Julie Anne Long (26 page)

“She cut her hand on a knife, and Leonora allowed me to sew it up. It was very peculiar, but very satisfying, too.”

“Did you sew your initials into her to honor the occasion?”

Rebecca giggled and lifted her face up to him.

“Speaking of breasts, wee Becca . . .”

“Were we?”

“I have not seen yours for one entire
day
.”

She laughed again. Oh, he loved to make her laugh.

“But what of the proprieties?” She whispered it mockingly, then rubbed her lips lightly against the base of his neck. He tensed, shivering.

“Hang the proprieties.” And even though he had promised Raphael, and even though he knew he was sunk if he kissed her, he was already lowering his head.

His mouth fell on hers like scorching velvet, supple, intent, and almost painfully demanding; the force of it, of his suppressed longing, bent Rebecca backward. She took fistfuls of his shirt in her hands for balance and opened herself to it, and he lost himself in the sweet heat and taste and scent of her. It astounded him, how new his hunger for her felt every time they touched, how limitless it seemed.

I could drag her into that stand of trees and take her up against one of them
, Connor thought with the logic of the love-drugged.
In no time at all
.

But he couldn’t make love to her when he planned to leave her tomorrow.

The thought shocked Connor to his senses. He pulled away from Rebecca and held her firmly at arm’s length. Which Rebecca found helpful, because her legs had been rendered nearly useless by the kiss.

“Whatever you do, wee Becca, keep your trust in me,” Connor said, breathing hard. “We both have need of it.”

“All right,” Rebecca said after a moment; still a little kiss-befuddled, she probably would have agreed to just about anything.

Voices were moving toward them; the music had ended, and the Gypsies were heading toward their tents.

“Good night, wee Becca. Remember that I do love you.”

And then he was walking swiftly away from her toward his own tent, leaving her weak-kneed and dazed and wondering.

“What a lot of pistols.”

The groggy voice came from the direction of Raphael’s bedroll. He had propped himself up on his elbow to watch Connor in the predawn darkness.

“Yes, but no powder or shot for any of them,” Connor said glumly. By the light of a single candle, he was sorting through the numerous firearms he’d managed to collect from the highwaymen. All fired and spent, unfortunately.

Raphael clucked sympathetically.

“I can lend ye a knife. Or perhaps a whip. I’ve no powder or shot, I am sorry to say.”

“A whip?” Connor’s head snapped up. “What on earth could I do with a whip?”

“Ye can take a man’s legs right ou’ from under ’im wi’ a whip,” Raphael said with some relish. “If ye wield it proper. Or take a gun out of ’is ’and.”

“
Now
you tell me,” Connor said.

Raphael smiled and lay back down with his hands behind his head.

“My apologies, Raphael. I never meant to wake you. Not until just before I left, anyhow.”

“Ye’re sure ye want to keep to this plan?”

“You know I must.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Aye,” Raphael said with resignation. “I know you must.”

“I
will
return,” Connor said, after a moment’s silence. “Perhaps as soon as late this evening. I have to at least try to resolve all of this, Raphael.”

“I wasna arguin’,” Raphael said mildly.

And then Raphael was quiet for so long Connor thought he must have gone back to sleep.

“She doesna know ye’re leaving this morning, does she?”

Apparently Raphael was still awake.

“She knows I have business to take care of before we can head on to Scotland, and that’s all,” Connor said grimly.

“Ye’re sure now, about not tellin’ ’er?”

Connor sighed.

“All right: no, I am not sure. But I
am
sure that it’s easier this way, however—no questions to answer, no pleas to tear at my resolve. I will go, and return, in the span of a day.”

“If all goes according to plan” were the words they both left unspoken.

“Ye ken we’ll be at the fair only for two days?”

“I will return,” Connor reiterated, emphatically.

Raphael nodded.

“Will you make sure she sees Wombwell’s lion?” Connor said.

“I’ll see to it.”

“And if anything happens . . .”

“We’ll take care of ’er,” Raphael said gently.

“Thank you for everything, Raphael.”

“Ye kept me from the noose years ago, Connor. ’Tis a small price to pay for my life,” Raphael said easily.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Connor answered, and Raphael laughed.

Connor did not appear for the morning meal.

Raphael was there, and the other men, too; Rebecca had begun to recognize faces, so she could tell. But the food (the ever-present, mysteriously delicious stew; she was, in fact, growing very tired of it) had been cooked and served and the fire tamped out, and there was still no sign of Connor.

Was he ill? Perhaps his wound . . . ? Rebecca’s heart lurched at the thought. But no; Raphael woud have sent for Leonora if Connor was unable to leave his tent.

The strange, almost angry kiss last night. There had been a thoroughness, a finality to it.

Almost like a farewell.

Remember that I do love you,
he had said. Why “Remember”? Why not simply “I love you”?

