Pale Moon Rider (20 page)

“He gave me the name of someone who might help us.”

“Who did?”

“M’sieur Tyrone. That is Captain Starlight’s name,” she added in a whisper. “Tyrone.”

Finn’s nostrils flared slightly in disdain. “Irish. Hardly a surprise.”

Renée gave the old butler an odd look. “Are you not part Irish yourself?”

He arched an eyebrow and gave his nightshirt a tug to straighten it. “It is not something I am wont to brag about, mad’moiselle. They are a mad, unpredictable race of people who lack any self-discipline and adhere to wild notions of independence.”

At the mention of the word discipline, Renée’s cheeks flushed and her belly fluttered. Her gaze strayed to the bed, to the tumble of sheets and pillows where, for a few brief hours, she had felt as bold and unafraid as the man who had held her in his arms.

“Waken Antoine,” she said quietly. “Then inform Mrs. Pigeon we will be driving into town this morning.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

F
inn excused himself to dress and within the half hour, Jenny was at the door carrying two steaming bucketsful of water. The tub was dragged out of the dressing room and set in front of the fire and while the maid hastened away to fetch more water, Renée finished packing a tapestry valise.

The small pouch containing most of the coins went in first, muffled inside stockings and spare underpinnings. The cravat pin remained on the collar of her robe until such time as she was able to dress and clip it safely to the underside of her chemise. Apart from her small box of medicines, her brushes and combs, there was not much else she considered a necessity. Finn was right. Aside from the sheer impossibility of removing trunks and boxes, too much baggage would slow them down as well as make her a more easily identifiable traveler for anyone who sought to give chase.

For such an auspicious occasion as flight, she also chose to wear an English style skirt and fitted bodice. The whalebone corset would pinch her waist and push her breasts upward and outward like the prow of a ship, but again, the gown was an unremarkable style, almost matronly, with wrist length sleeves and a modest neckline. The skirt was cut from an overabundance of blue velvet that flared from the waist over a stiff layer of petticoats, but it would be warm and sturdy for traveling and, with the addition of a plain riding coat, buttoned high to the neck, ought not to raise a curious eyebrow anywhere along the way.

Jenny returned with more buckets of water and a cup of thick chocolate that would serve to curb her appetite until she descended to the breakfast room. It was a gritty and bitter drink, very nearly unpalatable, having not been beaten or frothed long enough to remove all the lumps of cocoa butter. But she choked it down anyway, once again obeying Finn’s orders to take in as much nourishment as she could, for there were no guarantees what or when they would eat again after today.

The logic extended to more than food, Renée reasoned as she stepped gingerly into the tub of hot water. Most inns and posting houses looked at a guest as if they had three ears if they requested a bath, and she was almost certain such luxuries were unheard of on board ocean-going vessels. Her present hip tub was enameled tin and did not allow for much more than sitting with the knees bent up to the chin, but at least the water was hot and the soap smelled clean and she was able to soak away a few more memories of the night.

Of course, the bed was there in full view to remind her. She had tidied the sheets and blankets and returned the pillows to their proper places, but each strayed glance produced a vivid image of two naked bodies entwined together, moving and writhing and straining to the urgent rhythms of passion. She could feel his hands on her hips and his mouth on her breasts, and she could close her eyes and relive the sensation of each full-blooded thrust, when all the world was reduced to brilliant flashpoints of pleasure.

“Ma’am?”

Jenny was standing by the tub holding up a towel, waiting for Renée to stand so she could dry her body and hair. The water had cooled quickly and she was shivering as she rose, her body white and glistening in the mix of sun and firelight. Finn would be happy to see the hazy light streaming through the windows; it would make for better haste on the roads.

“Ye want the blue?” the maid asked, indicating the gown Renée had laid across the bed.

“Yes, I think so. I was planning to drive into
Coventry
today to do some shopping.”

