Devil's Match (10 page)

“But I …” She had started to say that she could not accept clothing from him, but given the condition of her only dress, she realized she would have to swallow her pride and take what he provided.

His eyes met hers. “Exactly so.”

He handed her up into the coach and then swung up beside her. Leaning down to reach under the seat, he drew out a rolled carriage rug, spread it out, and draped it around his shoulders. Settling back, he took in her disheveled hair and his cotton shirt. He managed a crooked smile that twisted one corner of his mouth and shook his head. “What a pretty pair we must be, Caroline. I wonder if Bertie's limited powers can explain us out of this one.”

“I shudder to think of what he will tell.” Incredibly, she found herself answering his smile with one of her own. “My lord … Patrick …” She groped for words. “I … I cannot tell you how very glad I was to see you just now. If you had not come after me …” Her voice trailed off.

“You'd have been in the basket.” He nodded. “Suffice it to say, it was a rare fright you gave me, Caroline Ashley, and I hope you know it. When I returned to the inn and you weren't there, I'd no notion of where you'd gone. If it hadn't been for Crespin, you would have disappeared without a trace.”

“I know.”

“I hope you do not mean to make a habit of this, my dear, for I've no wish to spend the rest of my life chasing after you. I mean, I should prefer a more comfortable life, if you do not object.”

“My Lord—”

“Patrick,” he corrected.

“Very well,” she sighed. “Patrick, I wish you would cease this nonsense about being obliged … I mean … that is—” She looked up and was startled by the warmth of his expression.

“Caroline,” he interrupted wickedly, “I think 'tis you who are obliged now. You simply cannot take me back to that inn without my shirt and expect me to maintain a shred of reputation.”

“Stop it! You are a man, after all, and it is no such thing.”

“Must you always be so literal, my dear? Do you never wish to cut up a dust, to fall into a scrape? You know”—he leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice—“I suspect you have more of a sense of adventure than you care to admit, Caro Ashley, else you'd never have chanced running away.”

“You sound much like Juliana.”

“Mayhap.”

“Well … ” Caroline appeared to consider. “I am not sure you are right, but then I've never had the opportunity to find out, I suppose. My father died when I was still at school, and circumstances made my choices for me.”

“And you regretted that.”

“I learned to accept it.”

“What would you do, my dear, if you suddenly found yourself possessed of a large fortune?” he changed the subject abruptly. “I mean, how would you spend it?”

“Well, I would not run up huge tradesmen's bills, if that is what you are asking. If I had a fortune, I would hope that I would not be so self-centered that I did not wish to help other people at least a little. I mean, I cannot see using it all for social position, after all. I think that I would be concerned with education.” She looked up to see him watching her closely. “Well,” she defended, “before I became acquainted with you, 'twas books that gave me all the excitement in my life. I lived in my mind what I read, and I think it a pity that there are those who never have even that.”

“What? No routs, no balls?”

“I should like to go to some, I suppose,” she mused wistfully. “But I can tell you one thing: I should have more than one decent gown.” She stopped. “You are funning with me, of course.”

“No.” He looked out the window for a moment at the rolling countryside. “I am nearly twenty-seven, Caroline, and I am only now finding what I want.”

“Now 'tis my turn to pry. What is it that you want?”

“If I told you, you would not believe me. Besides, it would all depend on my ability to reestablish my character with the
ton.
”

“Oh.”

Conversation lagged as each turned to his own thoughts. The swaying motion of the carriage gradually took its toll until Caroline leaned her head back into the corner and cradled her cheek against her elbow. Her ordeal with DeVere still very fresh in her mind, she could not help contrasting the lecherous Frenchman's behavior to that of the notorious Patrick Danvers. She shuddered to think of what would have happened had it not been for Westover. In that last twilight of consciousness, she remembered how very different it had felt when Patrick Danvers had kissed her.

The coach rolled and lurched along the rutted road, jostling her head against the wooden sides of the passenger compartment. Patrick watched Caroline slip deeper into sleep despite her uncomfortable position and then eased her over to rest against his shoulder.

