More Than a Lover (3 page)

‘I'll fetch him.' He made a small gesture with his hand and let it fall. ‘You might want to take a peek in the mirror. Your cap...' His words trailed off, but there was heat in his eyes she did not understand. He turned away smartly. ‘I'll fetch him up.'

The moment he closed the door, she leaped to her feet and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. Heavens, her cap was askew and tendrils of hair were hanging in strings around her face. Mr Read must think her a slattern to be drinking and sleeping in such a state. Cheeks pink with embarrassment, her stomach dipping in shame, she quickly tidied herself barely moments before she heard the tread of heavy steps on the stairs followed by a sharp knock.

‘Come.'

Mr Read ushered in a heavyset gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties with wind-roughened cheeks and a beak of a nose above a grizzled beard.

‘Mrs Falkner, may I introduce Sir Reginald Walcombe. Sir Reginald, this is the lady of whom I spoke.'

Sir Reginald bowed, with a creaking of corset. ‘Ma'am.'

‘Please, gentlemen, be seated,' she said.

Sir Reginald sat, pulled out an enormous white linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Stairs, ma'am,' he wheezed apologetically.

Behind him, amusement twinkled in Mr Read's eyes for such a brief moment she almost might have imagined it. Almost. But it was such a warming and comforting thing, she knew she had not. Indeed, she had a tiny bit of trouble repressing a smile. ‘May I call for the tea tray, Sir Reginald?'

‘No, thank'ee kindly. I had a shot of Lane's best down below.'

For some reason, Mr Read remained standing. His expression was blank, but he seemed to be watching her intently.

‘Now, ma'am, I know thee's had a shock, but tell me, if you will, in your own words, what happened.'

She relayed the same information to him as she had told to Mr Read, whose gaze became more intense.

When she got to the part about Garge looking in on her, Sir Reginald frowned. ‘You saw him, ma'am?'

‘No. It took me a moment or two to come to my senses, but the door was open, as Mr Read will confirm.'

‘It was,' Mr Read said.

Sir Reginald's bushy brows drew down in a way that would frighten small children and miscreants. ‘He spoke then? Said something to ʼee?'

‘No. The door opened. Nothing else.'

‘Ah, probably the latch gave way. Coach is badly damaged.' He shook his head. ‘Bad business all around.' With a laboured grunt, Sir Reginald pushed to his feet with hands braced on the chair arms. ‘A terrible accident, then. And not the first time on that bend. I'll bid you good day, ma'am.'

‘I will see you out, sir,' Mr Read said. ‘I will return in a moment, Mrs Falkner.'

Something in the way he looked at her gave her pause. Was there something he wasn't saying?

Heart beating fast, she awaited his return.

* * *

A good fifteen minutes passed and still no sign of him. She got up and looked out of the window. There was no sign of any conveyance, but the windows of the rooms below cast their light out into the courtyard.

Finally, a light knock sounded at the door. She hadn't heard anyone mounting the stairs. ‘Who is it?'

‘Read,' came the low rumble of his voice.

‘Come in.'

He entered with a frown on his face.

‘Is something wrong?'

‘I took the liberty of asking for dinner to be served in here and booking you room for the night. I had your valise and purchases taken upstairs.'

Her stomach pitched. ‘I cannot be away all night. Tommy will worry.' He was a clever little boy. It had not taken him long to realise that most children had two parents as well as extended families. He knew his father had died and had become terrified she would die, too, leaving him completely alone.

Mr Read's expression darkened as if her anxiety was his fault, but he gave her no chance to explain. ‘We have no choice,' he bit out tersely. ‘It is too late to set out tonight. Sir Reginald has promised to send over his carriage for our use in the morning, but he needed it to return home. Lane's cart is required for funeral purposes.' His voice was harshly matter-of-fact.

They were stranded. She took a deep breath. ‘I see. Well then, there really is no alternative.'

‘Mrs Lane will show you up to your chamber to freshen up. Dinner is to be served in here in an hour.' He hesitated and went on in a voice devoid of all expression. ‘If you don't care for company this evening, I am more than happy to take my meal in the kitchen.'

Despite the flatness of his tone, and an apparent lack of concern about her decision one way or the other, she sensed an underlying tension. As if he expected her to consign him to dine with the servants. He must think her rude indeed. ‘After today's events I would be grateful for your company, Mr Read. And I wish to hear more of Sir Reginald's opinion with regard to the accident.'

His expression lightened, very slightly. He bowed. ‘It will be my pleasure. I will let Mrs Lane know you are ready to go up.'

