Candice Hern (7 page)

After arranging for hot water and soap to be sent up to both of their rooms, he made his way to his own bedchamber, situated along the same corridor as hers. It had been a while since he’d made do without Jennings, his valet. But since Mrs. Tennant claimed to have no maid to accompany her, it seemed overindulgent to bring Jennings. Besides, it would do Simon good to manage on his own for a while. Perhaps Mrs. Tennant had a point about his isolated ivory-tower existence. A few days on the road fending for himself would help to clear away some of the cobwebs. The lovely traveling companion was simply an added bonus.

Half an hour later, clean-shaven and sporting fresh linen beneath a dark blue coat and figured silk waistcoat, he knocked on Mrs. Tennant’s door. She had changed into a dinner dress of striped Indian muslin tied round the waist with a long sash of embroidered Indian silk—slightly out-of-date but quite pretty. The square neckline, which might have provided an enticing display of bosom, was sadly too high and edged with an unfortunate amount of lace, and he was allowed only a teasing hint of what lay beneath. Her hair, dark as Turkish coffee and with no bonnet to hide its glory, was gathered full in the back in a Grecian style—another bit of feminine lore he recognized from the
Cabinet
—with soft curls framing her face. Those tantalizing curls were still a bit damp, and the faint smell of soap clung to her.

His gaze, as ever, flicked down to her mouth.
The irresistible upper lip pursed slightly, accentuating the enchanting little point that overhung the lower lip.

“Mr. Westover?”

Devil take it, had she been speaking to him? Simon dragged his thoughts away from the ode and its object. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked where we might find the private parlor.” She was looking at him in such an odd way, he wondered how long he’d been lost in contemplation of her mouth.

“Oh.” He gave himself a mental shake. Damn. She already thought him a fool. If he was not more careful, she would think him demented as well. “Oh, I am sorry. I am afraid there were no available private parlors. But there is a formal dining room that appears perfectly respectable.”

“I am certain it will do nicely. Let us—”

“I feel obliged to remind you, ma’am, that it is a public place and I still have concerns about your reputation. Misconceptions may be drawn about—”

“Bosh. If we are going to chase my idiotic niece halfway across the country, I am certain there will be more than one occasion when we are seen to
gether in public. If I am not concerned about it, neither should you be, Mr. Westover.”

“As you wish,” he said, but still hoped to heaven they did not run smack into her stiff-rumped Great Aunt Straitlace. Or some gossipy grande dame of the
ton
on her way into Town. Would the obstinate Mrs. Tennant remain so sanguine if confronted with such a situation? “The inn is quite full,” he said, “so the dining room may be somewhat crowded.”

“Then let us make haste,” she said, and led the way down the long corridor, displaying for his hungry eyes an expanse of ivory flesh exposed by the low back of the dress, almost making up for the too-high bodice.

One ode at a time, he cautioned himself. He would address the gorgeous neck and back later, after the upper lip. And the emerald eyes. And the dark glory of her hair. And the fiery temper. And the mule-headed stubbornness.

Lord, but she was a banquet. A poet’s feast. Memories of Mrs. Tennant would keep his pen busy for months.

The Red Lion was a large and luxurious inn. Neither the Mail nor the stagecoaches stopped there; instead it catered to private post travelers, and so was not as rough and rowdy as other inns. Since they did not have to accommodate the quick group meals required of the Mail and coach stops, dinner was leisurely and pleasant.

Tonight, though, it was crowded, and Simon
procured the last available table in the dining room. He ordered their meal and poured the wine when it was brought. Vowing to avoid all topics that might renew discussion of the Busybody, and anything else designed to diminish him in her eyes, he steered the conversation toward more innocuous subjects. He asked about Belinda’s father, Captain Chadwick, which led to a discussion of the war, the new Lord of the Admiralty, and renewed rumors of an invasion by Napoleon. Simon was thoroughly enjoying the conversation and the company when the landlord approached their table.

“I do beg your pardon, sir, madam, but I wonder if I might impose upon your good natures?”

“Yes?”

