Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance (4 page)

All foolish ideas, she knew.

"Is this seat taken?"

"Why, sir, I'm not sure it would be proper!" she said in mock indignation.

"Perhaps we should ask your chaperone?"

She nodded toward the empty chair. It was obvious that she couldn't turn him away that easily.

He smiled at her when he sat down. His eyes glinted with unexplained mirth. "My name is Alexander Trevelyn."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Trevelyn."

"May I ask your name?"

She wasn't sure if she was attracted to the dangerous glint in his eyes, or if it was something to beware. "Betsy Carter," she said, stealing the name of her ever-faithful maid.

"Where are you headed, Miss Carter?" He leaned forward and his gaze rested on the lump beneath her bodice.

She nearly choked on her sharp intake of breath. Of course the glance was coincidental. He couldn't possibly know what the key signified or what was hidden in her dresser drawer. After all, that was back in Blackmoore and she was miles from the inn where she'd paid her half-fare. "I'm on my way to...Dover."

"Doesn't the mail coach go that route?"

"And if it does?"

He didn't answer immediately since the waitress had returned with the cider. The young girl looked at Mr. Trevelyn and then back at his empty table. Then she shrugged and served him his own mug of cider.

She leaned over the mug and allowed the hot steam to caress her face. Then she leaned back when she realized what it would do to her complexion. She didn't wish to become flushed under her companion's watchful gaze. She was already having enough trouble staying calm when he questioned her. It might have been easier if she hadn't just realized that she'd much rather be the one making inquiries, finding out more about the mysterious stranger who had so quickly captured her interest.

His cheeks were red from the winter wind. She figured that he mustn't be traveling within a closed carriage. His clothing and manners were that of a rich man, but he didn't seem to be making his journey as one.

Finally, after they'd both sipped their cider and studied one another in silence, he once again commented on the peculiarity of her position. "If you are truly on your way to Dover, I would think you would have taken the mail coach rather than the stage. It is certainly more comfortable, even if it is a little more costly."

"Yes, the cost--"

"And your clothing makes a few things clear to me...such as the fact that you most certainly
can
afford the mail coach. It also tells me that your name couldn't possibly be Betsy Carter." He took a deep breath and another drink of cider. "It's much too common," he finished with a grin.

She had watched him speak. His lips moved in a slow, precise manner as though he had rehearsed every word. That simply wasn't possible, but she was sure she hadn't mistaken the cynical upturn of his lip whenever he finished a sentence. Although that also seemed a little unnatural, she was sure that he took great effort to make it so. She'd traveled too long and too far with her parents not to have become a student of human nature. German or French, Italian or Swiss, they all had nervous physical reactions to the dishonest words that came out of their mouths. She looked at Mr. Trevelyn's carefully formed appearance. She was even more intrigued.

"Miss Carter?"

"Oh yes, I'm sorry. You were saying?"

His face lost some of its charm when he frowned. Things obviously weren't going his way. "I was wondering why you felt it necessary to give me an assumed name?"

"That's interesting, sir. I was wondering the same about you."

"I...what?" His brow furrowed and his hand gestured impatiently, but his eyes never left her face.

"I sincerely doubt your name is really Alexander Trevelyn. I've heard of the Trevelyn's, sir, and I am quite sure you are not one of them." She forced a prim look onto her face and pursed her lips in order to prevent the laughter from escaping. Of course, she'd believed he was who he said he was. She'd never actually heard of any wealthy Trevelyn families.

"I am most certainly a Trevelyn. You insult me by saying it isn't so." He adjusted his smart white gloves.

"Oh really? From where do the Trevelyn's hail?"

"Cornwall and quite proud of it. Have you been to the peninsula, Miss Carter?"

She lost a bit of her humor then, but surely Cornwall encompassed quite a large area? They couldn't be going to the very same place, she assured herself. She grinned. "No, I have not 'been to the peninsula.' Nor have I heard of your illustrious Trevelyn's."

"Wha--"

"If you'll excuse me?" She stood up, finished the last mouthful cider, and made for the door, leaving the illustrious Trevelyn pay for her drink.

Alexander followed the stage but stayed far enough behind to escape the notice of the coachman. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid!

First, she'd enticed him to come to her table. He hadn't planned on making contact so soon, but she'd been watching him so openly that he couldn't resist. Also, her scrutiny of him made it clear that he had lost his chance to follow her in anonymity. She would have easily noticed him at the next stage.

He rode quickly and the wind burned his exposed cheeks. Perhaps he should have found a place to leave his horse and pretended to be getting on the stage? Damn, he was a fool. He had let her manipulate him into going against all of his plans. She was truly good at what she did. The tricky little temptress!

He watched the stage bump along the uneven road and wondered how uncomfortable she might be. She probably wasn't used to such methods of transportation. From what he'd learned, she had traveled widely with her parents and they'd had the money to do everything first class. He wondered where all that money had gone. Maybe she still had it. Maybe she was so greedy that her only desire in life was to build up as much money as she could and then be buried with it.

He thought she might be cold. Even though she'd bought a seat inside, her body was probably as cold as her bottom was sore. He'd gotten a nice look at it too when he stalked out of the inn.
It was quite nice
, he thought to himself and a smile spread across his face. His thoughts weren't nice though. He was actually thinking of
her
comfort, a woman he'd just met, when he was probably much worse off that night. He reminded himself that she was also a murderess, and he stopped smiling.

Alex worried that he was already enjoying the chase more than he should. He couldn't deny that as much as their first meeting frustrated him, it also made him eager for the next.

He doubted it boded well to find such an independent, sneaky shrew so damned sexy.

She'd been good all right.

