Lady Scandal (11 page)

Temper lost, Gustave swung on him.
"It is
not enough you take our sons and our crops, but now you have to
take our homes apart!
War!
Always it is war with this Bonaparte!
Why can you not—"

"Careful, Innkeep!
You do not want to say
things you will have to repeat before the Minister of Justice."

Sagging, Gustave slunk back.

And a shout came from the inn, from
upstairs.
"Captain—in here!"

Face pale, sweat stinging as it dripped into
his eyes, Gustave watched the captain stride into the inn, his
saber rattling at his side.
He hurried after, his heart beating so
hard it made him ill.

Could he pretend outrage to
learn his guest were not French, that they had deceived him—and
they had.
Of course, he had not asked too closely about them once
he saw their gold.
Mary, Mother of God
help me now.
His stomach quivered, but he
resisted the urge to cross himself.
However, he did put a hand up
to rub his throat for he could already feel the tickle of Madam
Guillotine's blade.

The captain took the stairs three at a time.
Gustave rushed after him, and stopped in the doorway to stare into
a room empty of anything other than its usual furniture, too many
soldiers, and three heavy, open portmanteaus.

One man held up a pink, silk dress.
"Someone
left in a hurry, sir.
Quick enough to leave these."

Gustave blinked.
The English were gone?

Gold braid loomed before him and he looked
up into a tight-set face.
He swallowed his fear, but it lodged in
his throat.

"Tell me again about those women who left
this morning in their carriage—and tell me this time why they left
their dresses behind."

#

Alexandria sat with her jewel box at her
feet, Diana pressed against her on the left and Paxten on the
right.
They sat three to a bench seat designed to hold two, and she
knew Paxten's every movement.
She felt him turn to glance behind
them, knew when he braced his leg against the gig to better handle
a turn, and knew when his shoulders sagged with the effort it cost
him to drive this tiny gig.
But he would not allow her to take the
reins, even though she had offered three times now.

The worry had to come out somehow, so she
put it into simmering indignation.
"That broach cost eighty
pounds!"

He glanced at her and looked back to the
road.
He had kept the pair of horses harnessed to the gig to a
brisk trot ever since they had left the farm house that lay at the
edge of the village.
Judging from the sun's position, they traveled
west, but Alexandria would not have made a wager on that.
At least
the sun shone, the air held a touch of spring warmth, and the road
stretched open before them.

A smile curved up his mouth, even though she
could also glimpse white brackets of pain there as well.
"You ought
to appreciate that you travel in a most expensive carriage."

"Did you have to pay that farmer with that
particular broach?" she asked.

His answer came back unruffled, as amused as
ever.
"It was not a time for bargaining as I recall, and it caught
his eye.
Was it an heirloom?"

"I would never have allowed
you to give away any of the Chetwynd family jewels!"
And now I sound like my mother—or worse, like
Bertram's mother
, she decided.
Was she
becoming that—a sift-necked, prune-mouthed dowager with nothing
good to say to anyone?

She bit down on the insides of her cheeks to keep
from saying anything more.

On her other side, Diana fidgeted, fussing
with the ties to the bonnet she had snatched up before Paxten had
dragged them out of the inn.

Alexandria's temper flared.
"Can you not sit
still?" she snapped, frowning at her niece.

Diana stilled and muttered, "I beg your
pardon." But soon she was twisting again, almost bouncing in her
seat.
"Was that not the most exciting thing?
I thought certain we
were caught.
And to have to run from house to house—how did you
know how do to that, Mr.
Marsett?"

He started to answer, glanced at Alexandria,
and said, "Practice at the wrong sorts of things.
You should forget
you ever had to do such a thing."

"Oh, but it was just what we needed!
And
then to find a farmer just harnessing his gig, and to practically
snatch it out from him!"

"Not exactly a godsend," Alexandria
remarked, her tone dry.
She glanced at the mismatched pair of
horses—one brown, the other a roan.
Heavy animals with thick,
unruly manes, they looked as if they ought to be pulling a plough.
As to the gig....
"This vehicle has no springs and we are like to
be bounced to death in it."

"We won't be in it long enough," Paxten
said.
He had switched to speaking English as soon as they gained
the open road, but now Alexandria stared at him, not comprehending
him in the least.

"Won't be—?
After you gave away my favorite
broach to buy this...this...carriage, you say we will not be in it
that long?
Are we that near to the coast?"

"We are if you can sprout wings.
But, no,
what I had in mind when I spoke is that those soldiers will be busy
only a short while, taking apart that inn.
They may follow after
your coach, but when they catch it, they will realize they were
tricked.
And they may come back to that inn we left so
quickly."

Alexandria sat back for a moment, frowning.
"You think they will talk to the farmer who sold us this gig?"

"Perhaps.
If they do, the man might not want
to talk about the broach given him, but there are ways a man can be
persuaded into talking."

Diana leaned forward to glance at him from
the other side of Alexandria, her expression worried.
"Persuaded—do
you mean as in using force?"

Paxten lifted one shoulder.
"Perhaps only
threats.
In any case, we are best served if we take the chance out
of it.
Which means we need to acquire another means of
transport—and new identities."

