School For Heiresses 2- Only a Duke Will Do (16 page)

Today he was sorely taxing her patience. “You told me last week that eight hackney coaches would be enough,” she said.

“To transport the women, Miss North.” Brutus tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his grimy waistcoat. “

But the guards has got to ride somewhere.”

“The guards always ride on horseback alongside.”

“Aye. When the women is in carts. But they ain’t gonna be in carts today, is they? And we can’t risk them escaping.”

“They’re shackled! How far could they get before a guard ran them down?”

Brutus crossed his thick arms over his chest. “A carriage might break free and be gone before a guard can catch up to it.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake—She had half a mind to strike the wicked fellow; it was hard to resist when faced with his oily smirk.

Steady, Louisa, steady. Losing your temper never accomplishes anything. She settled for an icy glare instead. “So how many carriages do we need?”

“Dunno. I’m just sayin’ that with two guards to a coach—one on the perch and one inside—you’ll never get them and sixty women in eight hackneys.”

“I told Simon to hire an extra,” Regina put in, “but it still won’t suffice.”

“Reckon we’ll have to put the rest of the prisoners in carts after all.” Brutus didn’t even bother to mask his glee.

“We are not using carts,” Louisa bit out.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Fry asked, drawn by the commotion at the gates. She and the other Quakers had been passing out packets of needles, thread, and fabric scraps so the convict women could make patchwork quilts to sell in Australia, and Louisa hated taking her from her task. Still, the neatly dressed banker’s daughter, a woman of forty whose kindly features belied her iron will, often had good success with shaming Brutus into behaving.

After Louisa explained, Mrs. Fry fixed him with her sternest gaze. “I shall take this up with the governor, sir.”

Brutus shrugged. “Ain’t no skin off my back if you do. And it don’t change nothing—there’s still too few coaches.”

“We can use my carriage, too,” Mrs. Harris put in. “Since only Venetia and I came today, we can fit three women more.”

The discussion of who else could volunteer their equipages was still going on when Simon arrived.

“Why are carts lined up in front?” he asked as he joined them.

Louisa cast Brutus a glance of pure disdain. “Because Mr. Treacle here is itching to make a public spectacle of these women.”

“Ain’t my fault that you didn’t take into account the guards,” he snapped.

“You didn’t say I had to.” Louisa arched her chin so far forward that the high lace collar of her pelisse robe scratched her throat. “And so help me, if you—”

Simon stepped between her and the guard. “What seems to be the problem?”

In a frock coat and trousers of dun-colored nankeen, Simon was decidedly underdressed for a lord, so Brutus barely spared him a glance. “Too many women for the hackneys.”

“Then we’ll hire more,” Simon said. “Or take two trips.”

“Can’t. No time. The Cormorant sets sail in two hours with the tide. So you gotta use the carts, guv’nor. You ain’t got no choice.”

Those were the wrong words to say to Simon. Drawing himself up, he said in a cool, awful voice, “I would like to speak to the governor of the prison.”

“The governor don’t have time for no Quakers,” Brutus said dismissively.

“I am not a Quaker. I am Foxmoor. And I want to speak to the governor. Now,” he said, every inch the supercilious aristocrat.

It took a second for the name to register, but when it did, it wiped the smirk right off Brutus’s face. “

F-Foxmoor? The duke?”

“The very one.” Without breaking eye contact, Simon gestured to Regina. “That woman is my sister. Miss North is her sister-in-law and my own very good friend. You might want to mention that when you fetch the governor.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” the man mumbled, then hurried away.

As soon as he’d gone, Simon faced the ladies. “Tell me how this happened.”

By the time Brutus returned, Louisa had thoroughly acquainted Simon with the man’s general tactics and his dislike for reformers.

Mr. Brown trotted up beside Brutus out of breath, like a spaniel panting to please his master. “Your Grace, it appears there’s a misunderstanding—”

“Yes, it appears there is,” Simon said in that imperious manner she could never perfect. He flicked his gaze at Brutus as he would at a lowly beetle. “Your man there told us to bring eight hackneys. Now he says there aren’t enough.”

Brutus regarded Simon with murder in his eyes, but Mr. Brown bobbed his head furiously. “An honest mistake. I shall get to the bottom of it at once.”