His
pleasure
. Now, why had that word sent shivers skating down her back?

* * *

Waiting in the parlour for her return, Blade cursed himself for his weakness, for wanting to spend time in her company. He should not have even thought of having dinner with her, let alone suggesting it in a manner that made it impossible for her to say no. So typical of him, Charlie would say. He'd spent too many years on the strut honing his seductive skills to leave them at the door when in decent company. Too bad. He made no pretence of being more than the guttersnipe he'd been born, the reason why some of the more daring ladies liked him in their beds. A taste of excitement and danger. A bit of rough, one had called him to his face.

Not this one, though. This one was a respectable lady who would not have given him the time of day if he wasn't Charlie's friend. And nor should she.

He still didn't know what to make of her assertion that Garge, or someone, had opened the door, and it was that someone who was worrying him. Who
had
opened the carriage door and looked in? Why would anyone do that and not render assistance?

Old Sir Reginald had seen it as female megrims, but that was too out of character for Mrs Falkner. Could someone have come across the accident, thought to rob the carriage and been deterred by the sound of him coming along the road? Or could it be something more sinister, such as someone hoping to cause Tonbridge harm? Someone who had been surprised by the presence of a woman in his carriage and taken off. Or was it simply a case of the door latch letting go as the carriage twisted and settled on its broken axle as Sir Reginald thought? Blade might have thought so, too, if not for the one unaccounted-for boot print in the mud beside the carriage door.

Nevertheless, whichever it was, Mrs Falkner had been lucky she wasn't more seriously hurt.

Fortunately, like Sir Reginald, she seemed to have no suspicion that it might be anything other than an accident. And since he did not want her frightened out of her wits any more than she had been already, he planned to leave it that way. He still couldn't quite believe she hadn't simply taken to her bed after such a scare.

His unruly mind wandered back to the scene of her drowsing in the chair when he had come to warn her of Sir Reginald's imminent arrival. Asleep, her face relaxed, she had looked younger, prettier, more like the girl he had been smitten with that long-ago spring. A memory she clearly did not want to acknowledge any more than he did. She was the daughter of a vicar and he was the bastard son of a prostitute who'd kicked him out at the age of ten.
‘I don't need you hanging around. You are just another mouth for me to feed.'
The pain of those words stabbed him behind the breastbone. Less sharp than when spoken, but still there. While he hadn't thought so at the time, he'd been fortunate his father had agreed to recognise him as his son or he'd likely have died on the streets of London. Or been hanged for a criminal.

He heard her soft tread on the stairs outside the parlour and opened the door.

She looked startled. ‘How did you know it was me?'

‘By your step.' He led her to the chair by the hearth. The table was set, but the food had not yet appeared.

He stood at ease, wrist crossed over his forearm behind him. A trick he'd perfected to make the missing hand less noticeable.

‘Please, Mr Read,' she said sharply. ‘Be seated, before I get a crick in my neck.'

He was tempted to resist what was clearly an order. That had always been his trouble. Rebelling at stupid orders. She suffered from a similar affliction, he recalled, and he wanted to smile.

Her expression carved in stone, her hands folded in her lap, she waited for him to do as she bid.

He picked up the poker, raked around in the fire for a moment or two as a sop to his pride, before he sat in the chair recently occupied by Sir Reginald. ‘Why do you pretend we did not meet before?'

Hell, why had that been blurted out of his mouth? Why the devil did it matter?

Her lush lips parted. Her eyes widened in shock before her gaze lowered to her clasped fingers. ‘You gave no sign of remembering me either,' she said in a low voice.

At seventeen, and a newly minted ensign, he'd thought her akin to an angel. He'd been far too tongue-tied seeing how pretty she was, how very different from the women he'd known when living with his mother, or those in his adoptive parents' house, to do more than stutter a greeting.

She was also the reason for his first reprimand. He'd gone for Carothers's throat when he'd called her a round-heeled wench in the officers' mess the morning after the local assembly, where they'd been invited to make up the numbers of gentlemen. For that, he'd received a tongue-lashing from his commanding officer and a black mark on his record. Only his father's name had kept him from being thrown out of the regiment.

‘It was a long time ago,' he said. Too long ago for it to be of any relevance.

‘Yes.' She raised her gaze to meet his, clearly glad to put the recollection behind her. ‘Much has occurred since then.'

‘Indeed.' She had been married and widowed. He had been as good as discharged from the career he loved.

‘I assume Sir Reginald has finished his investigations?' she asked, clearly anxious to change an awkward subject.

