The Secret Life of Miss Anna Marsh (9 page)

He drove home wondering what Anna would do if he rode up dressed in a suit of armor and laughed ruefully. On one hand, they were getting along quite well. On the other, they were at a standstill. She frustrated every move he made to turn their friendship into more. He needed help and wished he had someone to talk to.

He'd received another note today. There was a delivery tonight. Another area in which he was making no progress.

Once again, he waited in the copse and watched as the small man monitored the beach and left. Rutherford decided to go to the cottage and look around, but saw nothing more than closed shutters and a little smoke coming up from the fireplace. Even in the dark, the yard appeared well tended. Apparently, Sir William had rented it to someone. Whoever was in there was probably in bed and asleep.

Rutherford rode back toward the Priory. If he didn't receive an invitation to meet the smuggler's leader soon, he'd introduce himself.

Harry woke gasping for breath. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead. He tossed and turned before finally settling, only to have more visions. This time of the girl, his sister, riding a large gray horse to a cottage.

He rubbed his face. There was so much he didn't remember. Perhaps that was the reason he clung to his memories of Marcella and the things he knew.

Unable to sleep any longer, Harry repacked his few belongings, before making his way to the taproom for breakfast. He took a seat at a corner table with a view of the stairs and the inn's yard. Not knowing what lay ahead, it was difficult to think beyond the day's journey. Tonight, he'd be at the Crown in Basingstoke.

About a half hour later, Miss Spencer-Jones emerged from the stairwell. She glanced at him and nodded without smiling, then left the inn with her companion. For some contrary reason, and even though he didn't feel like returning the gesture, Harry had wanted her to smile at him. He'd even begun to hope she'd be in Basingstoke as well. He gave himself a shake. There were more things to worry about than silken, gold curls and bright turquoise eyes. He paid his shot and was soon back on the post road. At least the ride gave him time to think.

 

Wrapped warmly in a sable-lined cloak with a fur rug over her lap and a hot brick under her feet, Emma leaned back against the squabs. She'd seen poor Mr. Marsh when she'd first come down the steps, his head in his hands. He looked weary, as if he was carrying a great burden. He must have loved his wife very much to still be so affected by her death.

Emma hoped he'd talk to her, but after her reaction last night, perhaps she should keep her distance. It wouldn't do any good to develop feelings for a man so in love with someone else. Even if the other woman was no longer alive. She wondered if he'd be in Basingstoke this evening and, if so, whether he'd be at the Crown.

She glanced up. Mrs. Wickham was chattering again. Actually, “again” was not accurate. The woman never stopped.

“My dear Miss Spencer-Jones, I've addressed you at least four times. You must be blue deviled. Are you still upset about leaving the West Indies? You shouldn't be, my dear. Truly, you will find England, and London in particular, most superior to anything you could find in the islands. Why, the shops on Bond and Bruton Streets are the envy of the world, and with your dear godmama bringing you out, well, I don't need to tell you how fortunate you are. I never had a Season. Dear me, no. My papa said it would be a waste of money since I was already promised to my dear Mr. Wickham.”

A pained look passed briefly across her face. “So improvident. But there, I shan't refine too much on it. I have enough for my needs, and my sister is positively overjoyed that I'm finally coming home. . . .”

Emma nodded and made the appropriate sounds. She didn't need to worry about making conversation. Mrs. Wickham was capable of carrying on a perfectly good discussion with herself. It was fortunate Emma was not susceptible to headaches, because she would surely have one by now if she were.

She closed her eyes and allowed the coach's movement to rock her. Maybe Mrs. Wickham would stop talking if she thought Emma was asleep. Not many more days now before they'd go their separate ways. Her mother had only paid for Mrs. Wickham to stay with her until her godmother met her at Grillon's Hotel in London.

“. . . and won't you be so happy—Oh, are you asleep? Well, isn't it just like these young people these days. . . .”

Emma turned to snuggle in next to the side of the coach and hid a smile. Mrs. Wickham was still talking when the coach lurched to a stop, sending Emma sprawling off the seat. “What the dev—I mean whatever could it be?”