“An excellent idea, since these ladies and I will now have to use our own equipages. Unless you have another suggestion?” When Mr. Brown opened his mouth, Simon added, “One that does not involve using open carts?”

Mr. Brown shut his mouth.

“I see. And do you have an equipage of your own, sir?” Simon asked.

“Aye,” called out one of the guards before the governor could answer. Louisa recognized him as a man of good character, who’d always been kind to the women. “Keeps his barouche out back, he does.”

“Good.” Simon smiled thinly at the governor. “I am sure you will be happy to add your barouche to the tally, won’t you, sir?”

Only with great difficulty did Louisa stifle her smile.

Mr. Brown paled. “Er…yes…Your Grace, of course.”

“Because otherwise I might have to mention your ‘honest mistake’ to my good friend, the Lord Mayor, and he would not be pleased.”

“I…I will be happy to offer my barouche, Your Grace.”

With a nod, Simon turned to the women, who’d been hastily amassing a count. “How many more carriages do we need then, ladies?”

“Two,” Mrs. Harris said, “if we put the children on laps.”

“There’s some hackneys at a stand in the next street,” said the helpful guard. “If you’ll vouch for their pay, Your Grace, I’ll see how many I can fetch.”

Simon handed him several crowns. “Pay them with that, and keep the rest.”

Louisa knew it was more than the guard made in a month. His face alight, he thanked Simon profusely before scurrying off.

With a supercilious stare Simon turned back to Brutus. “It appears, sir, that our problem is solved.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “So perhaps we should get this going, since the ships are so impatient for our arrival.”

Louisa only had time to flash Simon a grateful smile before the guards began the tedious process of loading the shackled women and their children into the carriages.

Oh, how was she to resist him when he did lovely things like facing down Brutus for her convict women? Or informing Marcus that he truly meant to marry her? She could still scarcely believe what her brother had told her last night—that Simon had even shown Marcus marriage settlement papers. The man’s presumption should have angered her. Instead it sent her heart soaring, and all because his attentions had proved not to be a scheme.

She must be insane. She glanced over just as he finished speaking to a hackney driver. He caught her gaze, and the fleeting glance he shot her sent a lightning stroke of anticipation racing along her spine, especially when he coupled it with a smile so dazzling it practically blinded her. As her breath stuck in her throat, she jerked her gaze away. That was the trouble with Simon—he blinded everyone, the way Lucifer must have done when he’d descended from heaven as an angel of light.

Even Marcus had turned traitor in the wake of Simon’s brilliance. After his talk with Simon, Marcus hadn

’t tried to caution her further. He’d even admitted he was probably wrong about Simon pretending to court her so he could ruin her.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Harris had related a disturbing bit of news this morning: Simon had been seen speaking privately to Lord Sidmouth right before Marcus had visited him. Her stomach knotted every time she thought of it. But it could mean anything. Much as it annoyed her, Simon was a member of Sidmouth’s party. It didn’t necessarily follow that he agreed with the man’s ideas; there were plenty of Sidmouth’s party members who didn’t.

But was Simon one of them? Or was this, even the marriage settlement, merely an elaborate deception he

’d concocted to destroy her reputation?

Surely not. Surely he knew that Marcus would never allow it. Of course, Marcus’s disapproval hadn’t stopped him seven years ago—

A pox on Simon! After all these years, he still wreaked havoc in her life. And apparently she was no better equipped to figure out his motives than before. Some men ought to come with instructions, for heaven’s sake.

Yet he’d stood up to Brutus for her.

“Miss North?” a guard said, jerking her from her obsessive thoughts. “We’ve put you in a carriage with the women you taught, if that’s all right.”

“That’s wonderful, thank you.” She followed the guard to a hackney. She cast the prison yard a quick glance. Every equipage was filled except Simon’s phaeton. Fortunately only one woman remained, tugging a child no more than three years old.

As Louisa debated whether to give up her own seat in the carriage to the woman, Simon approached the prisoner with a kind smile. “It appears, madam, that you will be riding with me.”

Louisa gaped at Simon. He would put a convict woman in his favorite equipage? Truly? The woman’s eyes widened as she took in the phaeton, with its gilded panels, damask upholstery, and spirited pair of matched bays. Simon’s identity hadn’t yet filtered down to the women, but she couldn’t fail to realize that the rig—and its owner—were of superior quality. She shook her head. “No, sir, i-it’s a good sight too nice for the likes of me.”

