Raven's Ransom (17 page)

After a moment’s hesitation, however, she penned a quick note to him—no time to be squeamish about the niceties of imperious missives to unattached gentlemen—and sealed it with a determined fist. She signed it a simple “Miss Chartley,” for though Lord Rochester had made free with her name once before, she was not so lost to propriety as to presume on that previous familiarity. As it was, she was already beyond the bounds. She trusted the marquis would overlook the offense. She was very certain, somehow, that he would at least stand friend. Her heart fluttered for a moment, for she was beginning to doubt her instincts. Then she scolded herself for a fool and handed the letter up to the butler, who was hovering solicitously nearby.

“See to it, if you please, that all haste is made to the Marquis of Rochester. Wait for a reply. It may be that his lordship follows you out. If he does, obey him in all things, for he acts for me. Go now!” Primrose waved her hand. The butler did not mention that such tasks were for errand boys. He saw genuine distress in Primrose’s lovely eyes. Even her clipped tones and imperious commands spoke of an emergency, for in all things she was tranquil and courteous. He bowed, instead, and made haste to do her bidding.

Primrose took the steps two at a time and flung off her gown, which by good fortune was not one of those fashionable rigs with a thousand tiny fastenings at the back. Such was more Lily’s style. This morning gown of copper-colored organza was waisted high at the bust and required only a deft twist of satin and lace to loosen the overgarment. This was flung over Primrose’s head, the serviceable brown underskirt meeting the same fate in just seconds. Stripped to her shift, Primrose shivered slightly and knelt before an old chest that had not been opened in donkeys’ years, but which contained, she prayed, a jerkin and knee breeches and a crisp white shirt that was probably faded by now. In truth, she was right, for these were the playthings of her childhood and the boys’ garments had been used in all plays and pageants for time immemorial until they were pronounced young ladies.
Then
they had been told sternly to put away such unsuitable playthings and act fairy princesses and Gothic maidens if they still needed an outlet for youthful exuberance. Never as much fun, of course.

Now Primrose eyed the doublet doubtfully, for she had grown in places since she had last pushed her slender frame into the attire. She threw off her shift and firmly wriggled into the linen shirt. It fitted, but would not fool sharp eyes long. She dared not think of discovery, so she followed the shirt with the knee breeches and pulled on a pair of boots that were also tucked away neatly in the chest. Hopelessly in need of a shine, of course, and tight so they pinched—Primrose had not realized quite how much they’d all grown—but they’d serve.

Her copper curls glinted in the sunlight, and she eyed them with misgiving. Though cut short, the curls were altogether too feminine to be deceptive. She tucked them away under the brim of a beaver and hoped her disguise did not have to endure long. It would be sufficient, she thought, to pass unmolested through Bond Street, where she would need to take a couple of rights and a single left again into Upper Grosvenor. If she walked briskly—the chaise was too damnably identifiable—she should make it. Certainly, she had a greater chance of arriving undetected than if she walked unaccompanied through these streets as a woman. Even calling up a hackney cab as a young lady would be asking for too much trouble. Primrose was nothing, if not cautious, though her current actions seemed to belie this. She hesitated, a moment, over whether to tell Daisy her concerns.

No! Grandfather had all but said Daisy was to wed. By his demeanor and his description of her as an impudent hussy, she inferred that he
knew
she was planning to elope. Let Daisy have her happiness.

If she returned with Lily, there would be no cause for alarm. If she did not . . . Daisy must not be burdened with the knowledge. There would be time enough after. Let her enjoy, at least, her wedding vows free of frowns and sighs and lamentations. There would be enough of those after.

Primrose pulled herself up shortly. Nonsense! Like as not she was enacting a Cheltenham tragedy and Lily—naughty Lily had simply lost track of the time. Lord knows, Lord Barrymore was as handsome as the devil himself. If he was wooing her with soft words and whispers, hours might easily seem as minutes. Even now, she was probably eating cream puffs at Gunther’s and waving to all of her acquaintance.

