Patricia Rice (22 page)

Morgan didn’t like it. His instincts were to keep
her hidden, but he had promised Faith to find her a position, and
Whitehead had the only establishment within miles. Perhaps he could hide
her right beneath the nose of the runners. That audacious ploy had
worked well enough for him in the past.

“The fellow’s a fool, Nate, but you’re not. Faith
never hurt a tadpole, but there’s those who would see her disappear
forever. Now, I can’t be looking after her all the time, but if we all
watch for each other as we do, we can keep her and ourselves safe too.
She’s gentry, Nate, and she knows nothing of our ways. I’ll not be
teaching her, but she has it in her that she wants honest employment.”

Nate smirked. “Since when is being your doxy not
enough, Jack? There’s more than enough willing to take her place if you
want to be rid of her.”

Morgan scowled. “I’m keeping her, Nate, and one more
remark like that will see your foul tongue on the floor. This place
stinks, Nate. Even the food stinks. The vermin are the only inhabitants
you’ll have if you don’t clean up. I’ve heard tell the London coach may
start putting over at the Stag down the line. I know how to encourage
them in that direction, if you catch my meaning.”

The smirk disappeared from the innkeeper’s face.
“What are you asking, Jack? You want your fancy miss to stay here? I
can’t be scouring the floors for the likes of her.”

Morgan smiled benevolently. “You’re a lucky man,
Nate. I’ve found the perfect remedy for your filthy reputation. Her name
is...” He hesitated and thought a moment. “Alice. Alice Henwood. She
can cook and clean and keep books better than you’ve ever known. She’ll
only work mornings, and she’s shy and doesn’t like to be seen by
strangers, but she’ll have this place looking like a posh London hotel
before you know it.”

Nate understood. Gulping, he considered the
alternatives and found there weren’t any. He could hide the chit and
have the place cleaned as the lazy slut Molly never did, or he could
have a highwayman posted at his front door, ruining his business. Nate
wasn’t particularly intelligent, but even he understood the advantages
of doing Jack’s bidding.

He nodded. “Been thinking of hiring a new girl. I’ll give ’er a try. Just mornings, you say?”

“When there’s the least number here,” Jack agreed,
“after the first coach leaves and before the next.” He shoved his hands
in his pockets with satisfaction at a job well done.

And so Alice Henwood was created and employed.

June 1751

Faith tasted the fruit tart, ordered a little sugar
to be added to the cream when served, then, leaving the steaming
kitchen, started up the back stairs to the bedchambers.

The unusual late-June heat had built up to
uncomfortable proportions, and the stifling air struck her with a wave
of dizziness. Faith gripped the stair rail until she felt she couldn’t
balance any longer, then sat down abruptly on the landing to steady her
swaying head.

Mrs. Whitehead would have changed the linens by now,
but Faith doubted Molly had carried the dirty laundry out to the
buckets of wash being prepared in the yard. It had taken Faith nearly
two entire months to persuade the innkeeper to take on the expense of
hiring village girls to come in and do the extensive laundry at least
twice a week. Only because Faith’s other suggestions had attracted the
kind of clientele willing to pay higher rates did Whitehead finally
acquiesce to this expense. She had to make it successful or he would go
back to his usual slovenly ways.

But the dizziness lingered and she feared to stand
up. To Faith’s annoyance, Molly took this moment to pull her bulky body
up the stairs. Her bloated features took on a sardonic cast at finding
Miss Aristocrat sitting down on the job. “Not feelin’ the heat, are ye?”
she gloated, noting the Faith’s paleness. “Maybe somethin’ else’s
caught ye. I’m just waitin’ to see what Miss Hoity-Toity looks like when
she’s all swelled up with Black Jack’s brat. Then mayhap you’ll know
what it’s like.”

Molly had become more impossible than usual since
her pregnancy had become obvious, and Faith ignored her taunts. “Mr.
Whitehead said you could work as long as you felt up to it, Molly. But
if the heat’s bothering you, I’ll take care of the laundry while you lie
down awhile. Jack’s gone to London and I don’t expect him back soon.”