C
aroline dipped her pen in the ink she'd borrowed from Madame Crespin and poised it above the paper. She no longer held Patrick Danvers responsible for her plight, nor did she still consider him a totally ineligible connection. Quite the opposite, in fact, she admitted to herself as she began to write. But she simply could not marry him, particularly not since she suspected she was more than half in love with the red-haired, hazel-eyed viscount. She could not have been happy with the bloodless, purely business sort of marriage he'd first proposed in what now seemed a long-ago encounter in the Canfield parlor, but then neither could she accept his name and nothing more when it was offered merely to save her reputation. Her reputation—that was almost laughable. Aye, she'd always been above reproach, but to what end? A lonely, thankless position devoted to grooming other young women for brilliant matches. Stop it, she chided herself severely. She had to learn to accept her lot in life, else she would be miserable.

“My dear Westover,” she wrote, paused, and then scratched the words out to begin anew with, “Lord Westover,” only to scratch that out also. It was more difficult than she'd imagined to say farewell to the dashing Viscount Westover. “My dear Patrick,” she tried again, and stopped. Too informal, she decided with a heavy sigh. Drawing a line through that, she penned “Dear Patrick Danvers,” and studied that. Incredibly stupid, she guessed, but she had to start somewhere. Still dissatisfied, she crumpled the paper and took out another sheet.

This time, she forged ahead despite misgivings about how she must sound to him. “Dear Westover,” she wrote finally, “I lack the words to express how very grateful I am for your assistance yesterday. I owe you a debt of gratitude that I will never have in my power to repay.” She read what she'd written carefully and thought it sounded rather foolish also, but she lacked the time to polish it as she would have liked. Instead, she plunged on with, “While I am cognizant of the honor you would do me, I must still regretfully decline your offer of marriage. There is not between us those mutual feelings that are necessary for a successful union, and it would be wrong to wed without that. While you might profess yourself content with a marriage of convenience, I believe there would come a time when you would regret it. There would always be the risk that you might later form a lasting passion for another. I know that I have cherished the foolish but romantical notion that someday I will find someone to love me. What folly it would be if we were not free to follow our hearts when that happens.”

Patrick Danvers' image floated before her face, and she remembered how it felt to wake up safely cradled against his shoulder. Even though she was alone now, her face flamed at how she must have looked— disheveled in torn gown and covered insufficiently with his shirt. She'd been astounded by the feel of him, warm, alive, hard-muscled, and definitely masculine. She'd never been that close to a man before—except DeVere, and that was a far different matter. No, Patrick Danvers was nothing like she had thought him.

Regretfully she dipped her pen anew. “Therefore, I am decided,” she continued writing, “that my best course of action is to return to England and seek my old position at the academy where I taught before your aunt employed me. I am taking the fifty pounds you insisted on giving me for pin. money, and I am using it for my passage. Once I am situated again with Miss Richards, I will contrive to return your money and I will reimburse you for the dress you bought me. It is quite the loveliest gown I have ever owned, and I shall cherish it as a reminder of your friendship.” How very foolish you are, she chided herself again. There is no way that you will ever have the kind of money necessary to pay him back. She glanced down at the twilled green silk he'd bought for her wedding dress. It must have cost him the equivalent of a year of her wages, she supposed. Resolutely she turned back to the matter at hand and finished with, “While I doubt we shall ever meet again, I will never forget your kindnesses, my lord. I wish you the best of fortune in all your endeavors, and I remain Your Obedient …” She stopped to cross out the last word and put simply “Servant, Caroline Ashley.”

Her spirits considerably lowered by the finality of her own letter, she folded the paper and sealed it with candle wax. It was over, it was done, and she was ready to get on with her life. She had not the time for regrets just now, anyway, for she could not depend on his being gone above another hour. She'd overheard him tell Bascombe that they were pressing on to catch the Wanstead party as soon as he'd taken care of a business matter. Secretly she'd suspected that he meant to buy her another gown for the trip back to London.

