Amanda Scott (11 page)

“Accompanied a young man to London? Now, see here—”

“Not a man. Charley is female. Her name is Charlotte, but everyone except Papa calls her Charley. He never held with boyish nicknames, you see, but Charley never liked him much, either. She does not think much of men in general, so she and Great-Aunt Ophelia get on quite well.”

Nick frowned. “She’s that sort, is she?”

“What sort?”

“Never mind. If you don’t know—”

“But I want to know. It sounds like a sort you don’t approve of, and I assure you, Charley and Great-Aunt Ophelia are both quite respectable. They just don’t care much for men. Great-Aunt Ophelia says women are misnamed the weaker sex, that in truth, it is men who are weak. In fact, Great-Aunt Ophelia says—”

“I don’t think I want to hear more of what Great-Aunt Ophelia says,” Nick said, cutting her off without a qualm. “Great-Aunt Ophelia sounds like a crazy old lady to me, but since she is your relative I shall try to refrain from disparaging her.”

“Thank you,” Melissa said dryly.

“Now, about that maid of yours—”

“She is not my maid, exactly. I told you—”

“I know what you told me. She will have to do, however. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “it occurs to me that we might meet with a problem if she considers herself to be in Seacourt’s employ.”

“Oh, I don’t think Mag will care a rap about who hires her, sir. She has served me well enough, though she cries ‘lawks-a-mussy’ at everything.”

“I trust you have not also picked up that habit,” he said.

“No.” She smiled at him then, and he remembered how easily she could stir him sexually. Abruptly, he said, “Have you got much baggage to collect?”

“No, none. He did not give me time to pack anything.”

“I see,” he said grimly. “Well, there is a comb on that dressing table. Put it to some use, if you please, while I turn out my man and order up my phaeton. I do not at all like being seen in the company of bedraggled females.” Smiling to take the sting out of those last words, he turned on his heel and went to find his valet.

Alone, Melissa moved obediently to the dressing table, drew a deep breath, and tried to assess her situation. Though she picked up the tortoiseshell comb on the table and did what she could to smooth her hair, she did not sit down. Sitting was, as she had discovered when she sat up on the bed, really rather painful.

Despite what Vexford had told her, she still could not remember any auction or his paying the amazing sum of twenty thousand guineas for her. She did not doubt that he had done so, for he had given her no cause to think him a liar, but she remembered nothing between speaking up in her own defense and finding herself atop the table, watching him walk toward her. The latter moment was indelibly imprinted on her mind. Just by closing her eyes, she could see him even now, coming toward her through the crowd, taller than anyone else, his shoulders broader, his walk that of a man who never let anyone order him about. She remembered hearing him tell the others that she was now under his protection, and that memory calmed her now.

Moments ago, she had been afraid of him. When he glowered at her, her knees had turned to jelly, her heart pounded in her chest, and she had told him instantly what he wanted to know. That thought brought another on its heels, making her shudder when she suddenly imagined herself married to Yarborne instead, trying to tell him she would not let him spend her money.

At least Vexford was young and handsome, and did not talk to her in the disdainful way that Yarborne had, so if she had to marry, marriage to him would prove a far better fate. The fact was, however, that she did not want to marry anyone just yet.

Not that the notion of marriage had never crossed her mind, for it had, many times, albeit like a dream with little substance. She had supposed that one day she would marry, that she might even fall in love with the man first, but she had not met any man with whom she could imagine spending the rest of her life. Certainly, she had never met anyone who made her feel the way her mother, Susan, so clearly felt whenever her gaze came to rest upon Viscount Penthorpe.

Melissa had often wondered about that look. She liked Penthorpe. He had always been kind to her. But she could not imagine what made Susan adore him, for he was not in the least her notion of a romantic figure. His attitude was casual in the extreme, he had no strong likes or dislikes, and although he had been a soldier at the Battle of Waterloo, he was the world’s worst procrastinator, never doing anything at once that he could put off until later, or until he need not do it at all.

Fortunately his servants adored him and saw to it that things that needed doing did get done. Everyone liked him. Melissa had never heard his voice raised in anger, except perhaps once. She thought Penthorpe might once have spoken sharply to Sir Geoffrey, and it would not have been amazing if he had, for it happened the day she and her mother had left her father to run away with Penthorpe. She remembered little about it now, however, having buried the memory deep at the back of her mind.

