Revealed (54 page)

William accepted the eager handshake, but grimaced. “‘Your Grace’ reminds me of my father.” He neglected to add that the address reminded him as well of the unpleasant and dishonorable circumstances his father had left for William to resolve. “Perhaps we can dispatch with that particular address while I’m here? Perhaps we can pretend I’m just another American during my stay.”

Stephen’s glance suggested it would take more than a dropped title to allow him to pass as American; still the loss of the formalities felt good. As if all his difficulties could be so easily dispensed if he just declined the title. Life didn’t work that way, but for a brief period of time he could pretend.

William, feeling stronger by the minute, took a good look at his surroundings. A bustling little seaport this was, though not with the industrial shipping that fouled the Cheapside of the Thames. If anything this port trafficked in people of various classes judging from their attire. The air held a wholesome freshness to it, more attune to the countryside than his familiar London. Indeed the hills and the trees reminded him of his brother’s home in Yorkshire. Nicholas would approve of this place.

“This way, Your . . . sir.”

William followed the young man to a simple one-horse rig and climbed aboard.

“Tell me, young squire,” William teased, coaxing a smile to the boy’s serious face. “How did you recognize me amongst all the other passengers?”

“Your clothes, sir.”

“Ah yes,” he frowned down at his trousers, “I suppose I do look a bit worse for wear. My man stayed behind in New York to escort my trunk once unloaded.”

Confusion passed over the young man’s face for a moment before it cleared. “No, sir, you look fine. A bit too fine, if I may say, for Newport, sir.”

“Oh,” William murmured, glancing about. Indeed, beyond the obvious laborers, the few men that passed by, and his young escort, all wore light linen suits better suited for the July heat than his frock coat and tails. He must stand out like a mule on a racetrack. “Then let’s be off. And perhaps you can point out a suitable haberdashery along the way?”

The ride was short. Looking back toward the water, William felt he could just as easily have walked the short distance, if it had not been all uphill. His guide pulled the rig to the front of a grand hotel with a wide veranda on busy Bellevue Avenue. A sign proclaimed the establishment to be named the Ocean View.

Mr. Young prepared to hop out of the rig when William restrained him with a hand to his arm. “Tell me, squire, before you go, are you familiar with the purpose of my trip to Newport?”

The young man’s smile lit up his fair features. “Of course, Whitby and Essex are handling the negotiations.”

“I see . . .” William said, contemplating his next question. It really shouldn’t matter. He would do his best by the wealthy American, as any honorable man might, and yet . . . He leaned forward, lowering his voice as befitting a discreet conversation.

“And do you know of the young woman to whom I find myself engaged?”

A wide smile blossomed on the younger man’s face as he gazed beyond the horse’s ears. “Frosty Franny? Everyone knows her and her honey.”

The smile collapsed once he glimpsed William’s scowl. A deep red darkened his features.

“I’m sorry, sir. That’s just how the local papers refer to her. She’s not really . . .” He cleared his throat. “Miss Winthrop, yes, sir, I know of her.”

William nodded, his scowl still firmly in place. It was most disconcerting not knowing what his fiancée looked like. Alva Winthrop’s letter advising of her daughter’s availability had arrived at a most fortuitous moment. There had been no time for the exchange of photographs. Yet, this man’s odious reference to her, attached to what he hoped was not some reference to her feminine virtues, made him wonder if he should not have waited a bit before embarking on this venture. The need for money was great, but great enough to be tied forever to a . . . a laughingstock? A woman had made a fool of him before. Once in a lifetime was enough.

“Everyone in Newport knows of Miss Winthrop,” the man repeated, his tone sufficiently apologetic. “You are a lucky man to have secured her, sir.”

He averted his gaze, thus William couldn’t quite judge the honesty of that last proclamation. But as he studied Stephen’s profile, the man squinted. “If I’m not mistaken”—he tilted his chin toward the opposite side of the street—“I believe there’s your fiancée now.”

“Where?” If William hadn’t been raised on decorum in the way other young lads were raised on porridge, he would have pushed his escort aside to better view the women strolling beneath the elms that shaded the storefronts across the avenue. He bent forward, much to the protest of his still queasy stomach. “Which one?”

Stephen hopped from the rig, giving William a better view. He proceeded to tie the horse to the hotel’s post.

“She’s heading up the avenue toward the shops.”

A tiny peal of a bell pulled William’s glance across the avenue to the fancy gold lettering advertising a series of commercial establishments. A swaying bustle disappeared into the interior of one, while two other ladies approached the grouping.

“Which one?” William asked, wishing the two ladies would turn so he could see more than their profiles. Not receiving an answer, William slid across the seat and lowered himself to the street. Dodging the fashionable carriages, he dashed across the avenue in pursuit of the woman who would soon be his bride. If only he knew which woman that would be.

Silently cursing the tiny bell and awkward glances that announced her presence, Fran quickly slipped to the side of the tobacconist’s front display of gaily painted cigar boxes so she could view the street without being seen. Ever since she had balked at her mother’s proposal two days ago, spies in the form of her mother’s matronly friends had watched her every move and hovered always within earshot. Fortunately she had anticipated such a turn of events and had taken measures to arrange for transport on the Fall River steamer without her mother’s consent. Still, she needed to lose the two bloodhounds on her trail if her plan to reunite with Randolph was to succeed.

