Follow My Lead (17 page)

She looked up at him sharply then. “If that is the case, Your Grace, what are your motives?”

It was a question he should have expected, but hadn’t. And it gave him such pause that in the space before he could answer, she stepped around him. “Thank you so much for your translation services, but I will manage to find the correct coach on my own.”

She maneuvered around the people and horses, and had almost made it to the inn’s door, where likely she intended to inquire within, when Jason caught up to her.

“For someone so small, you can certainly move fast,” he grumbled. “I’m not going to leave, so you can stop running. Do you have friends in Nuremberg, Miss Crane?”

“Do I . . . ?” she replied quizzically. “Of course I do. I have been corresponding with Herr Heider for the last few years—he’s a man who has devoted his life to archiving Dürer’s works and writings, a true acolyte. And my father corresponded with him for years beforehand.”

“A single gentleman?” Jason questioned.

Her eyes narrowed. “No, he has a wife, and he happens to be older than Moses. Tell me, does your mind always tend toward the most prurient evil, or do you simply not trust anyone?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” he answered bluntly. “The fact of the matter is, to people like the Schmidts and others like them whom you will meet when traveling, you are an easy target. I know, because I’ve been an easy target in my time.” A quick flash of memory of being fleeced by every barmaid, hotelier, and shop purveyor while on his grand tour and unschooled in travel drifted through his mind. “People will try to impose themselves on you.”

She threw up her hands. “To be quite frank with you, sir, since I do not know what you want from me, I can only consider
your
continual presence an imposition!”

“The one thing I have
never
done in our short acquaintance is impose myself on you,” he countered. “In fact, it’s very much the other way around.”

“Then why have you pursued me? Are you trying to get me to change my mind and turn around, like George, or are you trying to get me in bed, like all the men you think to protect me from? Honestly, both scenarios give a very different color to your reasons for running after me onto the ship in the first place.”

Jason ground his jaw. But he decided to ignore that jab and instead answer her first question. “You asked about my motives. They are simple, Miss Crane. Guilt. I was assigned to help you by Lord Forrester, and until I see you safely deposited in your friend’s hands, I will not have acquitted myself of that duty.” It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the hopeful familial connection he would have to Lord Forrester, through Miss Sarah. But instead, some impulse kept that information inside. “I have an English upbringing that forbids it,” he said instead, “and a sister who would brain me if she ever learned I abandoned
the
Winnifred Crane to the Schmidts of the world.”

“Oh,” she replied. In fact, that seemed the only reply he was to get, because she had no other.

“So,” Jason continued, when she remained silent, “are we done with this venting of frustration? Can we move on now to finding the proper coach? Because as much as I truly wish I could, I cannot abandon you yet.”

He made to pull open the door to the inn, but just then, it was thrust outward from the inside, nearly smacking him.

“Watch yourself!” the rotund man said in German as he barreled through the door. Jason harshly yanked on the door, Miss Crane’s accusatory words apparently affecting him more than he thought they had.

“You watch yourself!” he yelled back, too irked to bother with anything other than English.

Miss Crane’s small hand reached out and held his arm, holding him still.

“Your Grace,” she began, “I find myself remarkably cross today. I’m bewildered in an unknown city and annoyed by my inability to make my point. And then you come along gruffly playing savior after pointedly ignoring me for six days on a voyage where I had only Mrs. Schmidt for company, who as it turns out was planning to bilk me for my funds.” She gulped as he patiently raised a brow. “Which is a roundabout way of saying I am sorry I snapped at you and questioned your motives. It was unkind of me.”

“Oh,” he replied, blinking. Amazingly, those simple words managed to bank his anger considerably. “Thank you.”

“But please bear in mind I have a . . . a mission. And it has consumed my thoughts for quite some time. I am naturally suspicious.” She took a breath, shaking slightly in her thick coat. “And please bear in mind I have to move quickly, that time is a factor for me. And another factor is . . . money.”

Jason’s other brow lifted in understanding. “I take it Lady Worth was unaware of this rerouting of your trip and did not plan accordingly.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Surely she provided you some pin money, for unforeseen expenses.”

“She did.” Miss Crane nodded. “But George insisted on carrying it, and I couldn’t stop him without arousing suspicion. The only money I have on me is my earnings from selling the C. W. Marks articles—fifteen pounds. Less now, since purchasing the ticket on the
Seestern
.” She looked up at him then, her eyes a plea. “It should be enough for one person to get to Nuremberg, but not two. Indeed, I think you would be far more comfortable going home.”

Jason took her hand and removed it from his sleeve. She wore gloves, and he did not, but even through the kid, he could feel that smallest of zings. The kind he used to get as a child when he would rub his stockinged feet on carpet and then touch a door handle, giddily laughing the whole time.

“Given your language skills,” he said letting her hand go, “I think you will find that I will prove expedient for you, not a hindrance. And as for money . . .”

Jason reached into his pockets, felt around for a few moments, and came out with his gold and silver filigreed cardholder (absent, sadly, any calling cards).

“This should fetch us a few bob. This, too,” he said, pointing to the stickpin in his wilted and utterly deplorable cravat. His eyes fell on the ducal signet ring on his right hand. “Not this one, unfortunately. I would be disowned by future Dukes of Rayne if I hawked that.”

Miss Crane seemed to contemplate for a moment, her expression inscrutable.

“Let me do this,” he asked, seriously. Then with a slight smile, “I’ve come this far accidentally. Might as well complete the task on purpose.”

Perhaps the idea of embarking on an adventure alone was a frightening one. Perhaps she had come to the conclusion that his facility with the language would prove useful. But whatever the workings of that convoluted brain, the end result was a simple shrug.

