Aching for Always (43 page)

“I've never ridden like this,” she said.

“'Tis a day for firsts.” He decided he would rather
spend a lifetime with his open palm a quarter of an inch from her breast than endure the scent of her hair like this. He'd been foolish to place her in front of him.

Just as he shook the reins, the timepiece chimed.

He drew the chased gold from his pocket, pulled the stem to disable the bell and, with a silent sigh, began the long journey back to the house.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-EIGHT
 

Hugh hurried the horse forward at the sight of a servant boy running through the Quarley gardens, waving wildly in their direction. Joss was glad for a distraction from the heavy silence that had stretched over their return. It had been obvious Hugh had found her putting a premature end to their lovemaking off-putting, and his strained courtesy only made her feel worse. From the garden, they had a sweeping view of the entry courtyard, and she noted the presence of several well-appointed carriages at the top of the long drive that hadn't been there when they'd left. Perhaps this hell would be over sooner than she thought, and she could return, shamefaced, to both the company she'd put in jeopardy and the man she'd left at the altar.

“Are you Captain Hawksmoor?” asked the boy, breathless, when he reached them.

“Aye.”

“You are to come inside. The Duke of Silverbridge requests your presence immediately.”

“Where is he?” Hugh slipped off the horse, and Joss felt his warmth evaporate.

“Outside the dining room. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Hawksmoor.”

Hugh's gaze went to his boots. “This is Miss O'Malley,” he said, handing the boy the leads. “See that she gets to the house safely.”

Hugh adjusted his coat, gave her a low bow and strode toward the house.

Silverbridge was waiting for him in the entry hall, and Hugh labored to dispel the dour look he knew must be on his face. Careful formality replaced the wry ducal smile.

“Where is Miss O'Ma—”

“In the stable, I believe. Has Sir William arrived?”

“Aye, and I have laid the groundwork for your case. You need to gather the map and your other papers and share them with him.”

“They were taken to my room, I believe,” Hugh said. “Let me retrieve them and I will join you.”

He hurried down the grand hallway. At long last, the chance to do something to avenge his brother's death had come.

Joss gazed into the looking glass in her well-appointed bedroom, wondering how an afternoon that should have been so perfect could have turned out so poorly. Stopping Hugh had hurt him and it had certainly not pleased her, but there had been something cold and mechanical in the way he'd moved, and if she couldn't trust her instincts, what could she trust? She was gazing at her wrinkled gown,
wondering what if anything she could do to make herself presentable, when a voice sounded at the open door.

“Given the particular placement of that grass stain, I must strongly suggest changing before dinner.” It was Kit, hands on her hips, grinning. “Can I assume everything has changed?”

“Everything has changed,” Joss said sadly. “Only not for the better.”

“Where are we?” Fiona asked, roused from a deep sleep when the carriage pulled to a stop.

“Our destination is Thetford,” Nathaniel said, “a place of my youth. 'Tis still a distance of ten miles or so. I am stopping to pick up some provisions.”

“I would thank you if I had asked our destination. What I asked was our location.”

He sighed. “We are outside Cambridge.”

“Cambridge! Then we are near Lord Quarley's home.”

“'Tis a quarter hour in that direction,” he said, jerking his thumb, “but we are not here for that, I told you—”

“Aye, aye, aye. I know what you told me. We are here on a lark, though you refuse to share the details.”

“That's not the only reason we're here. Despite his protestations to the contrary, I do not intend to leave Hugh's safety to fate. Especially now, when he's—” He stopped.

“Distracted?” She made a sour face. “I do not care for that woman.”

“As I said, I would have been happy to leave you at the Grey Lamb.”

“Oh, I'm certain you would have.” She gazed out the
post chaise window toward the hills he'd indicated. Somewhere beyond them Hugh would be sharing his bed with that damnable wench. Fiona felt the reassuring weight of the pistol she had hidden in her cloak, right next to the maps of London and Edinburgh. “Where's the Manchester map?” she asked.

Nathaniel, who had been examining one or the other of them throughout the better part of their trip, pointed to the place on the bench where he'd been sitting.

“Do not leave the carriage,” Nathaniel said. “Hugh doesn't want us here. An unwelcome appearance will only endanger his chances of being able to help your family. As I said, I'm stopping only to gather some provisions. I'll be back in a quarter hour.”

Fiona heaved her disgust. “Do you mind if I take a piss? Or is that forbidden as well?”

Nathaniel opened the door and jumped to the street amid passing riders and carriages. “If your idea of an appropriate facility is a field behind a whorehouse, you may take your chances. Otherwise, there's a commode under the seat.”

Damned old fornicator
, she thought. There was a word for what he was getting, and it wasn't “provisions.”

She waited until he'd disappeared, then slipped out of the carriage. Cambridge was a sizeable town, and they were on its outskirts, a largely unpopulated street with as many empty fields as businesses. Other than a smith, a dilapidated inn and what she supposed was the aforementioned whorehouse, a two-storey affair with sooty windows and a porch with two cheerless chairs, the prospects were bleak.

She stepped toward the inn, uncertain if she wanted a drink, a rest or just the satisfaction of knowing she was doing exactly what she had been told not to. She waited at the corner for a wagon to pass. When the vehicle cleared, she spotted Rogan Reynolds talking to the driver of another carriage.