Mary, her maid, should have already secreted a bit of luggage with a few travel garments to the steamer’s boarding ramp. If Fran could make it to the steamer undetected, she stood a chance of purchasing transatlantic passage to Germany without interference. From there she’d find Randolph. She wasn’t sure how, but she felt confident that the love in her heart would lead to his door. They would marry and be forever free of her mother and her purchased Duke.

First, however, Mrs. Kravitz and her annoying daughter needed to continue up the boulevard, so she could exit unnoticed from this aromatic sanctuary. Fran inhaled the rich masculine scent of tobacco, letting a smile tease her lips. They would never think to look for her in this male bastion. If anything, Mrs. Kravitz would search for her in the millinery shop next door. Or better yet, continue down the avenue believing they would spot her around the next corner. Fran risked a glance toward the window.

Mrs. Kravitz hesitated outside the shop, near the painted wooden Indian, glancing up and down the street. Her daughter, Phoebe, cupped her hands on the glass window itself and peered in. Fran quickly pressed her spine to the wall to escape notice, holding her breath that they would continue on their way.

“Miss Winthrop, what a surprise to find you here. Are you purchasing something for your father, perhaps?”

Fran nearly jumped out of her corset. The gravelly-voiced proprietor stood close to her elbow. Too close, Fran thought, squelching the panic that such close proximity generated. However, with her own back pressed to the wall, there was no place to retreat. She placed a gloved finger to her lips, silencing the inquisitive man, then slowly shook her head.

He glanced toward the front window, his face relaxed into a smug expression. “I see. Is it Mrs. Kravitz you wish to avoid?” His lips twitched in a suppressed smile. “Or the unusually dressed gentleman?”

Gentleman? Her pulse picked up in surprise, but she maintained her outward calm. What gentleman?

Her glance slipped to the window. True to the proprietor’s description, a man dressed in evening attire detained the two bloodhounds. He was handsome enough. Handsome, single, and wealthy, if Mrs. Kravitz’s posturing with her daughter was any indication.

She raised her gaze to his eyes, dark blue intelligent eyes that missed nothing. Including her, she realized as his gaze shifted slightly, and he raised one dark brow in acknowledgment. Her heart pounding, she slid back against the wall. Oh, why did he have to intervene at this moment?

The whistle from the Fall River steamer rent the air, announcing its anticipated departure for Long Island. She was running out of time! She needed to be on that ship. She needed to find a way to Randolph, to the quiet, uncomplicated life of a barrister’s wife.

“Miss Winthrop, are you sure there is nothing I can show you?” the persistent shopkeeper inquired. “I just received a new shipment of Turkish cigarettes? Perhaps your father would like a box of some Havanas?”

“Is there another exit from your store?” Fran asked. She tilted her head toward the window. “I don’t wish to disturb the patrons at your front entrance.”

“Why, yes,” the proprietor replied cautiously. “We would have to go through the back storeroom, though. It’s a bit dusty.” He frowned down at her skirts. “We’re not accustomed to fine ladies, like yourself, visiting our establishment. I’m afraid your beautiful skirts—”

“That is of little concern.” Hope leapt to her throat. If she hurried, she still might make it. “Can you show me the way?”

She followed the man through a pair of curtains and wove her way around stacked wooden crates and wood shavings. A light covering of ash and dust mingled with brown flakes littering the floor. Mary would have a fit when she saw the state of her hems as a result of this quick detour, but no matter, that was of little import. Her guide reached the back door, opening it to a less traveled though much steeper Newport street. Fran ushered through. Once free of the establishment, she raced down the hill toward the port.

I’m coming, Randolph. I’m coming.
Her hat slipped its moorings about midway down the hill and tumbled off to the side of the road. She lost one of her fine slippers, but continued in her madcap race. Slippers could always be replaced, but an opportunity to change the course of her future, less so. She approached the wharf-master’s building and foot traffic increased. She stopped short, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, her stays making breath difficult. All those people! Panic fueled her self-doubts. Could she do it? Could she plow through that crowd of strangers?

The steam whistle blasted two bursts, the warning signal that it was pulling away from the dock. Fran lifted her skirt so as not to trip and rushed toward the melee. She raced around the building and down to the ramp before she stopped, her chest heaving from the exertion, her hair long and loose from the loss of hairpins, her skin tingling from the assault of the wind, to see the steamer approaching Castle Rock on its departure from the bay.

“You’re too late,” Mary called amidst several pieces of luggage farther down the dock. “I tried to tell them, Miss Winthrop. I really did. But they left anyway. They said they couldn’t wait and to try again next time.”

Too late.
The words stabbed her heart as tears burned her eyes.
Too late.
She could tell Mary that there wouldn’t be a “next time.” Once her mother heard tales of her reckless run through the heart of town to catch a boat that wouldn’t wait, she would be locked in her room again. Her mother held no tolerance for public inappropriateness. She could tell Mary that this was her one shot at freedom and it had disappeared in a blue gray wake and a steam cloud trail. She could say many things if the lump in her throat wasn’t squeezing the ability to talk right out of her.
Too late!
Her lip trembled.

“Miss Winthrop?” Mary approached, her eyes wide and her mouth twisted in a concerned moue. Her gaze swept from her untidy hair, past the twisted day dress to a bare toe poking through a rip in her stocking, visible beneath a dusty hem. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “What happened to you?”

A vision of the overdressed stranger with a raised eyebrow and an intriguing smile slipped into her mind. He happened. He was responsible. And with whatever means she could find at her disposal, he would pay.