“Ooo, gar, there’s a fair goin’ on in Spon. All the ribbon makers’ll be out to show their wares.” She sighed, picking at a particularly stubborn tangle in Renée’s damp hair. “Wish’t I were goin’, but Mrs. Pigeon, she says we ’ave no time for such doin’s. Trollops put stock in ribbons, she says. Trollops an’ ’hores an’ Frenchies what need to catch themselves a rich hus—” She stopped with her mouth still open around the word, then clamped her lips tightly shut. “Sorry, m’um,” she murmured a few seconds later. “I mean, yer are Lord Paxton’s niece an’ all, so yer not exactly all French, are ye? An’ ye can’t ’elp it if yer’ air al’us looks ever so nice in ribbons, an’ men look at ye all the time. S’trowth, they’d look at ye if ye wore a sack over yer ’ead and dressed in woolies.”

Renée glanced sidelong into the mirror that hung from the back of the tub. Her hair was almost dry, flying and crackling in all directions as Jenny brushed it in the heat of the fire. It truly was a luxuriant detriment to anonymity and her gaze flicked again, this time to the tray of crimping irons Jenny had set by the fire. The scissors gleamed dully in their midst and she was tempted, sorely tempted, to just take them up and start cutting. There wasn’t time now, but perhaps later, when they were stopped somewhere for the night, a drastic change in appearance might be warranted.

For the time being, she bade Jenny plait it into a thick rope and coil it on the crown of her head. There were enough short sprigs and wisps around her face to satisfy the maid’s need to ply the heated irons and the result was simple, yet pleasing. The corset was another matter but Renée grit her teeth and allowed herself to be laced to within a breath of torment before the bodice was fastened overtop. Stockings, petticoat, and overskirt were added, the tapes tied, the folds fussed and fretted over until she was pronounced “awesome luvly.”

While Jenny was occupied with the task of emptying the tub water out the window, Renée returned the tray of brushes and combs to the dressing room, slipping one of each into the tapestry bag before she set it unobtrusively in the corner. She also retrieved the cravat pin from her robe and transferred it to the inside of her chemise, tucking it securely between her breasts.

After a final look around, she walked across the hallway to Antoine’s room. The door opened before she had a chance to knock and both she and Finn jumped back in surprise.

“Beg pardon,” he said at once. Recovering, he glanced past her shoulder and frowned when he saw Jenny through the open door to her room. “His Grace is not with you?”

“No. I was coming to see if he was well enough to go down to breakfast today. In fact,” she paused and moistened her lips, equally aware of the maid behind them, “I was hoping he was well enough to accompany me into town later this morning. I have some errands to run and I thought, if he was feeling better, he might enjoy the fresh air. It looks so warm and sunny,” she finished lamely.

Finn barely glanced over as Jenny exited the room carrying the empty buckets and wet towels. “I am certain he would, mad’moiselle. Shall I bring the carriage around?”

“Please.
Eleven o’clock
should be soon enough.”

He offered a slight bow. “As you wish.”

Nodding, Renée turned and, with a creditable lack of haste, followed the wide, main corridor down to the central stairway. Sunlight was streaming brightly through the two-storey window lights that flanked the main entrance, and as she passed by the stairs, she glanced down over the main foyer. The guard at the bottom must have heard the soft whisper of her skirts, for he turned and stared back, his eyes following her progress as she crossed from one wing of the house into the other.

The morning room was located at the far end of the west wing, above the kitchens. The walls had been painted garish yellow by some former resident who had decided the windows did not allow for enough light or cheer. The combined effect of the sunlight and the glare off the walls was temporarily blinding when she opened the door and stepped inside; her subsequent relief at seeing Antoine seated at one end of the cherrywood dining table lasted only as long as it took to blink the stars out of her eyes.

He was not alone. There were four other men in the room with him, one of whom shot instantly to his feet and blushed as deep a red as his tunic when he saw Renée standing in the doorway. Even before her eyes adjusted to the light and her heart to the shock, she recognized Corporal Chase Marlborough of the Coventry Volunteers, the young and painfully earnest militia officer who was acting adjutant to Colonel Bertrand Roth.