In a flash, she realized he must have followed them. She turned to hide her face, though she was uncertain he knew who she was, and kept walking.
Was he here for them? Was he here for Joss? Or was he here for the map?

The map, according to Joss, was virtually an exact copy. Could Reynolds have known such a thing had been so meticulously produced? Fiona bet he didn't know about the map and had come only on the suspicion that his fiancée and her new lover were getting close to the truth. If Reynolds had been following them closely enough to discover them kissing by the statue of the lion, it undoubtedly meant he already had his doubts about Hugh. Fiona was certain she had a man on her hands desperate to protect both his fortune and his claim on his fiancée.

Would he recognize her? The time he'd come to the shop, Fiona had been gone. The question was, had he been following Joss and Hugh or had he been following her and Nathaniel? She prayed it was the former, as this would allow her some small element of surprise.

She crossed the road. She could feel his eyes upon her, but that in itself was not relevant, as she was frequently the object of men's attentions. He was surprisingly handsome in person, especially in the black coat he wore. She wondered from whom it had been stolen. She considered
killing him on the spot, but somehow the notion of stripping him of the Brand Industries wealth gave her more pleasure. Hugh had better succeed in their petition to Sir William.

She decided to take the offensive. She turned, choosing the moment when their eyes would meet, then nodded. Reynolds bowed. “Are you lost?” she asked. “You look a trifle uncertain.”

“I am not lost. I'm on my way to Scotland.”

She nearly laughed. No one in their right mind would hire a post chaise to Scotland. “Gretna?” she asked with a smile. “Do you have your bride stowed in there?” Let the bastard twist a little.

“No,” he said. “My bride is decidedly not inside.”

“
Tsk-tsk.
'Tis a shame.” Then it struck her. Allowing Reynolds to walk into Lord Quarley's home now, while Hugh and that woman pleaded her case, would be tantamount to throwing their family's chances of recovering their fortunes into the Thames, but allowing him to discover Joss a moment
after
the Lord Keeper put his signature on the transfer would be poetry indeed. Reynolds could drag Joss back to the future—a very changed future—and Hugh . . . well, Hugh could find comfort in the arms of the woman who remained.

Reynolds turned as she passed and, like many men before him, was swept along in her wake. “What about you?” he asked, jogging a step or two to catch up to her. “You talk of Gretna as if you have personal knowledge of it. Where is your husband?”

“I am unmarried, sir. I'm afraid I find most men about as enticing as o'ertight shoes.” She looked over her shoul
der to see if Nathaniel was about. “I wonder,” she said, “if you would like to consider an exchange, Mr. Reynolds.”

He paled upon hearing his name.

“Aye, sir, I am quite aware of who you are. And I think we can effect an exchange that would be beneficial to both of us.”

His face broke into an interested smile. After casting a look in both directions, he led her around the corner of the inn into the quiet of a barrel-strewn alley. “Tell me more.”

She gazed at the long shadows in the street. It must be close on five. Hugh had said he would see the Lord Keeper today. If he signed the deed by sundown, then delivering Reynolds to his fiancée at midnight ought to be a fitting end to a successful day.

“Provide me with a nice hot supper,” she said, “and I shall take you to your fiancée.” In fact, she thought, if he continued to look at her with those glittering blue eyes, she might allow him to provide her with more than supper. It was all in the name of service, after all, and if Joss was going to bed Fiona's lover, Fiona certainly wasn't going to hesitate to bed Joss's.

“You know where she is?”

“I believe I might.” She smiled.

“Then tell me now.” He caught her by the throat and squeezed.

She couldn't breathe. His hands were as cold and strong as steel, and he backed her hard into the wall. She clawed at his grasp but couldn't loosen it. He lifted her slowly off the ground. Spots appeared at the edges of her vision. The gun was in her cloak. She could feel
it banging against her thigh. “I'll tell!” she croaked. “I'll tell!”

He held his grip. “Where?” he said coolly.

“The home of Lord Quarley,” she said, kicking against his bulk. “Let me down!”

The corners of his mouth rose in an apologetic smile, and he tightened his grip.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-NINE
 

“Sir William is finishing his lunch,” Silverbridge said when Hugh returned, holding up a palm to stop him from bursting through the closed doors of the Quarley dining hall. “Might I suggest you have a seat? Might I also suggest that a pleasant demeanor will do more for your case than the scowl currently residing there?”

Hugh dropped into a chair, clutching his papers, abashed. He took a deep breath. “I beg your pardon. You are quite right. I am a bit, well . . . let us say today has not gone as well as I had hoped.”

Silverbridge picked a small leaf of ivy out of the gold rope at Hugh's shoulder. “Anything you'd care to speak of, Captain?”

Hugh flushed. “I . . . no.”

“Miss O'Malley, is it? Kit is quite fond of her.”

Hugh shook his head. “Delicacy forbids . . .”

Silverbridge clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep at it, Hugh. Do not give up. 'Tis like navigating a maze with mortars at every turn, but if you don't press on, you will be obliterated where you stand. That's the one thing I
learned with Kit. The only thing harder than persevering was giving up. I would have died without her.”