She smiled every time she went over the conversation in her mind. Even though she didn't have him figured out yet, she knew he had something to hide. He was acting just as strangely as she was. If he'd done anything like what she had done to cause her nervousness, she had good reason to worry. So she'd turned the tables on him and found out more about him than he knew about her.
Yes, definitely good.

But that was over with. Hopefully she'd never see him again.

When she arrived in Coverack, she was so exhausted that all she could think of was a warm bed. So it was disheartening to realize how poor her uncle's directions had been. She would have to go about finding him the old-fashioned way.

She was surprised at how many people were out at that time of night. Of course, that was to her benefit. One of them, hopefully, would be able to help her out. She owed part of her gratefulness to the pleasing weather. It was still cool outside, but it was vastly different in temperature from Blackmoore. She was able to evaluate her surroundings without shivering once.

It was mostly men present in the ramshackle village, wearing the kind of clothing that signified a living made out of fishing. The smell of that unfortunate foodstuff permeated the air, and whether it was coming from the pedestrians or the bay nearby, she didn't know. With a "now or never" attitude, she stopped one of townspeople.

"Would you happen to know anyone by the name of John Fyn?"

The man's face took on a suspicious expression. "Want do ye want with him?"

She stepped back. "If only you'd tell me where he lives--" He reeked of dead fish and stale tobacco. It was incredible that he took such affront at her question when she was the one who should've been offended.

He tilted his head to the side and gave it some thought. "Ain't nobody around here with that name," he said and then walked away.

Well, that was an experience!

She couldn't be wrong about the town, could she? Maybe it wasn't Coverack her uncle had mentioned, but something that sounded very similar. Then she shook her head, for the benefit of none but herself. No, she'd reread the letter countless times and there wasn't any chance she was in the wrong place. She approached a woman who was older and with a friendlier appearance than the first native.

"Excuse me, but would it be possible to be directed to John Fyn's place of residence?"

The woman stopped but didn't respond. She scrutinized Victoria a bit and then asked, "What's your business?"

She sighed. Were they all such sore sports? "We're friends."

"Then why don't ye know where he is?"

"Please, ma'am, I only want to be pointed in the right direction."

The woman smiled and pointed north. It was the direction from which Victoria had come.

She simply didn't know how to handle such people!

She walked farther into the town, hoping that by some miracle she'd find John on her own. The problem was, she didn't even know where the town thinned out and where the residences began. She'd heard that Cornwall was a fierce county and the Lizard Peninsula even more difficult. With the abundance of tiny inlets, wooded valleys, and scattered hamlets, she didn't believe she'd get very far on her own. One false turn and she'd probably end up in the sea.

She'd almost decided the people weren't only being rude to her, but hiding from her as well when a man walked into view. She didn't recognize him, but noticed his confident gait and rigid posture. And the way he surveyed the town with lengthy looks into every shadow and under every gable implied he owned the place. It she wasn't mistaken, he was a landowner. Surely he would assist her?

She had decided that she'd approach him on her own, throwing etiquette to the wind, but once he saw her, she realized that it wouldn't be necessary.

"Are you lost?" he asked with a slight London affectation to his accent.

"Yes. I'm looking for the house of John Fyn."

His eyes widened. "Fyn, eh? That's not an easy one to find."

"But you know where it is?" She leaned forward on her toes and smiled, admiring his coat and the sandy-blond hair that peeked out from beneath his hat. The hair looked bleached by the sun, but he certainly didn't seem the type to sit outside without anything covering his head. Her first impression was one of affable friendliness.

"I walk past the Fyn place nearly every day," he said, "though it
is
heavily secluded."

"Are you a friend of his?"

"You might say that." He started to walk away, but gestured for her to follow him. "Then again, you might not."

It certainly wasn't an illuminating answer. Friendly, but a little wary. That wasn't necessarily bad. Didn't such a description describe her as well?

"And you?"

"Yes, I am a friend." She took a deep breath. "Actually, I'm his niece."

She might have been mistaken, but at that moment he looked as though he'd almost choked on his own breath. "Niece?"

"Yes. He's my father's brother."

"That's a shame."

"You mean because he's ill?"

His pace slowed considerably at this question. She wondered if he was taking her the long way. She had to admit that she didn't mind if he was. "I haven't been to visit Fyn in some time. I didn't know of his illness, but I'm sure you'll make him feel infinitely better."

"Well, I got the impression from his letter that there wasn't much hope."

He threw his head back and laughed heartily as he picked a leisurely pace along the path. Then he saw the shocked look on Victoria's face. "Oh dear, I apologize for that. It's just that John has always been one to exaggerate."

She was starting to change her mind about being comfortable taking the long path. Weren't first impressions supposed to be correct?

"It's a shame we weren't properly introduced, but you must understand that we're not as strict down here. I'm Rafe Randel."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Randel." She offered her hand, which he took with alacrity. "Victoria Clavering."

"Where have you traveled from?" he asked once he'd released her hand.

"London." It was a good, general place to have hailed from.

"Shouldn't you be going to balls, rather than visiting secluded uncles?"

They came upon a house, very much obscured by the surrounding vegetation. As she'd expected, her uncle wasn't a wealthy man. She hoped he was a kind one.

Victoria thought of all the imaginary parties that she'd never been invited to and said, "My family is very important to me, Mr. Randel."

"And so it is to us all."

He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth when she saw a middle-aged man running out of the two-story manor, a man that looked very much like her father. But he appeared far too hale to be the man who'd written the letter.

As he came closer, the similarities were even more striking. There was no doubt that they were related. She was almost brought to tears to see the same life-loving expression on this man's face that she'd always thrilled to see on her father's.

"Victoria?" His tone was questioning and he waited for final confirmation.

"Uncle?" she said and couldn't stand still any longer. He nodded and she rushed to him.

He picked her up and gave her a strong hug. "I can't believe I'm finally meeting you," he said with emotion in his voice.