In a mounting panic, Rebecca scanned the horses tethered about the campground. An enormous surge of relief swept through her when she saw both the brown mare and Connor’s gray gelding patiently cropping grass.

“He took Raphael’s black horse,” Martha said, from behind her. “He left before dawn.”

The words landed like hot cinders on the back of Rebecca’s neck. Of course. The highwaymen would be looking for two riders, one on a gray horse, one on a brown horse. She turned slowly to face Martha.

Martha was shaking her head knowingly. “Dinna worry, Rebecca,” she said. “I am sure your
fair
-haired lover will never leave you.”

She flounced cheerfully away.

Rebecca stood still for a moment, then saw Raphael, and started toward him. She could hardly feel her legs as she moved; it was as if the bottom had dropped out of her world, and her legs were paddling away in nothingness.

Raphael saw her white face and answered her question before she could ask it.

“He had business, Miss Rebecca,” he said gently. “He will return.”

Rebecca drew herself up proudly.

“I knew that, of course,” she said.

“I can tell ye no more.”

“What more is there to tell?” Rebecca said, feigning blitheness.

She still could not feel her limbs. Connor had left without telling her.
Business
, he had said.
I have need of your trust
, he had said. But never once, even as she told him her worries, of Martha’s
dukkering
, had he told her he would be leaving. Just silences, and protestations of love.

Her pride prevented her from pelting Raphael with questions. How long will he be gone? Where did he go? Why?

I have need of your trust
.

It was beginning to feel like too much to ask of her.

She felt a soft touch on her arm, and turned to find Leonora’s gently concerned face.

“Come, Rebecca. I would have yer help today wi’ the sick, if ye please.”

The day would go more quickly if she was to keep busy.

“Of course, Leonora. I’d be delighted.”

Chapter Nineteen

A
fter seven hours of hard riding from Cambridgeshire, Connor was not, unfortunately, what anyone would consider inconspicuous. He frankly assessed his reflection in the window of Bingham & Sons, a bookshop. No hat, which on Bond Street equated almost to nudity. A very fine coat over a tattered and bloodstained shirt. Good boots, certainly passable gentleman’s boots, if a bit smudged; dusty trousers, the fawn going dingy. He brushed at them surreptitiously. Eyes a bit shot with blood, hair mussed. He patted and smoothed his hair; his hair, however, had never been very cooperative. His burgeoning beard could not be helped, and around him faces were scrupulously bare. Perhaps if he kept his collar turned up and his face lowered into his cravat . . .

Ah, well. It simply could not be helped.

Melbers & Green
, the sign said. Who on earth was Green? Had Melbers taken on a partner? Connor took a deep breath and turned the knob.

A pale bespectacled chap looked up from a sturdy desk, startled. A few strands of fine graying hair were standing alertly up, as though they, too, were suspicious of the visitor. He’d probably just run his hand through his hair absently as he pored over his work, Connor thought. Melbers had the same habit.

“Good afternoon,” the man said pleasantly enough. “Do you have an appointment, er . . . sir?”

Connor smiled faintly at the hesitation before the word “sir.” Clearly his appearance made his status difficult to categorize.

And then he noticed the portraits, and almost choked.

There were three of them. A veritable haughty continuum of imposing jaws, beetling brows, and luxuriously waving hair, lined up on the wall behind Mr. Green.

Three Dukes of Dunbrooke.

His grandfather on the left. Richard, sulky-mouthed and handsome, in the middle. And his father glared at him from the end, angry at the world for posterity.

“Mr. Green, I presume?” Connor said finally, recovering. He took great care to make each word sound succulently aristocratic; it was an attempt to put Mr. Green at ease.

As expected, the man’s face relaxed a bit.

“Yes, sir. I am he.”

“Mr. Green, I am here to see Mr. Melbers. Is he available?”

Mr. Green looked confused.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Melbers passed away in April of this year.”

Sadness swamped Connor. He had half expected this news, and yet it was still a blow. Kind old loyal Melbers, who had quietly protested the brutality of the old duke by secretly sending money every year to the wayward son. Connor decided he could not afford to confide in Mr. Green; he hadn’t the time to determine whether Mr. Green knew, or could be trusted with, his secret—that he had no intention of ever adding his own portrait to the collection on the wall.

Mr. Green watched Connor curiously, a gentle sort of puzzlement furrowing his brow. His was the expression of a man searching for a word just at the tip of his tongue, and who has every confidence his brain will yield it up in just a moment. Connor’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the three dukes glowering over Mr. Green’s shoulder, three glowering answers to Mr. Green’s unspoken question.
Don’t turn around, Mr. Green
, he silently entreated.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir. Melbers is sorely missed. Were you a friend?”

“A business associate,” Connor said quickly, taking a step backward.