She made a face at her reflection in the glass. Her gown was creased again, and she yearned for something else to wear. Mag had done her best to keep both gown and shift clean for her, but another day’s wear, added to the strains of the night, had not improved them. With a sigh, Melissa picked up her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. At least, the cloak was still presentable. When Vexford returned, she was pulling on her gloves.

He said, “We leave in ten minutes if Lisset can get my gear together by then.”

The dignified man following him was a foot shorter than Vexford. He did not look at all as if he had been shaken from his bed, and if he thought it odd to find a young female in his master’s bedchamber at two o’clock in the morning, Melissa could detect no sign of it. She decided that he did not find it unusual at all.

He bowed and said, “Good evening, miss.” His movements as he collected Vexford’s gear were efficient, and except for a quiet request to know if his master wished to change clothes before their departure, his work was accomplished in silence.

Vexford, writing at the dressing table, denied any desire to change, for which Melissa was grateful. She was certain no power on earth could keep her in that room while he did so, and she knew of nowhere else to go. Only when they were ready to depart, did she remember Mag and ask where she was.

“Lisset told her to meet us in the hall,” Vexford said. “Since you have no clothing to pack, I thought it would be easier for you if she did not come here.”

She knew he meant she would have fewer explanations to make if Mag never saw her in his room, and she smiled at him gratefully.

Lisset said, “Will Artemus accompany us, my lord?”

“He is bringing the phaeton around, but he does not come with us. We’ll be crowded enough without him. Don’t stow my pistols,” he added, standing up. “We’ll keep them at hand in case of would-be robbers. I’ve told Artemus to stay here and assist Drax, then return to London on Friday.” Turning, he said to Melissa, “Drax is my trainer and Artemus my groom. Are you ready to go, Lisset?”

“Yes, my lord. I will carry these bags down at once and send a lad up to collect that portmanteau.”

“Never mind the lad,” Vexford said, picking up the portmanteau. “I’ll take it.”

“But, my lord—”

“Don’t jabber, Lisset. I won’t lower my consequence, or yours, by carrying one bag. Come along, Miss Seacourt.”

Moments later, Melissa stood in the inn yard beside an excited Mag, staring at the vehicle in which she was expected to travel to London. She had supposed Vexford must have a closed carriage, but the light crane-necked phaeton before her was no such thing. Worse, it was harnessed to a team of blacks that even in the shadows of the yard looked powerful enough to draw a vehicle ten times larger and heavier.

“Lawks-a-mussy, Miss Melissa! Be we driving all the way to Lunnon in that?”

Gathering her dignity as best she could, Melissa turned to Vexford, who was handing something to his groom, and said, “Do you really expect me to travel such a distance in that sporting vehicle, sir?”

“I do, and I hope you won’t enact me any tragedies at this point in the game, because I’m devilish tired and likely to lose my temper if you do. See that Lord Yarborne gets that first thing in the morning, Artemus. The White Hart.”

“Aye, m’ lord.”

Melissa said, “Really, sir, would it not be better—?”

That was as far as she got before he picked her up bodily and thrust her onto the back seat of the phaeton. Landing with enough force that, even on the upholstered seat, she had to stifle a cry when her backside made contact, she did not attempt to complete her protest. Clearly, he would not listen to complaints, justified though they might be.

Lisset helped Mag climb up beside her, and the young woman said with astonishment, “Did you see that, miss? He put me up just as if I was a lady. Oh, but look, miss, how high we are! Lawks-a-mussy, I ain’t rid this high off the ground since me and me brother rode atop a hay load when we was just nipperkins.”

Watching as Vexford swung himself onto the driver’s seat and Lisset climbed to the seat beside him, Melissa said clearly, “Yes, Mag, we are very far from the ground. We must just hope his lordship does not turn us over before we reach London.”

Mag gasped, and Melissa saw Lisset cover his mouth, but the groom standing by the lead pair’s heads, looked back and said indignantly, “His lordship won’t never have you over, miss. Drives to an inch, drunk or sober, does his lordship!”

Vexford, gathering the reins, said evenly, “Much as I appreciate your compliments, Artemus, I shall appreciate your silence more.”