“I suppose”—she sighed resignedly—“I cannot stop you from taking the same carriage to Nuremberg as I am.”

“I don’t suppose you can,” Jason agreed.

“Then perhaps it is best if we . . . find our coach?”

“My dear Miss Crane”—Jason smiled, teasingly—“that sounds suspiciously like permission to come along. How terribly nice to be needed.”

Her eyes flew immediately to his face, their hazel hue ablaze with feeling. “I don’t need you, Your Grace.” She straightened her shoulders. “I don’t need anyone.”

Jason flinched. Her vehemence was unexpected. She seemed to think so, too, because just as quickly as it had surfaced, it disappeared under a too-bright smile.

“Shall we go . . . and, er, find a pawnbroker?” She glanced at the card case in his hand.

“Yes,” he agreed, blinking back any surprise he might still have on his face. Then he took her hand. Impulsive of him, yes. But somehow his skin was curious in a way that his mind had not yet registered. It wondered if that electricity still existed from the merest, slightest touch. He took her hand and pulled her out of the noise and muck of the coaching yard. “And then we find our carriage, and then . . . the proof that you are C. W. Marks.”

Needless to say, at this point in the journey, some conversation was required.

The difficulty was, Winn had absolutely no idea what to say.

They had managed to find a merchant willing to trade the Duke’s insanely extravagant personal items for a ridiculously low sum. Winn had a feeling that had the cardholder and stickpin been sold for their actual value, they could have financed the entire trip to Nuremberg and perhaps a few weeks in Paris besides. But as it was, they received sufficient funds to purchase tickets on this public coach, which was headed directly to Nuremberg before it continued on to Munich, plus some little left over to cover His Grace’s accommodations on the journey—it would be a good two days before they reached their destination. Their coach was only half full, the only other occupant being the rotund German man who had nearly overset Jason earlier. Luckily, he seemed content to slumber through the journey.

Unluckily, he snored with a fierceness that rivaled any orchestra.

Winn snuck a peek at the small watch pinned to the breast of her brown woolen coat. Two days. Two days of a snoring German. Two days with Lord Jason Cummings, Duke of Rayne, staring back at her from the facing seat.

Winn did not know what to make of the man. She found herself believing his motive. After all, he had no personal care for her or her cause, he had no stake in seeing her succeed or fail. Unless, of course, he’d laid some wager on her in one of those gentlemen’s clubs, but somehow she could not think that he had. Not that he seemed a man above such gentlemanly pursuits as wagering on every little thing, but more . . . that he did not seem to care if she succeeded over much. So long as he did.

He had spent six days on a ship, ignoring her mightily, after all. His company now was insisted upon, duty bound.

Was she meant to say thank you to someone who was so dutiful? Was she meant to say thank you to someone whose presence was superfluous? Or, due to such superfluousness, was she meant to ignore him?

Even if his presence, dutiful and superfluous, was a curious comfort?

After all, no matter what he believed, she did not need him. True, her German was less than fluent, but she would have managed. Her funds were low, but her ingenuity never would be. She did not need him, and better still, for the first blissful time in her life, no one needed her.

But it was so ridiculously awkward! Up until now, they had either been in the company of Totty and George or he had been ignoring her on board the ship. This felt like the first time they were truly . . . together. Thus, Winn was completely at a loss to find some subject to talk about. Which was a shame, because . . . she thought, selfishly . . . she was on the adventure of her life. She wanted to enjoy it!

She snuck another peek at her watch. Only thirty seconds had passed. This was to be a long two days. Two days with Jason Cummings, Duke of Rayne, staring back at her from the facing seat. And two days of that smell.

Winn was not one of those delicate flowers who carried around a scented pouch to hold to her nose when she met people whose personal hygiene did not match her own. But for this one moment, God how she wished she was!

As she tried to breathe through her mouth, tried to position herself a mite closer to the window, tried to slide the curtain open just a hair more.

“You can say it you know,” the Duke drawled. “You’re not sneaky enough to be polite in this instance.”

“Your Grace, you smell something terrible,” she said in a great rush.

He laughed at that, throwing his head back and giving a bark of full-throated amusement. “God, I know. I’m beginning to repulse myself.” He rubbed a hand across his beard, which over the course of six days had come in thick, stubbly, and bright red. Another week and it would rival the most venerated of philosopher’s beards. Strangely, it defined his jaw in a surprisingly pleasing way. He could even be described as somewhat rakish . . . if he didn’t smell so bad, that is.

“I confess I could smell something in the coaching yard, but I could not account for it being you until . . .”

“You were forced into a confined space with me?”

“Exactly. It . . . it smells like fish, and . . . and something else I can’t quite—”

“That something else is bird.” Off her expression, he continued. “I was housed with Mrs. Schmidt’s menagerie.”

“I imagine the birds were quite taken with you, Your Grace, considering your fishlike scent.”

“You imagine correctly.” He shook his head. Then, eyeing the gentleman who snored indelicately next to him, he leaned forward and beckoned her to meet him. She did—holding her breath. “I think it best, if, considering our reduced circumstances, if you not address me as ‘Your Grace.’ ”

“Why?”

He hedged a moment, then said, “Because people—innkeepers, coachmen—tend to expect to put forth the best to the aristocracy, and hike up the rates accordingly. Something I learned when I took my grand tour.”

She considered him, pulling on her locket as she did so. Something she did when she was thinking over a problem, and a habit that had forced her to replace the chain twice in just the past year. “I thought that aristocrats never paid their bills.”