Instead of looking relieved, Molly’s expression
darkened. “Just because they hired a new girl for the taproom don’t mean
you can lord it over me, you slut. You ain’t no better than me any day,
and when my baby’s father gets back from sea, he’ll make an honest
woman of me, and that’s more than you can say.”

Faith gave up. Molly’s bile spewed nastier every
day. It was doubtful if she knew the father of her child, and even if
she did, it was even more doubtful if he intended to return. Ever since
her tips had started falling off in the taproom and she’d found fewer
men willing to dally with her because of her size and condition, Molly
had grown more spiteful. Faith had tried being nice, tried speaking up
for herself, and had even once threatened the maid with a frying pan.
Trial and error had taught her that ignoring the nastiness was the best
solution.

When Molly received no response, she stomped off in a
huff, leaving Faith blessedly alone. The dizziness had passed, but
Molly’s bile had left its mark. Until this day, Faith had never
questioned the origins of babies. They were simply a fact of life, like
leaves on trees and snow in winter. But Molly’s obvious pregnancy and
the knowledge of her trade clicked together at last, and other pieces
began to fall in place.

Faith had never thought of loose women like Molly
getting pregnant. They didn’t have husbands, so they shouldn’t have
babies. But that logic failed when carried a little further. Animals
didn’t marry, but they had babies. The fact that Morgan had announced
last night that Annette was in foal now took on new significance.
Annette had been the mare Faith had witnessed Morgan’s stallion covering
just days before Morgan first took her to his bed.

Faith’s cheeks began to burn as the sums began to
add up. The barn was swarming with new kittens. The first crop of
chickens were fast becoming hens and roosters and there was another
flock of fuzzy yellow balls in the stall. One foal already frolicked in
the paddock, and another was on its way. The baby growing inside Molly
was plain to see, and there could only be one way she could come by
it—the same way the animals came by theirs. The same way Faith and
Morgan shared every night.

It wouldn’t do to think about it. She knew very
little of babies. Her mother had never allowed her to attend a birthing.
She had held a few infants upon occasion, but they had been alien
creatures of little interest. Faith couldn’t imagine what one did with
one, but she supposed she would find out when Molly had hers. That would
be soon enough.

Rising from the stairs, Faith stopped to hold a hand to her flat abdomen. It couldn’t be possible.

But as she trudged up the stairs to haul down the
laundry, she knew it could. Morgan was as virile as any stallion. It was
just a matter of time. How did one know when a baby started? The whole
premise sounded vaguely improbable.

***

Morgan carefully checked the valuable documents in
his coat pocket. The trunk with George Montague’s papers had arrived
with perfect timing. While Faith pored and cooed over musty tomes on
religion and a spider-scrawled sheaf of vellum, he had carefully sorted
out the ones that counted. He had it all in writing now, in legally
witnessed formal documents suitable for any court of British law.

One George Henry Montague, second son to Henry,
Marquess of Mountjoy, wed to Leticia Carlisle, only daughter of the Earl
of Carlisle, parents of one Faith Henrietta Montague. Holy Mary, Mother
of Jesus, but a marquess and an earl!

Faith was a scion of British society, the
creme de la creme.
And she was working as cook and housekeeper in one of England’s less savory wayside inns. And sleeping with a highwayman.

Morgan’s glee would have been greater had she been
anyone but Faith. As it was, he was having a hard time reconciling the
downfall of two great Sassenach houses with his need to protect his
innocent faerie.

Still, he would do it. Morgan watched in
satisfaction as his man of business entered the coffeehouse and looked
around. His plans were made. He had only to see them out.

The man spotted him and strode forward, hat in hand.
He looked perfectly respectable in this meeting place of gentlemen,
just as Morgan did. To all outer appearances, they were two gentlemen
engaged in a spot of business—nothing tawdry like trade, but perchance a
real-estate exchange or fund investment.

Morgan smiled at the image as Miles Golden took the
seat across from him. Wouldn’t their fellow coffee drinkers be stunned
to know they dined in the company of an Irish papist highwayman and the
son of a Jewish bastard?

Miles frowned at his client’s smile. “I think someone was trying to follow me.”

“You lost them, I trust?” The news didn’t surprise
Morgan so much as cause him to give his enemies a little more respect.
He hadn’t thought the Sassenach rogue to be so clever.