“We are quite full up, as you see. And yet a woman traveling with two young ladies has just arrived, and we have no place to accommodate them for dinner. I wonder, sir, if you might be willing to share your table with them? She is a gentlewoman, I assure you, and the two young ladies are extremely well mannered.”

Damn. Here was the very sort of situation he had hoped to avoid. If others were to join their party, what might they think of a beautiful young widow alone in the company of a man of no relation to her? Simon knew exactly what they would think.

He turned toward the entrance where three women stood. One was plump and middle-aged,
the other two were quite young and rather wide-eyed with curiosity. He looked to Mrs. Tennant to see how she felt about the matter. She smiled and nodded her head. She was either very stubborn or very naïve. But the landlord had seen her obvious sign of assent, so there was nothing for it. “Yes, of course,” Simon said. “We would be happy to share our table. Please send the ladies over.”

“Thank you, sir, madam. I am most grateful. I did not wish to turn the ladies away.”

Before Simon knew what was happening, three chairs were added to their table, one separating him and Mrs. Tennant, dashing his hopes of at least sitting beside her. He stood as the ladies made their way across the room. The woman was short and round with fat ruddy cheeks and small dark eyes, and wore a fichu so bouffant it gave her the look of a ship’s prow. The younger girls followed in her wake, like white-muslined frigates behind a ship of the line. Introductions were made all around. The older woman was Mrs. Fitzhugh of Lutterworth, wife of a local squire. The girls were her daughter, Miss Sally Fitzhugh, and her niece, Miss Delia Banks. They both appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen, each one, in her own way, as plain as a sparrow.

“It is most kind of you,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said, “to allow perfect strangers to join you, Mr. Westover and Mrs…. Mrs. Tennant, was it?”

Simon almost groaned aloud. It was just as he
had anticipated. Mrs. Fitzhugh was fidgeting nervously with her elaborate demi turban and darting glances about the room as though in search of a more suitable arrangement. Well, dammit, he could not just sit there and be a party to the ruin of the lovely widow’s name.

“Mrs. Tennant and I are cousins,” he said, and ignored the green eyes he could feel glaring at him from across the table. “We are traveling north together on a family mission. A bit of a crisis, actually.”

“Oh?” She looked from Simon to Mrs. Tennant and back. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”

“We trust not,” Mrs. Tennant said, and gave him a chilly smile. “In any case, we are happy to have you ladies join us. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have someone else to talk to. We have been cooped up together in that wretched little carriage all afternoon. I am sure my cousin will agree that we are both quite tired of the other’s company, are we not,
Simon
?”

Oh, the little she-devil! “Quite so…
Eleanor
. Dreadfully tired.” He leaned toward Mrs. Fitzhugh and said in a voice of mock vexation, “You know how odious one’s relations can be.”

“Especially one’s tiresome male relations,” Eleanor said.

Eleanor
. He was going to keep the name. He would not give it back to her and resort to Mrs. Tennant. From now on, she was Eleanor. It suited her—strong and beautiful. Eleanor of the emerald
eyes. Eleanor, the avenging angel. Eleanor, of the beautiful, sharp-tongued mouth.

“I know precisely what you mean,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said, and accepted a glass of wine from the waiter. “I’ve never got on well with my male cousins, and my brothers and I quarrel like cats and dogs. But I have always enjoyed the company of my female cousins, and especially my dear sister Ann, Delia’s mother, may God rest her soul. And these two girls”—she nodded at her charges, plumes aflutter—“are as close as two inkle weavers. They
will
do everything together.”

The woman was clearly satisfied that the proprieties were in order, and had settled in for a cozy chat. “Why, when it was time for my Sally to make her bows in London, she would have nothing of it unless her Delia could come along. And it’s only right, after all. Delia’s dear mama would have wanted it.”

Eleanor smiled at the girls. “How lovely for you. There is nothing so exciting as one’s first Season. I hope each of you has a grand time.”