He gave a brief nod. ‘Apparently it is not the first fatality to occur on that particular corner.'

‘I hope he did not blame Josiah Garge. I am sure he did his best.'

‘No. No blame.'

‘His wife will take some comfort from that, and I know Lord Tonbridge will make a generous settlement. Still, it is a very sad day for the Garge family. What are the next steps?'

‘The jury will be called by the coroner tomorrow. They will meet below.'

‘Will I need to appear?' She sounded surprisingly anxious. Was there something she knew that she had not told him? Something she wanted to hide? He wanted to question her further, but she looked so pale, so tired, he decided to leave it. For now.

‘I believe not. My word and that of the constable will be enough. Once a verdict is reached we can leave for Skepton. Lane will bring the remains there for the appropriate rites and services.'

She nodded slowly. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your help and support in this matter.'

If he'd been truly helpful, instead of standing on his dignity, he would have insisted on escorting her and none of this would have happened. He frowned at her. ‘You said you were going to hire outriders.'

She made a face. ‘There were none available at such short notice.'

He had no way of knowing whether or not that was the truth, but it was water under the bridge. One thing he did know—as soon as he got to Skepton, he would write to Tonbridge and see if he had any thoughts on whether someone might have accosted his carriage and, if so, who.

Then he'd do a bit of investigating of his own. In the meantime, he would enjoy a meal with a pretty woman who, it seemed, was prepared to admit she recalled him.

Chapter Three

D
espite his assurances that all was well in hand, Caro sensed an underlying concern in Mr Read's manner as he gestured to a side table. ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry?'

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, no.'

His gaze cut longingly to the tray of drinks.

‘Please, do not let my abstinence prevent you from partaking.'

He strode to the table and poured himself a brandy. He tossed it off and poured another. Dutch courage? Was she really so formidable to a man who had faced the guns at Waterloo?

An awkward silence ensued, fortunately broken by the entry of Mrs Lane with supper dishes. The young woman with her, a dark-haired lass of about sixteen, eyed Mr Read with obvious interest. Caro narrowed her eyes at the girl, who blushed and giggled before she left the room with a dip of a curtsy.

Mrs Lane, elbows akimbo, gazed from one to the other of them. ‘You'll pardon me, sir, if I has this to say no matter what Sir Reginald thinks of the
accident
?'

Mr Read tensed, but his lips formed an encouraging smile. ‘I would be glad to hear your opinion, Mrs Lane.'

‘I've known Josiah Garge for years. Back and forth he's gone along this road until he knowed it like the back of his hand. He's no Johnny Raw to be taking that corner too fast. Something happened.'

The piercing gaze Mr Read had fixed on the woman's face became more intense. ‘What sort of something?'

Mrs Lane deflated, her hands falling to her sides. She shook her head. ‘I don't know. But taking a man's good name, talk of drink, fair makes my blood to boil.'

Caro's own indignation rose. ‘Is that what Sir Reginald is saying? I have no reason to believe that Josiah Garge was anything but sober. Mr Read, surely—'

‘Sir Reginald made no more than a passing comment,' he said. ‘One of several possibilities.' His lips flattened. ‘But you are right, Mrs Lane. It is easy for a man's reputation to be blackened by a careless word. I will ensure that no such aspersions on his character will be cast without evidence.'

‘His wife will thank you for it, sir,' the landlady said.

‘And you may be assured that Lord Tonbridge will see to it that she is properly cared for,' Caro added.

‘As he should, or he would hear from me,' Mrs Lane said brusquely. ‘Dinner is served.' She nodded for emphasis and left, leaving the door wide open.

‘A fierce woman, our Mrs Lane,' Mr Read said. ‘Clearly not one to be cowed by the heir to a dukedom. Shall we eat? I told Mrs Lane we could manage to serve ourselves since most of her staff is off on other errands on our behalf. I hope that finds favour with you?'

She certainly didn't want the saucy servant girl waiting on them. And as long as the door remained open... ‘Certainly.'

He led her to the table and seated her, managing to slide her chair in with one hand as easily as a man with two. He sat opposite her. ‘If you would serve the side dishes, while I serve the beef?'

The beef had been sliced in the kitchen. He used the large fork provided and placed two slices on her plate. She served him the potatoes, green beans and peas. After spooning gravy on her plate, she passed him the boat.

‘Wine?' he asked.

‘Thank you.'

He poured a rich red burgundy into their glasses. After a short muttered saying of grace, he lifted his goblet in a toast. ‘To those gone but not forgotten.'