Primrose prayed Standish was still on their track and had had the sense to remain entirely visible. The world would delight in an
on-dit
such as that. She grabbed a walking stick from the hall and hastened down the steps. If she was to save Lily—either from
her
folly or from Barrymore’s, there was no time to waste.

Daisy she left in the kitchens, merrily stilling cherry wine to her angel heart’s content. The bright-eyed minx’s thoughts were dreamy, romantic, and altogether far away as she tammied the precious mixture through cloth. Armand, Armand . . . she sighed the name out loud so two scullery maids, divining the improper direction of her thoughts, giggled. Daisy, dream Daisy, did not hear. She was engaged in the extraction of soothing sediment, quite unconscious that her most dear and sensible sister was embarking on an adventure all of her own.

Lord Rochester’s door was slightly ajar, for he was expecting Fothing, the jeweller, at any moment. When his butler coughed politely at the entrance, he laid down his papers and smiled. “Ah, I was expecting you. Will you seat the gentleman in the library? I shall be with him shortly.”

“My lord, it is not the jeweller who has called, but a linkboy sent round from Lord Raven. I have a missive directed to you. I believe there is some urgency attached to the matter, but like as not the linkboy was exaggerating.” The butler coughed uncertainly, for in truth he was not certain he had done the correct thing. No doubt the note would have kept.

To his relief, my lord did not seem angered by the interruption, rather he thanked him mildly and extended his hand. The butler delivered up the crisp, freshly sealed wafer and withdrew with a silence that owed as much to his station as to his shining, soft-heeled shoes.

Rochester ripped open the message with interest. A woman’s hand, he thought. This was confirmed on reading.

Miss Chartley. Lord Rochester did not stop to think
which
Miss Chartley was the author of this missive. Rather, his mind conjured up hideous visions of the only Miss Chartley he cared about being carried away by a golden-headed devil-like Barrymore. Gareth’s heart stopped. The blackguard! The viscount had warned him of his interest in Primrose, but he had taken no heed and left the matter too late. He would cut his heart out with a sword and throw it to the dogs. He would . . . but already Gareth had swung into action. He opened his mahogany drawer and took out a dueling pistol. Swords were very fine, but from a distance a shot was more effective.

If he had harmed a hair on Primrose’s head . . . he could not bear thinking of it. He did not waste time calling for a stable hand, but rather ran nimbly down to the stables himself. He would have chosen his black Arab, for that would have been swifter, but stopped a moment, and selected a well-sprung barouche. A closed carriage was what he needed, for he would return Primrose to her household with her reputation unstained if it was the last thing he did. Then he would secure a special license and marry her out of hand the very next day. Such assurances were necessary thoughts to him as he tapped on the coach door and gestured the horses to go faster. Sadly, for they were traversing down congested London streets, where cobbles, hacks, gigs, and hawkers all conspired against him, they could not put up any more of a spanking pace than they already were setting.

Primrose, hurrying down Bond Street and Burlington, caught a whisper of his carriage wheels as he made a turn. She did not know for certain they were his, though, so she carried on quickly, her feet making greater progress than the carriage, for she had the advantage of nimbleness of gait and the ability to duck through crowds.

“Hoy there!”

Primrose did not stop, but her heart beat a little faster. There was a small crowd of street urchins across the way. She hoped they would let her pass in peace.

“Penny for the crossing.” Ridiculous! One did not have to part with a penny to cross a simple road in broad daylight! It was not as if they were street sweepers or linkboys. She pressed on, her heart beating faster yet. The boys, sensing easy game, tagged her and set up a chorus of cant words that she took as menacing, though she understood nothing of the sense. If she had a penny, she would have gladly parted with it, for she had no desire for trouble and every need of speed.

Sadly, of course, she did not. Her golden guineas—Lord Raven was shockingly extravagant with her pin money—were all safe in her reticule at home. There was nothing, now, to placate the growing mob of dirty-faced brats other than courage and cool resourcefulness. She doubled her hands into fists, turned, a little, so they stopped dead in their tracks, waved her fists threateningly in the air, and hoped for a miracle. None occurred, of course, so she took advantage of their first surprise by darting off the paving and into the road.