Delia, freckled and boasting an unfortunate chin, covered her mouth and giggled. Sally, all sharp angles and big brown eyes, was more self-assured. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said. “We plan to have a wonderful time, see all the sights, and attend loads of fashionable events.”

Her mother shot Eleanor a look that cast doubt on their activities being as fashionable as Sally might hope. Clearly, the Fitzhughs were not
wealthy. The girls’ simple muslin dresses had not been designed by or even copied from any of the
modistes du jour
. In fact, Simon would not be surprised to learn they had sewn the dresses themselves. The girls might as well have had the words “country mouse” tattooed on their foreheads.

“There are many exciting things to do in Town,” Eleanor said, “and wonderful places to see. You must be sure to go to the Tower and Westminister Abbey, and see the paintings at the Royal Academy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sally said. “We certainly intend to see as much as we can.”

“But we mostly want to go to parties and balls,” Delia added in a shy voice.

“That’s right,” Sally said. “You see, we’re going to London to meet the men of our dreams, and to come home with husbands.”

Eleanor shot Simon a look that spelled danger, then returned her attention to the girls. “Husbands, eh? Well, I wish you good luck and a grand time. But do not be too discouraged if you do not get offers right away. It often takes more than one Season for a girl to attract a husband.”

“I’m afraid one Season is all we can afford,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said. “If they don’t bring any gentlemen up to scratch by summer, I’ve told them they will have to look more closely about the neighborhood back home.”

“Mother!” Sally said. “All the gentlemen back in
Lutterworth are dull as ditch water.” She turned to Eleanor. “She is forever trying to foist some upstanding country clod upon us. But we do not want to settle for anyone so ordinary as that, and so we’re going to London where there are ten times more gentlemen to be met—dashing, handsome gentlemen who are interested in something other than crop rotation and grain prices. Delia and I want to be swept off our feet by valiant young men who fall madly in love with us.”

A moment of stunned silence followed this astonishing speech. Eleanor was the first to react. “Indeed?” She turned and met Simon’s gaze squarely across the table. “And what do you think, cousin? Do you think these young ladies will find their romantic heroes in Town?”

“I…um…I do not see how two such lovely ladies can fail to do so.”

“Well, I do,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said. “I keep hoping they will be more sensible. I love these two, but will be the first to admit that neither is a great beauty. London is sure to be filled with beautiful, rich, and fashionable young women who will garner all the male attention. I don’t wish them to be disappointed, but I—”

“Mother! You haven’t a romantic bone in your body. I don’t know why you must always be so pessimistic. Thank heaven there are others who believe differently. Just last week—”

“Yes, yes I know.” Mrs. Fitzhugh held up a hand
in defeat. “The Busybody says everyone should seek their heart’s desire.”

“The Busybody?” Eleanor slanted a glance in Simon’s direction.

He wondered if it would be possible to crawl under the table and slink out of the room on his hands and knees.

“Yes,” Mrs Fitzhugh said, “that woman who dispenses advice in
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
. The girls live by that woman’s words.”

“Is that so?” Eleanor said. “And what sort of words are those?”

“Don’t you read the Busybody?” Delia’s quiet, bashful voice almost squeaked in stunned disbelief. “My goodness, I thought
everyone
read the Busybody. She is
so
wonderful. And so wise.”

“She is indeed,” Sally said. “And we believe in what the Busybody says. We know we are not beautiful, but we have good hearts. And just last week she said—here, let me read it. I cut it out to keep in my reticule, as a sort of token of hope. She says, ‘A young woman of virtue, sensibility, and a tender heart, even if she has neither beauty nor fortune, will ultimately attract the attentions of a worthy suitor. For a true gentleman will always recognize the intrinsic merit in a deserving young lady, and will never withhold his affections merely to satisfy society’s ambitions.’ You see? There
are
gentlemen out there for simple country girls like Delia and me. The Busybody says so.”

“Indeed she does,” Eleanor said, and her eyes regarded him with smug amusement over the rim of her wineglass.

“I only hope she is right,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said.

“So do I,” Simon muttered. “So do I.”