The sorrow in his deep voice was not lost on her. This toast meant something more than Josiah Garge. Although there were some people in her life she would prefer to forget, the coachman was not among them. She raised her glass. ‘Not forgotten.' She sipped and put the glass down. She usually preferred water.

They addressed their dinner. Or at least she did. She had not expected to feel so hungry, but it had been a long time since breakfast. Something made her look up.

He was watching her, his eyes hooded, his expression something she could not quite read. Was she eating too fast? Did he think that if she was a proper lady she would not be hungry, but should pick at her food? ‘Is something wrong?'

He seemed to pull himself back into the present. ‘Nothing.' He picked up his fork and neatly folded a slice of meat into a small parcel before lifting it to his mouth. It was barely noticeable that he had the use of only one hand since he accomplished it with such grace.

‘How long do you plan to stay in Skepton?' she asked, more to fill the silence than anything else. There seemed to be a great many silences in Mr Read's company. Perhaps that was what made him so attractive to the ladies. To her. His air of impenetrable darkness.

She mentally shook her head at her foolish thoughts.

He took a sip of his wine. ‘Good question.' The pause signified something important. ‘After I met you in York yesterday, I received a letter from Lord Tonbridge. He has offered me a position in his employ.'

The way he phrased it, the way he looked at her... Her heart fluttered oddly. ‘A position in Skepton?'

‘Yes. As house steward at the Haven.'

Her vision tunnelled to a small point. ‘The Haven? My Haven?' The place where she thought she and Tommy were finally safe?

He gave a slight grimace. ‘I understand that Lady Tonbridge—'

‘Yes, of course. She is our patron. Without her, there would be no refuge. But I thought she trusted— We had an agreement...' She forced herself to stop. ‘This is Lord Tonbridge's doing.' She pressed her lips together. What could she say? Her friend was married. Her husband's word was law. And now he would put this man in charge of a house she had managed perfectly well these past many months. Any other man might not be so bad, but what if he recognised Tommy, the way he had recognised her? Fortunately, the lad took more after her than his male parent, who had been almost as dark as she was fair. Only his jaw and his eyes came from his father. The thought of anyone realising she had never been married left her feeling ill. Not for her sake, but for how badly it would reflect on Tommy. On his future prospects. It really was too bad. She did not want to leave a place she had come to think of as her home. Her place in the world.

Like a mask his face revealed none of his thoughts. ‘I am sorry if my appointment distresses you, Mrs Falkner. I can assure you, I am not charged with interference in the running of the charity. I am to see to the maintenance and security of the property along with that of the mill until Tonbridge is able to leave his father's bedside and return to his duties.'

‘Security?' She stared at him. ‘Tonbridge thinks we are in some sort of danger?'

‘Tonbridge, like any good soldier, is ensuring his defences cannot be breached. There are rogues everywhere, Mrs Falkner. Thieves as well as malcontents. As I said, the appointment is temporary.'

Temporary.
She grasped at the word like a straw. But temporary might be a very long time given the apparent severity of the duke's illness. If at all. If Tonbridge's father should die, he would become duke, which would mean he and Merry might never return to Skepton for anything but a brief visit. Oh, why of all men would Tonbridge have chosen this one to stand in his stead?

The answer was obvious. They were friends. Comrades-in-arms. And he was available. ‘Then I must congratulate you. No doubt your army experience will stand you in good stead. Things like this—' She stopped herself. She had been about to say ‘death', and it would have been such a foolish thing to have said to a man who had spent years of his life in the service of his king and a country at war. If only the sight of the coachman lying there would stop circling through her mind's eye, she might be able to stop thinking about the fragility of life.

‘One never gets used to it,' he said softly.

A lump rose in her throat at the pain in his voice and the sympathy.

‘Tonbridge told me about the loss of your husband at Badajoz,' he continued. ‘I am so very sorry.'

She swallowed her guilt. ‘Thank you.'

‘Your son is a fine little man. You are doing a good job with him. I have no doubt his father would be proud.'

Her heart caught in her throat at the words. His father had refused to have anything to do with either of them. ‘He is a good boy most of the time. Tonbridge advised me to send him away to school where he can be with other boys his age, but I cannot bring myself to do it.' She was terrified someone might see his likeness to his father, though she hadn't dared say so to Tonbridge.

‘Boys need their mothers as much as they need a father,' he said. The bitterness in his tone surprised her.

Glad to turn the conversation away from Tommy, she pursued the question he had raised in her mind. ‘You lost your mother while you were young?'

