More Than a Lover (7 page)

‘The grocer's boy who stands at the back door flirting with Beth, you mean?' An unnecessarily cruel dig, but Ned needed a bit of a push sometimes.

Ned shot him a glower that said he knew what Blade was up to. ‘Him. The gent who's been asking questions is a middle-aged codger with a large belly and a niggardly purse.'

There was a familiarity to that description. He'd seen a man like that somewhere. Recently. ‘What sort of questions?'

‘Who lives in the house? Where they came from and such like.'

‘And what did this rival of yours tell him?'

Ned's eyes narrowed, promising retribution. ‘Whatever he knew.'

‘Which is what?'

‘Not much, I'm thinking. The names at least. The connection to Tonbridge and his missus.'

‘Countess.'

‘Ah, well, he weren't having no countess when he was playing at being Lord Robert, were ʼe?'

‘What else?'

‘That Mrs Falkner has no family to speak of. Turns out he delivers the letters from the post office to save Beth trekking to the post office every day. Happy to do her a favour, he is.' His expression soured. ‘And Mrs Falkner don't get no letters except those franked by Tonbridge.'

‘Blasted observant, this grocer's boy.'

‘T'were more about the skill of the questioner, I'm thinking.'

‘Do you have a name for me, Ned?'

‘Butterworth. And fat as butter he is. Staying at the Green Man.'

‘Horse? Carriage?'

‘Arrived by stage two weeks ago. The tapster there thought he might be in trade, but he's not been seen at any of the markets. He did rent a horse three days ago. Brought it back wet and covered in mud. Said he went for a ride in the country. Took ill with the ague and was in bed for a couple of days.'

Might he have been the fellow who had opened the carriage door? If so, why would he not have offered assistance? And why was he asking questions?

‘Thank you, old chap.'

Ned hunched a shoulder. ‘Don't thank me, thank the grocer's boy.'

Blade grinned, despite his consternation. ‘Have I or have I not provided the opportunity for you to dance with Miss Beth?'

Ned shuffled some wisps of straw around with the toe of his boot.

‘Anything on the other front?' Blade asked.

‘Hothead talk. Rumours of an uprising in Scotland. Gossip about men practising up on the moors with pitchforks and ancient rifles.'

Could things be getting so serious? ‘See if you can find a name or a way in. Even a meeting place.'

‘Just so long as it don't get me arrested under this new Act of theirs.'

‘It won't. Tonbridge will see to it.'

Ned wandered off to fetch oats for the horses.

Clearly at some point this Butterworth fellow merited a closer look.

* * *

A great deal of excitement rippled through the house. Flo and Katy had been granted a half-day holiday from their employment in order to ready themselves for the evening's festivities. Not that the time had been granted purely for their sakes. Their employer had a hopeful daughter of her own and intended to spend the afternoon at home ensuring she was turned out in prime style.

Skepton's marriage mart relied on these events, just as London's beau monde relied on Almack's.

Caro looked at her ladies with a critical eye. Modesty was the watchword of the evening. Though these country affairs were not nearly as formal as those of high society, it was important that they represent the Haven creditably. Beth looked lovely in a pale-blue muslin that showed off her dark hair. Flo and Katy were in Pomona green and lemon respectively. Katy twitched at her skirt. ‘Ellen Fitch has three rows of lace at her hem.'

Whereas Katy and Flo had only one.

‘All the lace in the world won't make Miss Fitch look any prettier,' Mr Read said, coming into the hallway from the kitchen. He must have entered the house through the back door. He looked absolutely gorgeous in his crisp white linen and black evening clothes. Better than he had ever looked in his regimentals, though he had looked exceedingly handsome in those, too. Not that Caro should have been noticing, then or now.

Flo sniggered. ‘He's right. Her looks aren't a patch on yours, Katy. No one's going to look at her hem when they can look at your face.'

‘You both look perfect,' Caro said firmly. ‘Please remember that the reputation of the Haven rests on your behaviour. If things go badly, the committee will likely refuse Lord Tonbridge another subscription on our behalf.'