“Aye, m’ lord, and when you change that team at Bishop’s Stortford, mind you tell Alfred Clint I said he was to look after them blacks like they was his own children. They be a far cry from them bays he’s been a-looking after these past few days.”

“If Alfred weren’t capable, Artemus, I should not keep him in my employment. Stand away from them now.”

The groom jumped back, and Vexford gave his team the office. He drove slowly until they cleared the archway leading from the inn yard, then held them to a trot along the nearly deserted High Street. Melissa held her breath when they passed first the Kingston Passage and next the White Hart Inn, but she saw only a pair of gentlemen staggering along the footway, neither of whom was in any case to recognize his companion, let alone anyone else.

When the phaeton left the cobbles for the Cambridge Highroad, Vexford urged the team to greater speed, and Melissa soon found cause to be grateful both for the vehicle’s thick upholstery and its excellent springs. Without them, she was sure she would have been battered beyond bearing. As it was, each bounce was painful, and there was little to distract her mind from the pain, for conversation was next to impossible over the rattle of wheels and clatter of hooves on the hard-packed road.

Nevertheless, the cool night air was invigorating, and the light fog did little to impair their view of the moon, and nothing to impair the view of the road ahead. There were, to be sure, patches of road that passed through forested areas, and Melissa decided Vexford must have eyes like a cat’s. She was glad to know that he had pistols at hand, but he did not slow the horses until they reached Bishop’s Stortford. When he drew into an inn yard there, Lisset obligingly took a yard of tin from beneath the front seat and blew up for the change.

Before Vexford had pulled the team to a halt, a lad came hurrying from the stable, tucking his shirt into his breeches as he ran. He skidded to a halt when he saw the phaeton, and shouted, “So it’s your lordship, is it? I’ll just get Alfred then.”

“Tell him to look sharp, lad,” Vexford said, wrapping the reins around the brake handle and jumping to the ground. “I’m in the devil of a hurry.” He stepped quickly to the leaders’ heads.

Without a word, Lisset got down and moved to begin uncoupling the team. By the time the lad returned to help, followed by a second man leading a team of powerful-looking bays, he had them unfastened, and Vexford was leading them from the shafts. The boy exclaimed, “You didn’t ought to ’ave done that yourself, m’ lord!”

Vexford ignored him, saying, “Step lively, Alfred. Keep the blacks here, and rest them till Friday when Artemus will come to help you get them to London. He said to warn you he’ll cut out your liver and lights if any harm befalls them before then.”

The man leading the bays grinned widely and said, “I’d let him do it, too, my lord. It’s a pleasure to see them again, but I see you’ve been a-driving ’em hard. Hope there ain’t nothing amiss with the earl or her ladyship, sir.”

“Nothing that I know about,” Vexford said, “but I am in a hurry, and I’ll not be coming back.”

“You’ll never miss the final heats, my lord!”

“I
am
missing them,” Vexford said grimly, swinging back to his seat. “Quiz and Florrie will do well enough without me.

“They will that.” Alfred had been working as he talked, and he was soon finished and the phaeton back on the London Road.

Two hours later, despite the rapid pace, Melissa was beginning to nod off when the carriage wheels rolled onto cobblestones again. Startled, grabbing for the seat frame to steady herself, she realized that it was dawn and they were in London.

Vexford looked over his shoulder at her. “Ever been in London before?”

She shook her head, looking around her with awe. The city was larger than Edinburgh, and far noisier. Mag, too, was staring, her mouth agape, her eyes wide with amazement as she tried to take it all in. “Lawks-a-mussy, miss, just look at the place. How come you never been here before? I thought all the quality lived in Lunnon.”

Melissa said, “My parents used to come each year, but they always left me behind. We lived in Cornwall then, Mag. London is truly an astonishing place, but I don’t know how anyone can be sleeping now. It’s so dreadfully noisy.”

Vexford apparently heard her, for he looked back again and said, “It will be quieter when we reach St. James’s Square.”

Melissa made no further attempt to speak, but she listened with interest as Mag pelted Lisset with questions about the city. Obligingly, he identified the Oxford Road and certain other landmarks, including Tyburn Hill, making Mag shriek with dismay when he told her it was where felons had been hanged in days of old. It was not long, however, before they entered a quiet square surrounded by stately mansions, and Vexford drew up on the southeast side before one of the most imposing of them.