose fully formed in his mind. He sat quietly, allowing it to grow and spread its wings. His most brilliant inspirations came to him in this way and had done so since childhood. He knew to leave his mind free rein to examine potential problems, discard certain possibilities until lighting upon the perfectly plotted arrangement.

A slow smile spread over his face, but his eyes were terrifying in their icy detachment. It would work. But how to sell such a scheme to a woman who didn’t seem to fit any recognizable mold? What motives would capture her? She was to some extent an adventuress and maybe, therefore, open to a profitable venture. But was she a free agent?

“Tell me …” He broke the silence so suddenly that she jumped, spilling ruby drops from the wineglass she was carrying to her lips. “Tell me why you happen to be working the crowd at Tyburn.”

Octavia frowned, dabbing at the stain on the pristine-white cloth with her napkin. She’d been rather surprised he hadn’t posed the question earlier. “I haven’t been educated to earn my living in the conventional ways.” She forked another potato from the dish.

“But why would it be necessary for you to do so?” Obligingly he pushed the bowl of cabbage toward her. She nodded her thanks and took a large spoonful onto her plate.

“For the same reason I imagine you ride the highways,” she responded. “One must eat. One must put a roof over one’s head. And in my case I have a father to care for.”

Lord Nick leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle. “Forgive me, but why is the father not providing for the daughter?”

“I don’t consider that your business, sir,” she replied icily.

“No, it’s not.” He leaned forward to refill their glasses. “Nevertheless, I should like to know.” His smile was suddenly coaxing, inviting, his voice quiet, his eyes no longer arctic but the gray of a soft dawn.

Since the disaster Octavia had had no one to talk to, no one to share her desperate struggles or to listen to the fierce bubbling rage of helplessness. She’d fought alone to keep herself and her father out of the workhouse, biting her tongue when the urge to heap angry recriminations on his head had become almost overpowering. She could say nothing to him because he didn’t understand their situation. He had no idea they were penniless, no idea of the means she was forced to adopt to keep them from starvation. The invitation to speak of the unspeakable suddenly became irresistible. The highwayman would understand her life because, as he’d said earlier, in some ways they were two of a kind.

She pushed her plate away.

“My father is a very clever scholar but a fool in the ways of the world,” she stated. “And since his … his misfortune he has withdrawn even further into his books. He sees and hears nothing outside his texts. Three years ago he had a sizable fortune, enough to keep him in comfort and to provide me with a respectable dowry, only—only he fell among thieves.”

She looked bleakly across the table. “If I’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened, but I was away visiting an aunt, and while I was gone, two men wormed their way into his
confidence and persuaded him to invest heavily in a silver mine in Peru. Needless to say, the mine does not exist.”