She knocked on the roof to get the coachman's attention. “Where are we?”

“We've just passed Winchester, miss.”

Emma frowned. “Why have we stopped?”

“There's a wagon across the road.”

“What sort of—Never mind.” Emma pulled the window down and stuck her head out. “I can't see much from here. I'm coming out.”

“No, miss, it may be a trap,” the coachman said, too late. She'd already jumped lightly down from the conveyance and was walking toward the front. Two men emerged from the wood on one side of the road.

“Well, well, if it isn't Miss Spencer-Jones.”

This was outside of enough. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? She turned and allowed her irritation to show. “Mr. Reynolds,
what
a surprise. I suppose you are responsible for this conveyance?”

“What a clever young lady you are.” He leered at her. “Now, if you will please get in the cart, we may be on our way.”

She tightened her lips. “Mr. Reynolds, I have no intention of going anywhere with you.”

He smiled humorlessly. “Oh, but you will, my dear. Otherwise my friend here will shoot your coachman. You wouldn't want to be responsible for his death, would you?”

Emma was in no mood to put up with this. She smiled sweetly. “But Mr. Reynolds, I would not be the one responsible, you would.”

He scowled. “Get in the wagon.”

She quickly slanted her eyes at the coachman, who gave an imperceptible shake of his head. One hand was in sight, the other hidden.

“I have a better idea,” she said. “Why don't you move the conveyance that you so unhelpfully left in the road, and I'll be on my way?”

“Hey there, you trying to bubble me?” Mr. Reynolds's accomplice asked. “Thought you said this bleached mort would be an easy mark. This here's a busy highway, and I ain't standing around all day. We'll be blocked at both ends. I ain't a badger, you see. I'm a rum diver. That wern't part of the deal. You just give me my balsam, and I'll be off.”

Emma listened, fascinated by the man's speech. A piercing scream emanated from the coach. Mrs. Wickham had apparently stopped talking to herself.

The thug's eyes grew as round as pennies. “I'm piking.” He climbed on his horse and left in a hurry.

Reynolds looked around and yelled at Mrs. Wickham to stop, which did no good at all. Then he pointed his pistol at the driver, who pulled out his long-barreled coach pistol.

“We seem to be at an impasse,” Emma said, wrapping her fingers around the dagger in her pocket.

Reynolds moved to grab her arm.

She stepped back and made a sweeping movement with her hand, the blade barely visible.

Reynolds yelled, blood dripping from his arm, “What?”

“Miss Spencer-Jones, might I be of assistance?” an amused voice asked.

“Ah, Mr. Marsh, if you could help my coachman move the wagon”—she pointed to it—“we may be on our way.”

A smiled played on his lips. “What would you like done with Mr. Reynolds?”

Emma studied Reynolds's scowling face. His pistol lay on the ground not far from his feet. “If the coachman will keep his weapon on him, and you can fetch his pistol, I believe we may allow him to leave.”

Harry raised his brows.

Emma shrugged. “Yes, well, I don't have a great deal of time, and I do not wish to return for a trial. I doubt Mr. Reynolds will make another attempt.”

Harry regarded her dubiously. “If that is what you want?”

“It is.” She saw the concern in his countenance. Not many men would have honored her choice. “Thank you for not arguing.”

Harry inclined his head. “Not at all.”

The coachman, not waiting for Harry, scrambled down from the box and scooped up Reynolds's gun.

Emma held out her hand. “Give it to me, please.”

The coachman hesitated, then handed it over.

“Thank you.” She turned to Reynolds. “I am allowing you to leave. Do not try anything like this again. If there is a next time, I shall not hesitate to bring you before a magistrate. I'd have that arm looked at.”

Reynolds scowled as if he wanted to say something, but instead mounted his horse and road off.

Harry pulled a face, as if just noticing the shrieks. He tilted his head toward the coach. “How long has she been doing that?”

Emma smiled broadly. “Long enough.” She poked what she could of her head through the window. “Mrs. Wickham, they are gone.”

She stopped screaming and looked at Emma in disbelief. “Gone? We are safe?”