Simon leaned toward her. “Truth is, it’s too nice for me, too, but I put up with it because the horses prefer it. Makes them feel important, you see. And I have to keep my horses happy, or they dawdle.”

Brutus stepped in. “You can’t be puttin’ her there, Your Grace. A guard’s got to be with her.”

Simon’s look of contemptuous fury was truly awe-inspiring. But he merely said, in a tone of ice and iron,

“The guard can squeeze onto the perch with my tiger. Feel free to do it yourself, if you really are concerned that a shackled woman with a child would attempt an escape.”

Brutus turned a mottled red as he realized that the duke had called him a liar. But before he could retort, the convict woman said, “Please, sir, it’s all right. My lad here has been ill, and he’s likely to…spew his breakfast in your lovely coach. We’ll ride in a cart. It ain’t so bad.”

Swallowing, she laid her hand on her boy’s head. “Them crowds won’t throw nothing at a mother and son, I expect.”

“They certainly won’t.” Simon’s eyes glinted a steely blue. “Because they’ll have to hit me first.” And he lifted her, shackles and all, into the phaeton. Then Simon knelt beside the boy. “If your belly starts to hurt, you let me know, and we will stop so you can ease it, all right?”

The boy stared at him wide-eyed, thumb in mouth, then nodded.

Simon picked up the child with such care that it made a lump lodge painfully in Louisa’s throat. And why did the boy have to be an adorable cherub whose blond curls jiggled sweetly as he crawled into his mother’s lap? It made it too easy to imagine him as Simon’s son, off for a ride with Papa. To imagine herself as the child’s mother, tucking his head against her breast, straightening his cap, and murmuring soothing nonsense into his tiny ears.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from Simon as he mounted the phaeton, a guard climbing onto the perch behind him. She’d never thought of him in terms of fatherhood. Driven by his ambitions, yes. Masterful in his seductions, most definitely. But capable of nurturing a son or daughter? Never. Until now.

Oh, what was she thinking? She wanted no part of the pain and wrenching screams of childbirth, the cruel doctors with their leeches and scalpels.

She steadied her resolve. No marriage for her, no matter how much Simon tempted her. Louisa settled into her seat with a sigh of relief. This she could handle—her convict women. She’d taught this group to read during their wait for their trials. Despite the gulf in their stations, she felt comfortable with them because they didn’t care what she wore or if she spoke her mind. Indeed, they included her in their gossip as the carriages set off.

Amy, a draper’s assistant convicted of stealing, leaned forward. “Is the man who put Lizbeth and her boy in his fancy carriage really a duke, Miss North?”

Martha, the woman next to her, snorted. “You silly goose, why would a duke be here?”

When the others teased Amy, Louisa said quickly, “Yes, he’s a duke.”

“I told you he was!” Amy cast Martha a gloating glance. “Isn’t that something? I’ll wager Lizbeth never expected to be sitting next to a duke.”

“Don’t know why not,” Martha said. “She probably sat on a duke’s lap often enough at the tavern.” She nudged Amy. “On more than just his lap, too, I expect.”

The other women sniggered, and Louisa frowned. “Ladies, what did we say about avoiding unsavory discourse?”

They sobered at once. “Yes, miss,” they replied in unison.

But she couldn’t blame them for lapsing into old habits; they were nervous about their futures. And with the hackney curtains drawn, eerily muting the dawn light, the space became a gloomy harbinger of their coming voyage, where they’d be crowded below decks in tiny cells.

Amy cast her a thoughtful glance. “We mean to be good, really we do. But we hear things about what becomes of women who go out on the ships—”

“I know.” Louisa, too, had heard the tales. Three years ago, a convict ship had even been kidnapped by pirates. “But if you take pride in yourself, then decent men will treat you with respect.”

“And the others?” Martha snapped. “Them’s the ones we worry about.”

“You must at least try to hold firm to your principles. Because this is your chance for a new sort of life, if you only have the strength to seize it.”

“All the same,” Martha said, “I’m glad I got my friend to buy me some sponges.”

Louisa stared at her questioningly. “Sponges?”

“Don’t be talking about that ’round Miss North, you dolt,” Amy chided.