A
n early start and sunny skies did little to lift Eleanor’s spirits the next morning. A new day simply meant that Belinda had spent a night with Barkwith, had thrown away her maidenhood and very likely her reputation. A gloomy sense of finality held Eleanor in its grip. There was no longer any hope of saving the headstrong girl from taking such a reckless step. All that was left was to catch up with them, get Belinda away from that horrid man, and do what they could to cover up what had happened.

“What is it, Eleanor?”

It was her fault that Mr. Westover had appropriated her Christian name. She had all but given it to him during that ghastly meal with Mrs. Fitzhugh and her girls, and he had made frequent use of it ever since. In truth, she did not mind. The situation
kept them alone together for so many hours on the road, the familiar use of names seemed only natural. But there was something about the way
he
said her name, the way he seemed to savor each syllable, that was oddly unsettling.

She gave him a quizzical look.

He reached out and ran a gloved finger ever so lightly over the bridge of her nose. The delicate touch set off a soft tingling at the back of her neck.

“Your brow is all in knots,” he said, “as though something especially troubling weighs on your mind. You are thinking of Belinda, I daresay.”

He gazed at her with such genuine concern that she had to look away. Despite all that foolishness with the Busybody, he was a kind man who meant well. If it was true that Belinda had given in to Barkwith last night—and Eleanor had no cause to doubt it—then there was no longer any reason for Simon to continue the pursuit with her. It was too late for any words of the Busybody to help avert disaster. There was nothing much he could do now, except perhaps help to convince Belinda to come back home. He already admitted he was not in “the sporting line,” so it was unlikely he would be willing, or able, to beat Barkwith into a bloody pulp, as he deserved. When it came right down to it, Eleanor could probably do the job well enough herself.

Yet she had no intention of releasing Simon from his promise. Though she hated to admit it, she had
grown accustomed to his long-legged presence at her side. She was glad not to be alone on such a journey and had begun to find it somewhat comforting to have him next to her. She was even growing a bit fond of his red—all right, auburn—hair and dimples. And sparring with him about his idiotic sentimentalist philosophy kept her thoroughly entertained.

Besides, she needed him. He was paying for everything, after all. She couldn’t do this without him.

No, she would not ask him to leave.

“Yes, Belinda is hard on my mind,” she said. “I am hoping that Barkwith does not abandon her just yet.”

“What? I thought you wanted her out of his clutches?”

“I do. But not until we find her, when I will do whatever it takes to get her away from him. As long as they travel together, however, they can contrive some sort of fiction to lend respectability to their relationship. No doubt Barkwith will pass her off as his wife. But once he abandons her, how on earth will she manage as a young girl on her own?”

“I wish you were not so determined that he will not marry her. He may surprise you.”

“It would shock me to the core if he married her.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and Eleanor found herself watching for the dimples.

“I believe it would indeed shock you,” he said. “If I may say so, Eleanor, you are hopelessly unromantic.”

“Better that than the unsuspecting wide-eyed romanticism of Mrs. Fitzhugh’s girls.”

“Ah.” He chuckled, and the dimples finally made their appearance. “I wondered when you would return to that troublesome topic. My goodness, how you did relish my discomfiture. I believe you thoroughly enjoyed the evening, did you not?”

“Immensely.”

“I confess I have never been confronted face-to-face with any of my readers while they discussed the Busybody. It was…interesting.”

That made her smile. She could not help it. The thought of a good argument with Simon somehow caused her black mood to fade a bit. Matching wits with him was more fun than she’d had in years. Sometimes she disagreed with him out of sheer playfulness. But not this time.

“Really, Simon, you cannot think those poor girls will find romance in Town. They will be ignored or scorned by every buck and beau up for the Season.”

“You assume they will attend
haut ton
events. I think it unlikely, given their rather obvious circumstances. In a somewhat lower level of society, the gentlemen may not be so jaded or callous as their more affluent counterparts. It would not surprise me to learn the girls had each attracted the atten
tions of some perfectly suitable young men who appreciate their artless country charms.”

“You really are an optimist, are you not?”