“Perhaps I can help you?”

“I think not, Mr. Green.”

“But I have a number of clients of high rank who are very happy with my work,” Mr. Green said proudly. He turned his back to Connor to gesture to the row of portraits. “Why, I manage the affairs of Her Grace, Cordelia, dowager Duchess of . . .”

His voice trailed off. His gesturing hand froze midair.

But when Mr. Green spun around again, Connor was gone.

Collar up, head down, cravat fluffed up over his chin, Connor strode for two blocks before stopping between two parked hackney coaches to rest and contemplate. Three words rang in his ears as he walked.

Cordelia, dowager Duchess . . .

Cordelia
, eh? Well. It was a good deal more aristocratic than “Marianne,” he had to admit. A fine choice. A fine name for a murderess.

He stood between the parked hacks and quietly seethed, watching the foot traffic in the street, the tide of men about their business.
I tried
, he told himself. At least I
tried
to make amends. Perhaps everything is as it should be; perhaps I should just leave it all be, concede defeat, return to Rebecca . . .

But no. He knew his past would dog him as long as Marianne—correction,
Cordelia
—suspected he was alive. And he supposed if it came to that, alone he could handle a lifetime of sleeping fitfully at night and always looking over his shoulder during the day. But he would not, could not, subject Rebecca to that kind of life. And he fully intended to live a life with Rebecca.

She deserved a life that was safe and happy, and he deserved a life with her that was free of the encumbrances of the old one.

Oh, God. What, then, were his choices?

His stomach rumbled; he thought he’d think more clearly with a meal inside him. He contemplated ducking into a cheese shop, and scanned the street for a likely one.

And then his breath caught.

Outside the bookshop, a tall, distinguished fellow, his bearing as upright as a ship’s mast, was deep in conversation with a small older gentleman. The tall gentleman held a book between gloved hands; it appeared to be the subject of their conversation.

It
couldn’t
be, could it?

He watched for another long moment, motionless, his heartbeat accelerating.

When the tall gentleman laughed a familiar booming laugh, Connor knew for certain: it was Colonel William Pierce, looking much the same as he did when Connor had glimpsed him last on the battlefield at Waterloo.

If ever God actually sent a sign to anyone on earth, surely it would manifest just like this, Connor thought. Pierce was a pragmatic and accepting sort, difficult to surprise and not inclined to form an opinion of a man until he’d heard him out. Pierce, who moved in London circles, would help him meet with Cordelia, and Pierce, who knew exactly how Connor felt about everything associated with his father and the Dunbrooke title, would no doubt keep quiet about the Duke of Dunbrooke returning from the dead.

Connor closed his eyes briefly against a tremendous wave of relief, and then opened them quickly again. The last thing he wanted to do was lose sight of Pierce.

But what now? He could not simply walk up to Pierce with a hearty “Hallo! Remember me?” He was supposed to be dead. The best he could hope for was a moment alone with him in a relatively discreet place, where he could approach him cautiously.

Pierce, at that moment, was making his bow to the older gentleman. The two parted, and after a moment’s hesitation, as though waiting for his companion to disappear from view, Pierce stepped into a flower shop only a few feet away.

Connor hovered outside the shop, pretending to be absorbed by a handbill plastered to the side of the building. He didn’t have to pretend for very long. The shop door opened again shortly, and he heard a man’s voice, the shopkeeper’s, no doubt, raised in what sounded like despair.

“. . . but, Colonel, they are much harder to come by in London than you might think. Hothouses do not like to devote space to them when they can be had by the handful in the country at no expense whatsoever.”

“Bluebells, Mr. Gordon,” came Pierce’s voice, polite but firm, from the doorway. “I have a standing order for bluebells, and well you know. Find them and deliver them as usual, if you please. And I will, as usual, make it well worth your while. I bid you good day.”

Bluebells
? Connor thought. What could a war hero possibly want with
bluebells
?

Pierce exited the shop and stood in the doorway of it a moment, his face a little thunderous. He paused for a moment, tapping his walking stick against his boot as if mulling over something. And then he strode onward decisively in the direction of the Coach and Six, a tavern known for unwatered ale and good plain food.

Connor fell into step behind Pierce and watched him push open the door of the Coach and Six. Taking a deep breath, Connor fluffed his cravat up over his chin once more, counted to ten, and followed Pierce into the pub.

The pub was teeming with a variety of actual gentlemen, as well as a collection of chaps who stretched the definition of gentlemen rather severely. The wives of the actual gentlemen, Connor knew, would be appalled to see their husbands tipping ale and trading jokes and back slaps with the other sort. This crowd in its entirety would never meet in a ballroom, but at a cockfight or a pub, they would certainly mingle quite happily.

Pierce traded greetings with a number of men that Connor did not recognize, while Connor pushed his way to a corner table.