She stumbled, a little, for she could not help looking back as she made her move, and was sent sprawling headlong into the street. The crowd would have followed her but for the crunching of wheels against cobbles and the urgent whinnying of horses but a fraction above her head. Then there was the thud of metal and a splintering of glass before Primrose could look up and take full measure of what she had done. A gentleman dismounted—she could tell that from the sleek lines of his coat and the gleam of hessians on cobbles—before she was hauled up from the ground in an unceremonious tug that left her gasping. She gasped all the more when she realized that her tormentor was Lord Rochester, and that he had her in a steely grip by the scruff of her neck.

“What is the meaning of this, whelp! I could have run you over under my wheels! You are not hurt, I take it?”

Primrose shook her head, but her throat was too dry to talk. The crowd was larger, now, but she no longer worried about the street urchins. There was a man behind Rochester who looked angrier even than my lord. “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer honor! The varmint shall be made to pay. My cart collided with your chaise when it halted and just look at the damage! A right whipping he shall have, pleasin’ yer honor and that I vouch for!” He glared at Primrose, who stiffened under his gaze. “You shall not stand for a week when I have done, you careless whelp! Why, the veriest simpleton knows to stand clear of traffic. I shall have your hide, me lad, you see if I don’t!”

Lord Rochester glanced impatiently at the crowd and at the boy before him. He was shivering in his scanty clothes and though my lord’s fury was unabated, he had it in his heart to be merciful. There was something in the boy’s bearing that spoke of pride. Mindful of the time, he froze the gentleman’s bluster with a simple stare.

“Your gig collided into mine. I believe it is
I
who must demand compensation in this matter.”

The man glowered. “Pleasin’ yer honor, if yer had not stopped for this varmint I would not have collided into your rig! See, my windows are smashed and the axle ...”

“Confound your axle. Will a sovereign fix your axle?” The man’s eyes grew cunning. “Then there are the windows . . .”

“Two sovereigns, then, and I will hear nothing more about the matter.” The marquis withdrew the promised coins and handed them over without a thought.

“My lord, the boy needs to be punished. I will see to his whipping . . .”

“Lord, man, have I not said there is an end to it?” My lord’s customarily mild tones took on an edge.

When the man still seemed undecided, not used to being bested, but unaccustomed to traffic with the gentry, my lord waved his hand irritably.

“If it soothes your nerves
I
will see to the boy’s punishment. I believe he will not again err in this matter.” Rochester’s tone was suddenly grim enough for Primrose to take fright. She moved a little under his firm grip, but was crushed to find that his fingers tightened, silently, at the gesture.

The man hovered on the brink of indecision. He handled his coins and eyed the marquis assessingly. Despite a careless demeanor, my lord had the boy in a vicelike grip and his sinewy muscles were not disguised by the absurdly tight fit of his cloth. It was just possible, he supposed, that the gentleman could give a beating that matched the one Josiah Hadley had meant to mete out. Indeed, it might go worse for the boy, for my lord had chipped his paintwork besides losing two sovereign into the bargain.

There was no doubt, Josiah thought, about the strength of his jaw or the meaning behind the tight ridges across the expanse of his chest. They spoke of a masculine power that boded ill for a boy about to take a thrashing. The man nodded briskly, cast a last, disdainful glance at the varmint, and turned an inquiring eye again, on Rochester.

“Go! You have my word on it.”

Josiah Hadley pocketed his coins and waved away the throng of onlookers. His pride was satisfied, for there was something in my lord’s bearing that made him take him at his word. He unhitched his team and set about moving the cart off the road. Primrose was inclined to take her chances and run, for she did not quite like the firm set of my lord’s chin or the unrelenting grip he had of her collar. His fingers brushed against her neck and felt warm, and unbearably masculine. She wondered if he would carry out his threat and thought, with horror, that he just might. She flexed her body, slightly, but it was as if my lord had a second sense. His grip tightened though his tone remained neutral as he ordered her into the chaise.

Miss Chartley was about to argue but she caught sight of her tormentors in the distance and thought the better of it. Without a word she climbed up the boards into the familiar barouche—painted, as she saw by day, a bright royal blue.