“I admit it. However, it is more than just optimism that Sally and Delia will find their hearts’ desires, but also that they believe enough in themselves to go after it. That is the most important thing to me as I pen advice to young ladies. I want to give them the confidence to hope, to dream, to reach for the stars. Young people, especially young ladies, need self-assurance and strength of character to enter into society. Without a bit of mettle they will find it difficult to succeed. If they are taught to believe in their own worthiness, to believe they are deserving of high regard—and they
are
, for the most part—then that regard is more likely to come to them. A woman of confidence is much more liable to attract a gentleman’s attention than one who does not believe she is worthy of his attention.”

Eleanor was quite sincerely taken aback. She had been so angry about the wretched advice given to Belinda, it had not occurred to her that there might be
some
merit in the Busybody’s philosophy. It was possible—merely
possible
—that the man had a point.

But she was not about to let him know it.

“I still think you do more harm than good,” she said, “with your rose-colored idealism. What happens if those girls join the ranks of this Season’s
wallflowers and return to the country disappointed and dejected?”

Eleanor kept the debate alive for most of the morning as they followed the messages of the Runners from one posting inn to the next. The rains of the day before had made a mess of the roads, and the going was not as fast as the postillions would have liked. The team was made to slog through miles of muck and mire, and the beautiful carriage was so covered in mud, it looked as though it had been retrieved from a bog.

They met up with Mr. Mumby at Pagnell, where the bridge over the River Ouse had washed out and carriages were being ferried across. He was on horseback and leaned down to speak to them through the carriage window. Less voluble than his colleague, Francis Mumby was a man who got straight to the point.

“We’re too far behind,” he said. “Can’t afford more obstacles like this. Unless they crack a wheel or land in a ditch and lose a day’s travel, it’s gonna be tough to catch ’em afore Gretna.”

“But at least you haven’t lost their trail,” Simon said.

“’T’ain’t hard. It’s what yer payin’ us for.” He led his horse onto the ferry ramp and called over his shoulder, “We’ll leave word at the Peacock in Wellingboro.”

As they waited for their turn at the ferry, Eleanor watched the Runner gallop away as soon as he reached the other bank. Despite the delays, she was
grateful for the Runners’ efforts. And for Simon’s ability to pay them.

“I do not believe I have properly thanked you for hiring those two,” she said. “They are certainly efficient.”

“Indeed they are. I determined it would be best to have professionals lead the pursuit. It seemed the only sensible course of action. I do a few things well, but tracking runaways across the country is not one of them.”

“I think you are doing a fine job of it,” Eleanor said, and then wondered why she had felt the need to reassure him. She must be feeling guilty about all the money he was spending on her behalf.

“Following the footprints of Hackett and Mumby isn’t much,” he said. “Anyone could do that.”

“But no one could keep me diverted half as well as you have done. Arguing with you makes me forget for a time the seriousness of Belinda’s situation.”

His blue eyes twinkled with roguish delight. “It is my pleasure to distract you, ma’am.”

Blast it all, the man was flirting with her again. This time, and quite unexpectedly, she allowed herself a small degree of pleasure in it. She turned away quickly, hoping to hide her smile, and gave her attention to the postillions now leading their team onto the ferry.

It ought to have been a simple thing, to follow the trail of messages left by the Runners, for the runaways had kept to the main roads. But it had
become almost as frustrating an experience for Simon as it must surely be for Eleanor, for they had run into one time-consuming obstacle after another.

They had lost considerable time at Pagnell waiting to be ferried across the river. Shortly afterward they had been delayed by what seemed an endless flock of sheep being herded across the road. When the shepherds had stopped to chat and allowed the sheep to roam about in all directions, Simon had been frustrated enough to shout out the window at them to hurry along, which, as he ought to have known, had the reverse effect.

At one of the posting inns they had had to wait for a fresh team—the only available horses were being reshod, and they were forced to await the smithy’s pleasure. At the next stop there had been a shortage of postboys, and they had to make do with only one riding postillion instead of two. But he was efficient, even a little bit reckless, and got good speed out of the team.

