Malia Martin (32 page)

She expected the man to keep going, seeing how most people treated the lowly working class, but he stooped down to help her, offering a hand encased in a fine kid the color of fresh petunias.

Prudence blinked from the strange-colored gloves, up a brocade sleeve, and into the very green eyes of Lord Leighton. With a wince, she glanced quickly down at her aproned lap.

“Mrs. Ashley, I presume,” he said.

He had recognized her. How would she ever explain this small caper? Wracking her brains for a plausible excuse, Prudence put her hand into Leighton’s and allowed the man to help her up out of the filthy gutter.

She wished, at least, that she had fallen onto the relatively clean walkway. But now on top of looking like a scullery maid, Pru smelled very much like a necessary. Lovely.

Lord Leighton frowned down at her, then glanced up at his grandfather’s house not far from where they stood. “I hope your husband did not take you too much to task for the other evening?” he asked.

“Oh no,” Prudence replied, thinking it rather ludicrous that they speak to each other as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. “I presume Captain Ashley believes I was indulging my rebellious spirit. He is not threatened by you.”

Leighton laughed knowingly. “I’m not surprised, dear. Still, I am glad he did not do anything terrible to you.”

The viscount frowned down at her. “But, of course, now I must ask you about this lovely dress?”

Pru gave a tiny thought to just sprinting off and leaving the viscount behind her, but she knew that it would not solve anything.

And she certainly would have to engage the man in conversation at some point.

“I was …” She stopped and wracked her brain for a reply. “Well, this is a disguise, actually and, I …”

“Was ingratiating yourself with my grandfather’s servants in the hopes of learning more of Mr. Watson.”

Prudence actually smiled. “Yes, exactly.”

He nodded. “Terribly innovative of you, Mrs. Ashley.”

“I do try.”

“Yes, you do. So, have you uncovered the grisly truth?”

“I know that your grandfather is Mr. Watson.”

Leighton nodded, placed his hand on her back and guided her into the shadows of the town house beside them. “Smart woman, Mrs. Ashley,” he said.

Smart enough to know that she might be in danger. Pru glanced up the street, and then back at Leighton.

He chuckled. “I am not going to hurt you. I could care less that you have found out the truth.”

“So you just do your grandfather’s dirty work?” she asked.

“I try, actually, not to do much at all. Wimsley does nearly all of it. He just uses me to scream at when things go wrong, and he asked me to find out what happened with the last shipment that never arrived.”

“Right. That would be the one that James found and turned over to the magistrate in Rye.”

“Ah.”

Pru stared up at Leighton, still unsure that she could trust the man.

“This is not the best place to discuss such matters.”

With a glance down at her attire, Prudence nodded in agreement. “No,” she said. “Not very discreet, anyway.”

“Shall we make another attempt at meeting?” he asked.

“I will be in the park with my groom this afternoon and shall foolishly leave my bonnet at home,” she decided quickly. “When he goes back to fetch it for me, I could slip away.”

“We should avoid the route du roi,” he said.

“Oh yes, Rotten Row is not a good idea, either.”

Leighton tapped one thin white finger against his chin, and said, “Perhaps we should enjoy Kensington Park?”

“Roger’s Seat?” she asked.

“Perfect.”

“Roger’s Seat, then, four o’clock.”

“I shall await the moment with excitement,” Leighton effused. “Your beauty makes even the shortest of times apart difficult to endure, dearest Mrs. Ashley. I begin to believe that you are my muse. Surely, with the thought of our meeting in our future, I will pen a great masterpiece this very day.”

Prudence snorted.

“My poetry falls on deaf ears. Well, then, until we meet again.” And with a tip of his hat, Leighton strode off toward the front door of his grandfather’s mansion.

R
ichard decided to skip his meeting with Wimsley. The old man would definitely have quite a fit, for he was expecting his grandson at noon. Such an ungodly hour, anyway.

Instead, Richard turned at the end of the street, waited for a moment watching the lusciously curved Mrs. Ashley scurry away in her maid’s disguise, and crossed over toward his very favorite coffeehouse.

Once settled, Richard contemplated his situation. There were only a couple of reasons why he continued to indulge his grandfather’s insistence that they see each other at all.

Foremost, there was Richard’s rather sophomoric need to retain a link to his only living relative. But Richard had admitted early to himself that his childhood had made him quite maudlin and so desperately in need of family ties that it could someday be detrimental to his sanity.

But, again, since he fully understood this, he was very sure he could sidestep the problem of turning into a Bedlamite like his grandfather.

The second, and decidedly less important reason he made even the smallest attempt to stay in his grandfather’s good graces was the same reason almost every young man of society did anything.

Money.

Of course, this reason had become less and less important as the years went by. He adored beautiful things, and surrounded himself with lush belongings as well as dressed himself immaculately, but he always lived within his means. And he invested wisely.

His personal fortune was nothing to sneer at. But, of course, it would not hurt at all to have his grandfather’s inheritance.