Roth was sitting with his back to the glare of the window, but there was no mistaking the stilted arrogance of his profile. He was in his regimental uniform, a splash of crimson against the flaring light. The redness of his hair was dampened under a white military wig, but his smile, when he drew his lips back over the double rack of oversized, misaligned teeth, gleamed with the same delighted malice she had last seen at the Fox and Hound Inn.

“Ahh. Mademoiselle d’Anton. A pleasure indeed to see you up and about so early. We were just discussing the lay-about habits of most beautiful young women who think nothing of sleeping half the day away. What do you think, Edgar? Will you be encouraging or discouraging such energetic vigor in a new wife?”

Slowly Renée turned her shocked regard to the third man in the room who was only now following Roth’s tardy example and pushing to his feet. Edgar Vincent was a tall man, easily six feet in height, with the broad shoulders and solid, bullish neck of a man who had spent more years at hard labor than behind the desk of an exporting office. His features were thick and blunt; a single black slash crossed his forehead in lieu of separate eyebrows and the eyes beneath were a dull, flat brown. A far cry from ugly, he was also well beyond the reach of friendly. His manners were forced, as if he resented having to possess any, and his speech was often coarse, respecting neither the age nor tender sensibilities of anyone who happened to be in his company.

Renée felt their chilly assessment as he looked with obvious disappointment at her choice of attire. At their first meeting he had inspected her like a man buying a show horse, falling short of checking her teeth and testing the firmness of her calves, but not by much. Successive meetings had produced little more than a curt nod if he approved or a slight curl in his lip if he disdained. The lip was nearly folded in half now over the severity of her hair, the modesty of her neckline, the primness of the blue velvet, and she felt a flush of resentment stain her cheeks. He was peasant stock, a
bourgeoisie
graveyard thief, yet he had the effrontery to sit in judgment on others.

The fourth man was at the server, helping himself from the contents of several chafing dishes. Renée could only see the side of his face, for he seemed more intent on the food than the company, but he appeared to be as tall as Edgar Vincent, the impression heightened by the addition of a powdered wig. His breeches and swallowtail coat were charcoal gray, styled at the extreme end of fashion with indulgently high, molded lapels on his jacket and a neckcloth wound so tight, pleated so precisely, it was a wonder he could move his chin at all as he inspected the various dishes.

“Do come and join us, my dear,” Roth said, indicating the empty seat opposite him. “We have just won a minor victory over Mrs. Pigeon’s niggardly disposition, managing to badger her into providing something more substantial than gruel and green ham. Wretched creature. I must say I’m surprised Paxton has not had her shot and spitted years ago. Not nearly as accommodating or resourceful as your own Mr. Finn, I warrant?”

The color Renée had so recently won in her cheeks drained away again with the speed of an opened vein. She had not seen or heard from Roth since their meeting at the Fox and Hound. While she had been grateful for the reprieve, she could see by the hard light in the amber eyes that he had neither forgotten nor dismissed the incident, and the fact it was far too early in the morning for a social visit, despite her fiancé’s unexpected appearance in Coventry, pressed in upon her breast with the strength of a second corset.

“Yes, do join us,” Vincent said, waving a hand impatiently.

She looked up into the flat, brown eyes and willed the revulsion she was feeling not to come through her voice. “I … have just come to fetch Antoine. Finn is bringing the coach around to take us into town. I have some errands to run and—”

“They can wait, I am sure.” Roth interrupted, frowning. “We have come on errands of our own that merit far more consideration than gadding about town on a shopping adventure.
Marlborough
, for heaven’s sake, if you are going to hold your breath to the point of asphyxia will you at least do the honors first before you swoon away?”

The corporal was indeed suffering an excess of adoration as he stumbled in his haste to pull out the high-backed chair for Renée. He looked almost too young to be in uniform—eighteen or nineteen at most—with round, puppy eyes and smooth cheeks devoid of the faintest hint of stubble. He stood perhaps an inch taller than Renée, but looked as if he would gladly have knelt at her feet if she requested it.