He frowned. Darkness filled his eyes. ‘Lost?' He took a long pull at his wine. ‘Not in the way you mean. But I have not seen her for years.' The words were spoken flatly and discouraged further enquiry.

* * *

How the devil had he let the conversation drift to the subject of his mother? He never spoke about the woman who had dumped him when she had found him inconvenient. The woman who had landed him on a father who hadn't really wanted him either.

He eyed the bottle of wine. Thoughts of his mother always fired his anger, and while wine would take the edge off, after an accident that might not be an accident, a dull mind was the last thing he needed. ‘May I serve you some of this—' he inspected the steaming dessert ‘—treacle pudding?'

Mrs Falkner offered him a hesitant smile that struck him deeper than it should have. It made her look pretty and desirable, more like the girl he remembered. Some remnant of his lonely boy's heart remembered the pang of painful and hopeless longing. He shoved the feeling aside and held the knife ready.

‘A small slice, if you will,' she said, smiling.

He carefully cut into the sponge and delivered a wedge to one of the small plates provided along with a generous dollop of treacle. The smell evoked memories of childhood dinners alone with his mother. Suppers with his half-siblings in the nursery. Why the devil was he becoming so maudlin? He put down the knife and handed the plate across the table.

Admiration lit her eyes. ‘You do that so well with...' She coloured. ‘Forgive me. I should not pass comment.'

He chuckled. ‘Believe me, it took hours and hours of practice. Thanks to my father's determination, I would not shame him with my lack of manners. And thank you for noticing. Most people look away, uncomfortable at the sight of my difficulties.'

‘You are not the slightest bit awkward.' She sounded almost indignant. ‘I have seen men with two hands be far less graceful.'

Her outrage on his behalf sent a strange sensation arrowing through him. Painful, yet sweet. ‘Graceful is not something usually sought by the male of our species.'

‘I do not mean the foppish affectation of a dandy,' she said, her face serious. ‘But a manly elegance that cannot help but please the female eye.' Her colour deepened.

Surprised and ridiculously pleased, he smiled. ‘Thank you. I mostly feel horribly clumsy. You instil me with confidence.' Heaven help him, it was the truth. A wave of warmth rushed through him, and to hide it he served himself a far larger portion of pudding than he had intended. Almost miraculously, for the first time in a long time, the sweet treat did not taste of ashes and death.

Clearly he was about to make an idiot of himself, hoping for something that wasn't there, when he'd given up hoping for anything.

Mrs Lane bustled in. She eyed the table with a satisfied nod. ‘Will there be anything else for you, sir...ma'am? Shall I bring the tea tray, Mrs Falkner?'

‘No, thank you,' Mrs Falkner said, looking becomingly prim and proper. ‘It has been a long day. It is time I retired.'

Time to take her prim and proper self away from temptation, no doubt. Because if he wasn't mistaken, she was beginning to thaw to him. The very idea made his blood heat.

‘Brandy or port for you, sir?' the landlady asked.

Brandy was not nearly as tempting as Caro Falkner. ‘I, too, am ready for my bed.' Or her bed, judging by the embers of desire ready to leap to life at the first sign of encouragement.

Mrs Lane frowned. ‘It doesn't seem right, sir, a fine gentleman like you bedding down in the stables with our Freddy when I have a perfectly good room on the third floor you can use.'

Mrs Falkner looked startled.

Blast the landlady. Did he have to explain the proprieties and put Mrs Falkner to the blush? She hadn't wanted his presence on the road. She certainly wouldn't want him beneath the same roof without a chaperone. ‘I can assure you I have slept in far worse places. Besides...' he said as he saw Mrs Falkner about to protest, because her stiff manners hid a warm heart. ‘I wish to be on hand to keep an eye on his lordship's horses.' Mr Lane had walked them behind the cart he'd used to fetch Garge's remains.

‘I understand your caution, sir,' the landlady said, clearly worried by the idea that harm might come to the ducal beasts. ‘As soon as you and Mrs Falkner are finished here, then, I'll send t'lass to clear away the dishes.'

‘I am finished,' Mrs Falkner said.

She began to rise. He pushed back his chair, helped her to her feet and walked her to the door. ‘I wish you a good night, ma'am.' He bowed.

He watched as she mounted the first few stairs and something inside him wished he was going up there with her. That somehow he could have the life the lack of a piece of paper had denied him. Husband. Father. Provider. But if he could not have that, he would at least play the role of protector. On Charlie's behalf, of course, not his own. Guard duty in the rain. It would be like old times.

How pathetic was he, thinking of such discomfort with longing? On the other hand, a few hours in the cold might well help cool his ardour.