Anyway, he did admit to a personal attachment to the home he had grown up in. The place just north of Yorkshire was not entailed with the earldom and therefore could be given to absolutely anyone who took his grandfather’s fancy.

Not that any person of the human race had ever taken his grandfather’s fancy, but Richard rather hoped Wimsley would decide to deed over Leighton Abbey to his grandson.

This hope tended to make it important to keep appointments Richard made with his grandfather. But today, even Leighton Abbey could not make him face his grandfather’s hysterics.

Richard checked through the windows of the coffeehouse for anyone of interest before pushing through the doors and choosing a table that would afford him a perfect view of the street. He ordered a scone with clotted cream, a lovely indulgence that made even the worst day so much better, and a strong coffee.

Good, good, good.

All he needed now was
Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers
, and he would have heaven on earth. Unfortunately, he did not have the paper, so, ignoring the disgusted looks from other patrons, Richard settled back and propped his favorite Hessians on the chair opposite him.

He needed to think.

James watched his wife climb through her sitting-room window. She hefted her slight frame through on her strong arms, then swung over a very lovely leg. A bit of scooting and grunting, and she had her other leg through and was standing triumphantly inside her apartments.

“Hello, dear.”

Prudence screamed.

James pushed himself away from the corner he had been inhabiting and came forward. He had assumed the disciplinary face that he used on errant seamen. But his heart thumped away painfully in his chest.

It hurt him that his wife defied him, and it scared him that it hurt.

“James,” Prudence breathed, one hand pressed to her breast.

“Lovely cap, dearest,” he said, noting the disguise. She must have been doing something that involved Gravesly and smuggling. It hurt, damn it.

“You have now managed to take another ten years from my life, sir. At this rate I shall die yesterday.”

“Hmmm. Well, I must tell you, Prudence, I came to your rooms this morning to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“I am sorry that I hurt your feelings last night.”

Pru blinked, then she shrank down into a chair, her hands in her lap, her head bowed.

James watched her silently as neither said anything for a good five minutes.

“I think I deserve to know exactly what you were doing today, Prudence,” he said finally.

She shrugged, looking very small suddenly. “I had an idea last night, and I was going to send Clifton to explore it, but you have sent him away.”

“And your idea?”

Prudence sat up straight and looked at him. He could see that she had gotten over feeling bad and was now going to berate him or let him know how shallow he was or something along those lines. James sighed.

“The people of Gravesly …”

James did not let her continue. He took the space between them in two large strides, grabbed both her arms, and pulled her to her feet.

“Damn the people of Gravesly, Pru. You defy me, you lie, you continue in illegal activities. Can’t you see how serious this is?”

Her eyes darkened, and he could see that she was getting ready to lecture. It was amazing how well he knew this woman already. James leaned down and kissed her before she could say a word.

He felt her resist for a moment, then kiss him back as if the world around them did not exist.

James broke the kiss with a sigh, let go of his wife, and walked away from her. “I want you to stop this, Prudence. And it is not just my shallow character that says that.” He turned back to stare at her. “You are not in Gravesly anymore, Prudence. If the authorities were to learn of your activities, you could be hanged.”

She swallowed audibly. “Are you worried about me, James? Or are you worried of the beating your reputation would take if your wife was forced to stand trial?”

He did not answer her. He would not. “Does it matter?” he asked finally.

She lifted her brows and shrugged. “I guess not.” Prudence sat again, only this time, she kept her shoulders straight and her eyes on him.

“Tell me, James, about your mother.”

“Excuse me?”

“James,” Prudence said slowly, “I want to tell you something I heard today from a servant in the home of the earl of Wimsley.”

Why on earth had his wife been speaking to a servant of Wimsley’s?

“There is a story that his second son went away to India and never came back. Instead, a young woman showed up saying that the son was dead and she was his wife and carried his child. But the earl sent her away.”

James did not want to think of it. “I am sure that happened to a number of women.”

His wife nodded and looked up into his eyes. “Yes, I am sure it did,” she said.

James turned away abruptly. He needed to move. He needed to get out of this room, out of this house. He strode toward the door and wrapped his fingers around the handle.

“Men,” his wife said, with a sniff of disgust.

James did not want to listen to her anymore. She opened dark rooms in his mind better left closed. He turned the doorknob.

“You are all so afraid of being afraid, you can barely function, really.”

Out, he needed out.

“James, stop.”

And he did. He dropped his hand to his side and turned around.

Prudence had her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, and was looking at him with a gaze that made him suddenly think of his mother: the only person in the whole world who had ever loved him.

James felt suddenly as if he could not breathe.

“You want to know who your father is, but you dare not look for him for fear you’ll be rejected again. So you have decided to live your life as one worthy of a father and wait for him to find you.”

James stood as still as he could as the truth he had never even articulated to himself washed through his mind, through his body. “Yes,” he finally said.

Prudence shook her head. “
He
is not worthy of
you
, James.” She stood up, walked over to him, put her arms around his waist, and rested her head against his chest.