Diana's eyes brightened.
"Really?
Oh, may I
disguise myself as a boy and wear breeches?"

Alexandria gave her niece a withering stare.
"My dear, if you put on breeches, a boy's figure is the last thing
any man will think about.
With your curves, you are more like to
begin a riot, so no, you may not disguise yourself as a boy."

Diana's face fell.
Alexandria turned her
stare back to the road, and the wide, mismatched rumps of the
horses pulling the gig.
Now she felt the worst spoilsport.
She put
a hand on her niece's leg.
"Now, I suppose I could make a perfectly
adequate boy, what with my lack of curves."

Paxten glanced at her, an odd light in his
eyes.
"I should like to see you try."

She blushed hot, and since she could think
of nothing to answer him, she glared at him and asked, "What did
you really do to Lisette D'Aeth to bring so much wrath down on your
head?"

"Only what I told you—but I am certain she
gave her husband a story of the worst crimes.
Ironic that I am now
hunted for a sin I did not commit when I have so many others
waiting judgment."

Diana leaned forward to glanced at Paxten
around Alexandria.
"Madam D'Aeth—so that is your Lisette!
Whatever
did you see in her?
I always thought her rather common,
actually."

Paxten opened his mouth to answer, but
Alexandria interrupted.
"Diana, you will forget that you heard
anything mentioned about Madam D'Aeth, and you will not repeat that
remark again, please."

"But I won't forget." Alexandria turned to
glare at her niece, and the girl smiled back.
"I mean, of course I
should never dream of mentioning it to Father, or to Mummy for that
matter—oh, wouldn't she just faint if I brought up anything so
indelicate.
But I am hardly a child.
And if you can speak to Mr.
Marsett of such matters, why can I not?
Is not honest conversation
of any value anywhere?"

Paxten grinned.
"Not in the salons of Paris
or London, but we are in the French countryside.
And we are about
to become solid French citizens, at one with the land and the
seasons."

Diana's eyes brightened.
"That sounds
lovely.
How do we do that?"

Inside, Alexandria groaned.
Now he had her
niece under his spell.
And she could not think that his next idea
would be any better than the last.
But he was right.
They needed to
do all they could to throw off the trail of that captain and his
men.

Why, she wondered, had she not set him down
from her carriage at the very outset of this?
She would certainly
never forgive herself if her weakness for him led Diana into
further dangers.

#

Alexandria held up the rough, cotton shift
and the high-waisted dark-brown dress.
On the ground lay a straw
bonnet, wool stockings with plain garters to tie them up and sturdy
half-boots.
Behind her, a stream gurgled over pebbles, rocks and
fallen branches in a light rush of sound.
Breeze whispered though
the trees overhead, and dappled sunlight shifted across the spring
grass and dark earth.

A longing for her own gowns tightened in her
chest.
Soft silks and bold satins.
Lace so fine that it seemed
tatted from a fairy's web.
Soft muslin designed to float and spin
as one danced.
Kid gloves made to fit, satin dancing slippers and
boots so soft the leather molded itself to her feet.
All gone.

Well, she had the lawn chemise she wore, the
material so fine as to be nearly transparent.
And soft.
She would
keep that.
And her corset.
And her own silk stockings.
Perhaps she
could wash them in the stream nearby.
And she could still use her
own pink, satin garters trimmed in lace.
And her boots.

That left the horrid dress.
And the
bonnet.

She glanced around her.

Paxten had left them at the edge of a wooded
area, near a thick stand of beech trees and not far from a narrow,
fast stream fed by a spring.
Flowers of some sort—small and
white—bloomed in the shade.
She had never known the name of any
plant, other than knowing a rose from a lily.

"Best if you're not seen in town when I sell
the gig," he had said.
Alexandria had winced at the effort it took
him to climb back into the carriage.

"I ought to come with you," she told
him.

With a smile, he shook his head.
"And have
your description left behind for those soldiers to follow?
The idea
here is to hide our tracks, and I cannot do that with a lady beside
me."

She had frowned at that, wanting to argue,
but he had driven off before she could come up with better reasons
why he needed her assistance.

He returned an hour later, riding the roan
without a saddle but with two cloth bags slung before him over the
roan's withers.
After sliding off the roan's back, he pulled the
bags down and opened one, producing a wine bottle, thick-crusted
bread wrapped in a cloth, cheese covered in red wax, and sweet
green apples.

Ravenous, she had eaten like a peasant,
sitting on the ground, drinking the wine—a sharp red that tasted of
oak and spices—from the bottle, letting Paxten entertain them with
the story of his horse trading.

"Is that all you got for the gig?" she said,
outraged when he counted the few coins from his leather purse

"No, it's not, but I spent some of it." He
pulled out the clothes then from the other bag.
"For you Mistress
Marsett, and for you Mademoiselle Marsett.
We are now the Marsett
family, en route to Boulogne to see our lovely daughter here wed to
a fisherman's son whom she met last year while we were visiting
cousins.
And scowl you may, Andria, for you are to be the wife who
dislikes the marriage and therefore says little.
You should be able
to manage that with your French."