“Yes, all is well. Mr. Marsh is here to help.”

“Oh, oh, Mr. Marsh. What a kind man he is, so brave, so noble. Was it he who scared them away?”

Emma bit her lip. There was no point in explaining. “Indeed, Mrs. Wickham, and we shall soon be on our way.”

Emma walked to the front of the coach to see the wagon being led off to the side. “What shall we do with the horses? We can't leave them here.”

“Unhitch them and let them go,” Harry said. “They'll find their way home. What will you do if Reynolds continues to accost you?”

That was not something she wanted to dwell upon. “As I told him, if he does it again, I shall be forced to seek out a magistrate. One would hope he has learned his lesson. I am not an easy target.”

Something in Mr. Marsh's eyes changed. They looked softer as he returned her gaze. “No, you're not. You are an exceptionally talented woman.”

“Thank you, Mr. Marsh.” She turned to go back to the coach, then whirled back around. “Mr. Marsh, we'll be stopping for a light repast just a little ways up the road. Will you join us?”

He smiled. “Yes, I'd like that.”

Emma's breath hitched. Such a wonderful smile. “Well then.” Her voice was husky. “I'll just . . .” She waved a hand at the coach.

“Here, allow me.” He put down the steps and handed her up. A shock raced through his hand. He glanced at her.

Miss Spencer-Jones's eyes were wide as she looked down at their hands, then back at him. “Oh, my.”

Those two small words seem to explain the situation exactly.
Oh, my
. Now what was he to do?

She entered the coach and sat down. “If you don't mind riding next to us?”

“No, I don't mind at all.” Harry mounted his horse.

He'd heard the screams and had expected to arrive to find a prostrate Miss Spencer-Jones. Instead he'd watched in appreciation as she skillfully wielded the dagger, cutting Reynolds, without batting an eye. Harry smiled to himself, then frowned and wondered what he was doing thinking about another woman.

By the time they reached the inn, he was in a state of indecision concerning his feelings. He dismounted and looked around for a groom. Seeing no one, he tied his horse up and went in search of a bucket of water. He found a small stable and a youth lying down on a bench.

“You there,” Harry said. “I need some water, and there's a coach needing attention as well.”

The lad jumped to his feet at the voice, then cast a doubtful eye at Harry and stopped.

“Well, come on now,” Harry said impatiently. What the deuce was wrong with the boy? “We haven't got all day.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, still staring at him.

“Go.”

The youth ran around to the front of the inn. Harry shook his head and followed. He made sure the stable boy was doing what he was supposed to before entering the inn.

“I'm sorry, miss,” a middle-aged woman said. “We don't have a private parlor. If you don't mind eating in the common room?”

Emma inclined her head. “In fact, that suits me much better.” She turned the landlady's attention to Mrs. Wickham. “My companion must rest for a while. If you could take her to a bedchamber and see she is comfortable, perhaps she may dine there.”

Mrs. Wickham nodded in agreement. “Yes, if you don't mind, my dear, dear, Miss Spencer-Jones. Maybe just a bowl of broth, and a bit of a rest, and I am sure I'll be fine to travel in an hour or so.”

“Of course, Mrs. Wickham, an hour's respite will be just the thing. I have Mr. Marsh to keep me company. I'm sure there is nothing improper in us taking our luncheon in the common room.”

“No indeed. Such a sweet inn.”

Emma maintained her smile as the landlady led her companion up the stairs, then she closed her eyes.

Harry was grinning at her when she opened them. “Is Mrs. Wickham always like that?”

“Yes. A sillier woman I've never met. She talks incessantly and says nothing to the purpose.”

“I did wonder,” he said, “how the inn's being sweet made a difference in the propriety of dining with me.”

“One of the many things I've heard her say that don't make a bit of sense to me,” Emma replied. “The room looks fairly empty. Let's choose a table.”

Harry selected one near the fireplace. “Will this do?”

“Thank you. I'm still not used to the cold. I daresay it will take me a while.”

“Miss Spencer-Jones . . .”

“Please, call me Emma,” she said. “After today, I think we can be on a Christian name basis.”