‘That would be a crying shame,' Beth said.

Everyone nodded.

‘We'll be on our best behaviour, Mrs F.,' Flo said. ‘Don't you worry.'

Mr Read opened the front door with a flourish. ‘After you, ladies.' Another round of giggles ensued.

Outside on the footpath stood Ned Wright, his face shiny from a recent very close shave.

‘Why, Mr Wright,' Flo cooed, ‘don't you look a proper handsome gent.'

He did, too. In his dark-blue coat and shockingly bright blue waistcoat, he looked more dandy than groom.

Beth shot Flo a glower.

Female rivalry while Blade Read was a study in innocence. He knew about this budding relationship. Caro narrowed her eyes. The Haven could not afford any sort of scandal.

With what Caro could only describe as a wicked twinkle in his eye, Mr Read offered one arm to her and one to Beth, causing Ned Wright to glower for a very brief instant, before he turned to Flo and Katy and did the same for them.

Now it was Beth's turn to look less than happy while they walked to the Assembly Room in the middle of the town. Those were the joys of youth Caro didn't miss. The tortured state of uncertainty and longing.

The role of devoted widow and mother suited her far more.

It hadn't taken the six of them long to walk the half-mile to their destination. The rooms hired for the assembly were on the first floor of the largest inn in Skepton and were reached by way of a side door, so attendees did not have to run the gauntlet of the inn's regular customers. They handed their wraps to the staff waiting in the entrance hall and changed into their dancing slippers, before they mounted the stairs to the first-floor ballroom. A mama could not have been prouder of her children than Caro was of her protégées as they swept into a gallery that had been decorated with flowers and bunting and lit by several large chandeliers. Only if one looked hard could one tell that the room's usual use was for billiards and other male indoor sports.

‘May I fetch you some punch?' Mr Read asked, once he had found them all chairs in a spot out of any draughts and with a good view of the dance floor.

‘Ratafia,' she said with a smile of thanks. It was too easy to be enchanted by a man when under the influence of strong drink, as she knew to her cost. Enchanted and seduced and humiliated. Of course, she had also been too inexperienced to taste the rum that had spiked the punch that evening. Her father never imbibed strong drink. Nor had he accepted her excuse that she had not known.

Carothers had known, though, of that she was positive.

Spilt milk and far too long ago for tears.

She had made a good life for herself and her son and she must do nothing to jeopardise all she had fought so hard for. No matter how attractive Mr Read, she must keep him at a distance.

Something deep inside her ached.

Flo and Katy were soon absorbed into a group of young women, some of whom were also employed by Mrs Fitch, while Beth took Ned off to meet some of her acquaintances, one of whom Caro recognised as the grocer's delivery boy, a lanky youth in the first flush of awkward adulthood.

Idly she watched the ladies in charge of the evening's entertainments instructing the leader of the small band, no doubt ensuring there would be nothing so disgraceful as a waltz played at their event. She had offered her services to their committee when she had first taken up her post at the Haven, but while they were forced to accept Merry into their circle at their husbands' insistence, they looked down their noses at Caro and her
institution
, as they called it.

She didn't care.

With Merry as her friend and her work, she had no need to involve herself in the affairs of the community. She just wished they would find it in their hearts to send her more troubled girls and women, instead of pushing them off to the workhouse. Or worse.

Feeling as proud as a mother hen, she watched Beth and Ned take their places in a set beside Flo and Katy, who both had respectable-looking partners. By the time the set ended, their faces were flushed from the energy the dance required and their eyes were bright with enjoyment.

‘It is good to see them enjoying themselves,' she murmured. Good to see them having fun as young women, young respectable women, should.

Mr Read glanced down at her, a smile in his eyes. ‘It is good to see you enjoying yourself as well.'

‘Thank you.' She tried to sound stiff and stern, but he was right—she was enjoying herself.

He smiled a rather cocky smile. ‘Then may I ask you to honour me with the next dance? A Scottish reel, I believe.'