“What’ll it be, guv?”

Connor pretended to be fascinated by his own fingernails as he spoke, not wishing to give the barmaid or anybody else in the vicinity a full-on look at his face.

“A pint of dark, miss, if you would.”

“The color of yer money, if
ye
would, sir.”

Connor unfurled the pound note that was balled in his fist.

Satisfied, she swished her skirts away toward the bar.

“I say, Pierce, will you be attending Lady Wakefield’s do this evening?” called a voice from across the bar.

Connor pitched all his senses toward the conversation. Tempting though it was to crane his head for a look at the speaker, self-preservation forced him to keep his eyes lowered. Lady Wakefield, last he knew, lived in a townhouse in St. James Square. Two doors away from the Dunbrooke townhouse. She had also, rumor had it, been his father’s mistress. During a visit at Keighley Park, she had once come upon Connor in the hallway with his hand down the dress of a giggling maid. She never mentioned the incident to his father, which had endeared Lady Wakefield to Connor for eternity.

“Aye, Rutherford, that I am. I am assured it is a social requirement.”

Scattered, good-natured laughter greeted Pierce’s comment.

“Bloody dull, these social requirements. Save for the presence of a certain fair-haired angel, am I mistaken, Pierce?”

More good-natured laughter, as well as the unmistakable thump of a hand slapping a solid back.

“You might have to make a run for it with the fair Lorelei, Pierce. Her mama is intent on marrying her off to a marquis or some such.”

Good God. Connor seriously doubted more than one girl named Lorelei was being shepherded through the
ton
by an ambitious mama this season. He was rocked by the irony that Lorelei Tremaine would be associated with Pierce, and for a brief perverse moment, Connor wished he’d been able to witness the stir that Lorelei had no doubt created among the young bloods and matrons of the
ton
. Rebecca, no doubt, would have enjoyed watching her sister create a sensation, as well. But the Tremaines had not planned a season for their younger daughter. Instead, for the sake of family honor and expediency, they had forced her into an engagement to a dissolute baron. He felt a little surge of anger on Rebecca’s behalf.
I hope they are losing sleep over her right now. They deserve to lose sleep over her.

Colonel Pierce’s voice rose up out of the laughter. “Oh, come now, Rutherford, you know I am not in the market for a wife. In fact, let us drink to the success of Lorelei’s mama.”

Connor smiled faintly at Pierce’s tone. He remembered it well, that pleasant timbre shot through with steel. It meant Pierce intended to brook no further discussion of the topic of Lorelei Tremaine.

There was laughter, and the clink of glasses touching as Lady Tremaine was toasted. Then Rutherford cleared his throat and said in a loud inclusive tone, “Well, now, and I heard the king is expected to appear at Lady Wakefield’s do, as well. Do we think he’ll get his divorce?”

Rutherford had predictably changed the topic to a very popular one. George IV might be a sot, but his wife was a harlot, or so he claimed, and he was doing his best to divest himself of her. Perversely, the entire
ton
had sided with Queen Charlotte. A racket of enthusiastic voices chimed in with opinions.

A pint of dark ale landed with a clunk on the table in front of Connor, and next to it the barmaid slapped down a small pile of coins by way of change. She waltzed off into the crowd once more before he could utter a word of thanks. He lifted the pint to his mouth and tilted, watching with an ache that bordered on the sensual as the thick silky white foam slid toward his lips.

“Tonight, then, Pierce! We’ll have a cigar at Lady Wakefield’s,” Rutherford called.

Blast
. Pierce was already weaving his way through the crowd toward the door. Connor took a long draught of the ale and lowered his head as Pierce passed his table.

“That, at least, I shall look forward to, Rutherford,” Pierce said, and exited the pub to the sound of friendly laughter.

Connor waited a moment or two, then slid his chair back and discreetly followed Pierce out of the darkness of the Coach and Six. He stood on the threshold of the pub for an instant, blinking to adjust to the daylight, then took a step forward.

And nearly collided with John and Edgar the high- waymen.

Connor recovered first.

He plunged into the Bond Street crowd, making for the thickest part of it, all the while keeping a desperate eye on Colonel Pierce, who was now moving at a brisk and determined pace. It would be difficult to get off an accurate pistol shot in this throng, Connor knew. But that didn’t mean the highwaymen would not try.

Connor walked swiftly, moving as fast as he dared without breaking into a rather more conspicuous and less dignified gallop, and took refuge at the sides of the plumpest men he could find in the hope that it would make him an even more difficult target. But John and Edgar had managed to separate from each other and were now more or less flanking him. Connor caught glimpses of them now and again as the three of them dodged purposefully between men in the street, one man seeking cover and two men seeking a gap in the crowd through which a pistol ball could travel. It was like participating in a deadly sort of reel.