Until the next obstacle. They came upon a collision between a fully loaded stagecoach and the first wagon of a small Gypsy caravan. It appeared no one had been injured, but the horses had become entangled and the elaborately painted Gypsy wagon had overturned, spilling a profusion of colorful debris across the road.

Simon’s was not the only carriage forced to stop and wait for the vehicles to become disentangled and the road to be cleared enough for passing. Gypsy families and stagecoach passengers disem
barked and milled about the road while the drivers shouted and cursed at one another. A couple of old women also flung loud abuse at the coach driver in their own language, gesturing wildly, while they supervised the recovery of the overturned wagon’s contents.

Some of the Gypsies took advantage of the situation and brought out all manner of items from their wagons to offer for sale. They mingled among the coach passengers, and the various carriages held up by the accident, offering pastries, ale, ribbons, scarves, beads, jewelry, pottery, utensils, herbs, and anything else they were carrying that might be sold. A few women appeared to be reading palms. The sultry strains of a violin could be heard beneath all the commotion.

Simon let his window down, looked to Eleanor, and gave a shrug of resignation. “It looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a while,” he said. “We might as well get some air. The coach driver will have a schedule to meet, though, and will hopefully be able to move on very soon.”

“If we weren’t so pressed for time, I might enjoy it all,” Eleanor said, and let down her own window. “It is almost like a spontaneous little fair, is it not? How fortunate to be in a chariot so we are able to watch the whole spectacle through the front window.”

“Ribbons, sir? Pretty ribbons for the pretty lady?” A black-eyed Gypsy woman held out a handful of colorful ribbons just inside the carriage
window on Simon’s side. Her head was wrapped in several bright-colored scarves, and she wore a profusion of jewelry, including long, swinging earrings and an enormous brooch holding together a shawl. Gold bracelets reaching almost to her elbow jangled as she waved the ribbons about. “Ribbons? You buy my ribbons?”

Simon shook his head, but the woman persisted.

“You buy your pretty lady some ribbons, yes? See how many colors. See how pretty.”

The woman looked ready to stand there jingling and jangling for as long as it took for him to capitulate. Simon looked over at Eleanor and winked. “Yes, I do believe the pretty lady needs a ribbon, do you not Eleanor?”

Was it possible the self-assured Mrs. Tennant had turned bashful? She looked positively sheepish. “It is not necessary, Simon.”

“Oh, but I think it is.” The woman would probably never leave otherwise. “What color would you like?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll pick then, shall I? Let me see. What color would be most suitable for Eleanor?” He fingered the ribbons when the woman thrust them farther into the carriage. “Hmm. Red, I think. I’ll take a red one, please.”

He held out a few small coins to the Gypsy woman in exchange for the ribbon. “
Nais tuke. Zhan le Devlesa tai sastimasa
,” she said and scurried along to the next carriage.

“Lord, I hope that wasn’t some sort of Gypsy curse.” He laid the ribbon in Eleanor’s open hand. “Here you are, then. As the Gypsy said, a pretty ribbon for a pretty lady.”

Good Lord, he could swear she was blushing.

“Thank you, Simon. That was very kind of you.”

“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” he said, and gave her another wink. He took the ribbon from her hand, wrapped it around her wrist, and tied it in a bow. Then he held her hand for a moment and admired his work. “There. It suits you very nicely, I think.”

Keeping hold of her hand, he ran his fingers along the silky fabric of the ribbon, brushing against the bare skin just above her glove. He turned her hand over and continued his exploration of the underside of her wrist. The skin there was very white, so pale the blue veins beneath showed clear and dark. And it was very soft, too, like a child’s. Even through his own gloves he could sense the softness.

To his delight, she did not pull her hand away, and Simon would swear he noted a tiny tremor dance up her arm. Was it possible this beautiful, self-assured, proud woman was susceptible to his modest flirtations? Was she simply unaccustomed to such attentions? Impossible. Would she allow it if he lifted that pale wrist to his lips, as he was longing to do?