The dance she had promised him, he meant. It was then that she realised she'd been tapping her toes in time to the music.

‘I would be pleased to dance with you.' It was the honest truth.

As he led her out onto the dance floor, she noticed his left hand encased in a glove of what looked like white kidskin.

He must have seen her surprise. ‘My father insisted upon presenting me with several...' He paused for a second. ‘I suppose you would call them “attachments”. I rarely use them, but since I will be exchanging partners I thought it might be less disconcerting.' He sounded hesitant. Uncomfortable. She could only imagine how some ladies might have reacted to his missing extremity. ‘Would you prefer I remove it?'

‘Certainly not. I was surprised, that was all. I think it is an excellent idea.'

A flash of relief crossed his expression. Clearly the man was not as confident as he appeared, and in a way that helped her feel a little less unsure, as if they were facing an ordeal together.

As they danced, she was pleased to see that while some of the ladies noticed the oddness of his touch, not one of them refused to hold his hand or commented. She also noticed there was more than one gentleman dancing who was missing a limb or sported some other injury. The war with France had asked a heavy price.

As was proper, Mr Read asked several other ladies to dance, ladies, she noticed, who had lacked for partners for most of the evening. When asked, she also danced with other gentlemen who were known to her through Merry or Tonbridge. Mill owners mostly, who wanted to question her about Tonbridge's whereabouts and his stand on various issues. None of which she answered except in the most general of terms.

The Tonbridges were her friends and they deserved her loyalty and discretion. If they wanted these men to know things, then they would ensure that they did.

One of her partners even went so far as to guarantee positions for any of the girls she helped who were willing to work hard, if she would put in a good word for him with her noble friend. As if she could be bribed. And added insult to injury by asking her not to mention his offer to his wife.

‘I doubt your lady wife will be asking me to tea any time soon,' she had replied and walked away at the end of the dance with her head throbbing from the tension of watching out for these political traps. The next time she was asked to stand up, she excused herself as needing refreshment and found a quiet corner where she could watch over her charges in peace.

She'd been sitting there for about fifteen minutes when she became aware of someone standing behind her.

‘Would I be addressing a Miss Caro Lennox?' a hoarse voice murmured in her ear.

Her heart leaped into her throat. She gasped, desperately trying to maintain her composure at the sound of her maiden name. She turned her head to meet the questioning gaze of a florid stranger. Or was he? Had she not seen him before?

Ah, yes, at the wake for poor Mr Garge. ‘You are mistaken, sir, and I do not believe we have been introduced.' Heart thudding painfully, she turned her face away.

‘Is there a problem?' Mr Read asked, appearing at her side and glaring at the man, who seemed to shrivel inside his coat.

‘I beg your pardon, ma'am. It was only that you looked familiar.' He bowed with an apologetic smile, turned and left.

Blade's gaze hardened as he followed the man's progress to the other side of the room. He turned that hard gaze on Caro. ‘
Do
you know him?'

She felt ill. ‘I— No, I have never seen him before in my life.' She coloured. ‘That is not quite true. He is the man we noted at the wake. The one intent on eating all the food.'

‘I remember.' He frowned. ‘Are you all right? You look very pale. Did he offer you some insult?'

By speaking her real name, he had destroyed her world. ‘It was, as he said, a case of mistaken identity.'

Now what was she supposed to do? Her mind whirled. The man seemed to accept her word that he was mistaken. Perhaps he was someone she had met in her youth. Her father, seeking news from town, had entertained many visitors at the house. Surely if he'd been certain of her identity, he would have argued his case or said something to Mr Read.

‘Are you sure you are all right?' Mr Read asked.

‘I have a touch of the headache, that is all.'

‘Do you want to leave?'

Dashing off right after meeting the man might only serve to make him suspicious, though right now he seemed uninterested in anything apart from the dainties laid out on a table at the end of the room.

‘I can't leave without Beth and the other girls.'

‘Don't worry. I'll have Ned round them up.'

‘I couldn't possibly. It would be wrong to spoil their fun.'