She propped the letter up on a chest, checked her reticule for her money, and slipped down the stairs. There was no sight of him or of Albert Bascombe. She breathed a sigh of relief as she gained the innyard undetected.

Walking briskly, she followed her nose to the bustling docks, where she inquired as to a packet bound for Dover. Directed insolently by a fellow who promised her a better offer, she made her way to where a small ship was taking on passengers. She clutched her reticule nervously and took her place at the end of the line while hoping fervently that she would be under way before the Viscount discovered her note.

Dividing the line two people ahead of her, the ship's officer announced that there was no more space. She stared for a moment in dismay and then pushed forward.

“Please, sir, I have to get back to England—'tis of paramount importance—please.” She reached into the reticule and drew out her purse. “I have the money—I can pay extra, if need be.”

He took in her expensive dress and looked around for a companion. Finding none, he pushed her back. “ 'Tis full.”

“But you cannot be! I have to get to England—I have. to!”

He looked her up and down with new interest, much in the way DeVere had done. “And you'd be grateful, wouldn't you?”

“I have money,” she reminded him.

“ 'Tis full then.” He shrugged insolently and turned away.

“But… you don't understand. I—”

“I believe the young lady is with me, aren't you, my dear?” An elderly gentleman far in front had turned around to watch them. “I am sorry for the misunderstanding, but I had expected my granddaughter to be taking a later packet. Come, my dear,” he addressed Caroline, “we'll send back for your luggage.”

“But, your lordship,” the officer expostulated, “there's no room!”

“Nonsense.” The elderly gentleman dismissed him with the air of one used to being obeyed. “She will share my room, of course.”

Caroline was taken aback by the sudden turn of fortune. A quick appraisal of the old man convinced her she had nothing to fear from him. He smiled a thin smile of encouragement and motioned her forward. “Well, do not be standing there, child—come give me an arm to lean on.”

“Yes, Grandpapa,” she murmured obediently.

Grasping her elbow with a decidedly frail hand, he balanced between her and his cane. “You had a pleasant journey here, child?” he asked kindly. “You really must tell me all about your trip.”

She waited until they were safely aboard and in the privacy of his tiny cabin before she addressed him. “Your pardon, my lord,” she began, “but you must think—”

“At my age, my dear, I am not overly given to quick conclusions,” he interrupted with a twinkle in his faded blue eyes.

“But you must wonder how it is that I have no baggage and no maid, and—”

“And I am sure you will provide me with a most edifying story, no doubt, but first I must sit down, my dear.” He pointed with his cane to the nearest chair. “Over there.” As soon as he was seated, he looked up not unkindly and indicated a nearby seat. “Now,” he told her as she pulled it up and sat down, “you will find me all ears, my dear. I trust you will enlighten me.”

She was suddenly at a loss for words. “I am Caroline Ashley, my lord, and—”

He nodded his head politely in acknowledgment. “And I am Milbourne, Miss Ashley.”

“The Lord Milbourne?” she asked incredulously. “But you must be—”

“A hundred years old?” he supplied with a faint smile. “Only seventy-five, child, and definitely no threat to your virtue. But do go on.”

“ 'Twas not my meaning, sir. I meant who has not heard of Lord Milbourne, my lord? I own I had not expected to find you standing on a French wharf—I mean, I should expect you to be attended.”

“My servants discreetly drew back when I intervened on your behalf. They know not to get involved unless it concerns my safety, Miss Ashley. As for my reasons for being in France, they need not concern us.”

“No, sir,” she murmured.

“Now, my dear, how is it that I find you alone and unprotected in a foreign city? Everything about you says Quality except the lack of a maid and baggage.”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “I have been abducted, my lord.”

“And abandoned?” He shook his head sadly. “In my day, Miss Ashley, morals were not so lax, I assure you. An abduction required a marriage.”

She hesitated, unwilling to tell of Patrick Danvers or of Bertie Bascombe, and yet realizing that she owed Lord Milbourne an explanation. Apparently her thoughts were transparent, for he added gently, “If I am to help you, I must know the whole so that we may best salvage the situation. Anything you have to say will never be repeated outside this room unless you wish it.”