The doors closed almost before she was achingly aware of his form against the squabs. He hardly glanced at her as he called an order out to his coachman and consulted his fob.

“Hurry, man! We cannot afford any further delays.” The coachman nodded and soon the well-sprung chaise was away from the hustle of Burlington Street. Primrose closed her eyes and thought furiously. Rochester obviously had given her no second thought. If he’d recognized her, he would surely have held her more tenderly, would not have suffered her to fear for her very life, though in truth he had probably saved just that. If she revealed herself to him now, in all her town grime, he might take her in disgust, for she was very far from the belle of Almack’s. She was caught now, in even more of a compromising position than she had then.
Then
climbing into the marquis’s chaise had been an unwitting mistake.
This
exploit was willful folly.

 

 

She bit her lip and held her peace, praying the good marquis was too caught up in his errand to take much note of a street urchin.

He was, for even now they were turning into my Lord Barrymore’s street at a spanking pace. Rochester addressed her sternly, and the set of his chin sent a brief shiver down Primrose’s spine that was not altogether fear.

“Stay here, whelp! I shall deal with you shortly. And be very sure that if you escape it will be at your peril.”

Primrose nodded, eyelashes downcast, for she did not think she could look Rochester boldly in the face when she was so enmeshed in deceit. Besides, though it had been dark when they had last encountered each other, there was still a chance he might recognize her.

He nodded, a brief glimmer of light behind his alert, dark eyes, then he descended the chaise with an instruction to his coachman. Primrose thought it was an age that she waited. She told herself sternly that nothing else mattered but that Lily was safe. She was on the shelf anyway; it was Lily’s reputation that must be preserved at all costs.

Part of her—a little part—smiled at how impetuously Rochester had responded to her summons. She could not have asked more of him were it her own self that had needed saving.

His face, when he returned, was bleak, and his tone curt as he ordered the horses to commence to a posting station not twelve miles from the city. Primrose gasped, for she had not anticipated this, and she must surely be ruined if ever she survived the ordeal. She bit her lip and endeavored not to capture his attention. My lord spoke quickly to his coachman and she strained to hear the conversation.

“The servants within swear my lord Barrymore was not provisioned for a trip to Gretna.”

“The cur, for it was then not marriage on his mind, but a villainy far greater. Did they say where he might be headed?”

“Dorchester? Then onward, for there is no time to spare.”

Primrose could not hear further, for the wind caught her at a disadvantage. My lord must have had a better idea of what he was at, though, for he nodded briskly and ordered that all speed be made to a certain posting station some twelve miles northeast of the city. Primrose clenched her fingers tightly as orders swirled above her head.

“Be swift, mind, and have a care to the horses. It shall not do us any good if they are winded and it is a few hours still till nightfall.”

A few hours. Surely Barrymore would not be so dishonorable as to ruin Lily in broad daylight? But if he were pressed for funds, he might be driven by desperation. Primrose shivered. How could she have so blithely judged him to be of good character? Rochester was right. She was not suited to be a chaperone. It was her laxity that had permitted Barrymore to take Lily up in his chaise. If she had denied him, Lily would even now be nibbling on marzipan at Raven Place and contemplating
Daisy’s
romance with youthful sighs. She looked out the window and was hardly aware of a tear that rolled out of her slate gray eyes, dampening the muddy shirt points that Rochester had so recently laid hands upon.

My lord, lost in his own thoughts, did not notice either. When she sniffed, however, he found himself regarding the ill-favored varmint with mild interest.

“Do not weep. Though you shall undoubtedly be punished, as I have promised, it shall not go as ill with you as had master
Hadley
had the mastery of you.”

Primrose startled. She had not thought to address him this trip. Indeed, she dared not, for if she spoke he would know at once that her speech was not lowly enough to be that of a street child. So she folded her arms and glared at him defiantly, an act that had my lord Rochester’s lips twitching, for in truth he could sympathize with the errant lad. Time enough
he
had been up to mischief and awaiting discipline from my lord Hereford, the marquis before him.