“I hope so. I know these alleys as well as anyone.
The money’s there. I’ve brought a list of instructions on how your ward
is to claim it.”

Morgan hadn’t thought it would be quite so easy. He
had hoped to return to Montague House for a little more arm- twisting.
But for Faith’s sake, he was happy he had secured some form of safety
for her. He handed the sheaf of documents to Golden.

“Here’s all the proof that should be necessary. You’re holding the girl’s life there, Miles. See that you take care of it.”

Miles scanned the documents, raised his eyebrows,
and neatly tucked each one in a different pocket. “I’ll have copies
made, witnesses confirm the originals, and register them. Then I’ll
return them to you. These are more than adequate to meet their demands.
Unfortunately, if they’ve hired someone at the bank to follow any
claimant to the trust, she’ll be in jeopardy the instant she comes to
claim it.”

Miles was clever. He had already surmised the
circumstances. Morgan nodded in agreement. “You’ll have to act as
go-between, Golden. Once Faith’s authenticity is established, it might
be necessary to transfer the entire trust elsewhere. I’ll tell her your
name, and not the bank’s. Should anything happen to me, she’ll be in
your hands. I trust you have adequate protection and someone you can
rely on in the event of your unanticipated demise.”

Miles grimaced, an expression that came naturally to
his long, bony face. “If you weren’t such a damned good client, I’d
tell you to go to hell. But to answer your question, I’m protected, and I
have eight brothers, four uncles, and a squadron of cousins who can
step into my shoes at any time. She’ll be safe.”

“You’ll own London by the turn of the century.” Morgan grinned. “Do you intend to enjoy yourself before you’re eighty?”

Stiffly the solicitor rose. “Indeed I do. She’s
eighteen, with hair as gold as her father’s pockets. I have none of the
aristocracy’s prejudice against trade.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair and held out his
hand. “Neither have I, my friend. We’ll meet over dinner when we’re rich
and living in St. James’s. We can compare our respective choices then.”

Miles took his hand firmly. “You’d best marry her, then,” he answered in farewell.

Sipping his coffee, Morgan watched the solicitor
weave his way through the tables. Marriage sounded good to him, but he
was growing more and more uncertain of its advantages for Faith. The
granddaughter of an earl and a marquess. It was preposterous. How could
the bloody thick-headed Sassenachs produce a brilliant gem like his
little Methodist? It didn’t bear thinking on.

Out of curiosity, on his way home Morgan took a
detour to the Montague mansion. Staying out of sight in an alley between
two houses, he watched a sedan chair arrive and waited to see the
occupant. Were he at all familiar with family crests and livery, he
might identify the sedan’s owner from the servants’ garb, but he was
not.

So he watched with curiosity as an elderly lady was
helped from the chair by one of her footmen. She was so tiny as to be
almost doll-like in size, but her back was as stiff and straight as any
martinet’s. A frilled cap covered her hair and lapped over her cheeks,
hiding what little he could see of her face, but it wasn’t the face he
noticed. It was her carriage, the posture, the grace, and above all, the
daintiness. By the time the woman was taken into the Montague home,
Morgan had no doubt that he’d just seen Faith’s grandmother.

Somehow, he had never pictured a grandmother in his
scheme to destroy the Sassenachs. All he knew of the Montague family was
the scheming, devious bastard who had tried to deny Faith’s existence.
It had been easy envisioning rubbing the heir’s face in the mud, or the
faces of any of the other self-righteous criminals who had left Faith to
starve. But a grandmother?

Thoughtfully Morgan reared his stallion in the other
direction. He had a healthy respect for women. Would a grandmother
leave her grandchild to starve?

It sat uneasy on his mind all the way home.

***

Faith coaxed the colt to the fence with a baby
carrot from her garden. The treat was barely more than a nibble, but the
young animal took it eagerly, allowing her to pet him for just a second
before he gamboled off after a butterfly.

She watched the patient mare as she chewed at the
thick turf, undisturbed, even when the colt came skidding up to grab a
teat for a drink. The sight of the foal nursing at his mother’s side
stirred odd feelings in her own breasts.