“Are you to help me?” she asked hopefully. If a man of Milbourne's impeccable social standing were to come to her aid, all might not be lost.

“Most assuredly,” he soothed. “But do go on.”

“Well, I am not precisely certain as to how it all came about, sir, but I shall attempt to tell you what I believe to have happened. I was employed by Sir Max and Lady Canfield to companion their daughter Juliana through her first Season. Through Juliana, I met her cousin, Patrick Danvers, who seems to be hanging out for an indigent but willing wife. He proposed marriage to me with the understanding that he would provide for me handsomely if I gave him an heir within the year. Needless to say, I found the proposal sordid in the extreme and I declined.”

“Naturally.” Milbourne put his fingers together and nodded. “Sordid in the extreme. I daresay you had not heard of the betting on the books at White's then? 'Twould seem young Patrick stands to inherit more than Golden Ball if he can produce a respectable wife and a son within a year of the reading of Vernon Danvers' will. Needless to say, the betting is heavily against him.”

“I didn't know, but 'tis most unfair if 'tis so.”

“He may not know of the wager at White's, but I understand it came out of a bet he made with a cousin of his the day the will was read.”

“But it's not fair! How can he meet such infamous terms, sir?” she demanded indignantly. She caught the arrested expression on the old man's face and stopped.

“So you refused his suit,” Lord Milbourne repeated. “His shocking reputation, I daresay, although I have suspected the fault lies with Bridlington's revenge more than with the boy.”

“You know Patrick?” she asked in alarm, and then recovered. “No, 'twas not just his reputation, sir, but the fact that I could not live with such an arrangement. I mean, 'tis not as if he offered his regard even.”

“It is not so much that I know young Danvers, child, but rather that I am acquainted with Lord Bridlington, a mean-spirited, vengeful person if there ever was one. But we wander, I fear. If you refused his suit, am I to collect that he abducted you?”

“Oh, no! Do you know Albert Bascombe, sir?”

“Haverstoke's heir? I have attempted conversation with the boy on several occasions, but no, I do not know him.”

“Well, he abducted me.”

“Bertie Bascombe?” he asked incredulously. “Now, that does surprise me, I must own. I should not suppose he had the wits for it.”

“Oh, not for himself, you understand. I mean, he regards Patrick much in the light of a hero and he would do anything for him. Well, I believe he thought that if he abducted me and carried me off to France, I should be so grateful to see Patrick that I should change my mind.”

Lord Milbourne leaned forward, fascinated. “And?”

“Lord Westover—Patrick—was furious. I mistook the matter because I overheard Mr. Bascombe say he did it for Patrick, but now I believe that Lord Westover did not know of it until Mr. Bascombe left him a letter. Anyway, Mr. Bascombe made it quite clear that he'd no wish to marry me.” She met Milbourne's curious stare and smiled ruefully. “I gave him an awful time on the way over, you see, and he had to drug me to get me on the packet.”

“He drugged you? The boy ought to be clapped up in Bedlam!” his lordship snorted. “In my day, he'd have been called out for it!”

“Well, anyway,” Caroline went on, “he gave me too much, and I was heartily sick when I woke up.”

“This exceeds the bounds of decency!”

“ 'Twas then that I realized that Lord Westover had come after us, for they quarreled in the foyer of the inn. I tried to stop them, but I was unwell, and had it not been for Patrick's assistance, I should have disgraced myself then and there. As it was, he got me back to my room before I was sick.”

“How awful for you, child.” Lord Milbourne reached a bony hand across to pat hers. “You are safe enough now, I promise.”

“Strange—that's what Patrick said too. He said that since Mr. Bascombe abducted me for him, he felt responsible, and that he would give me the protection of his name.”

“I see—and this is when you suspected he was part of the plot?”

“Yes, particularly after what I'd overheard Mr. Bascombe say about doing it for him. Naturally, I refused his suit again. But this time, he insisted that it was a matter of honor and that I should not be expected to produce an heir.”