The Fashionable Spy (2 page)

“Aye ... Sir Edward,” the coachman said slowly, “I’ve heard tell of you.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Edward assured him. He was relieved at the man’s acceptance of him.

“We can each ride a leader, taking the others in tow, to Canterbury and find help there,” offered Higgens to the coachman.

“Me name’s Sam, and that’s the best to be done, I reckon.” The coachman looked over Edward’s groom, nodding his concurrence.

The two men began a crisp discussion of who would go first and what to do with the coaches. Neither seemed worried about the possibility of another vehicle on the highway.

Edward knew he could endure little more of the cold and wet, and doubted his companion could either. He scooped up the young woman in his arms and staggered across the field until he found a stone path to the front of the mill. Her cloak fell open and her gown rapidly became soaked in the downpour as he struggled up the path. He leaned against the building until he managed to open the door, then stumbled inside, the black dog trotting at his side, whining from time to time.

In the faint light of the windmill interior, Hawkswood made out a crude bed, and he carefully deposited his burden on it, first pulling her gray cloak aside, then off. His chilled fingers fumbled with the barrel-snap fastenings, yet she didn’t stir.

With the large black dog beside him, he made a hasty perusal of the miller’s room with the help of a candle and tinder he discovered on a ledge. A fire was the first order of business, and he blessed the unknown miller who had left a pile of kindling and wood in a rough box to one side of the hearth. Within moments the warmth of the fire began seeping through the room. A chill would do neither of them any good.

The shape of the room was peculiar to a windmill, with its circular outer wall of brick and the staircase winding upward in the center of the structure. Not all windmills had living quarters for the miller, and Edward was most thankful this one did. This place had not been vacant for long; there were signs of habitation. Edward was grateful he need answer no questions, not that their identity would be known by another, at least for the present.

A rapid search resulted in the find of a cache of food— slightly stale bread, dry sausage, and a half-keg of ale. They could be warm and dry, and not want for sustenance. Now, if the lady could be persuaded to revive . . .

Shedding his greatcoat when the warmth of the fire seeped through, he turned his full attention to the woman on the bed. She hadn’t stirred since he had placed her there. God willing, her injury would not be overly serious. She was soaked, though. He’d done his best, but when the cloak had fallen open her gown had absorbed water like a sponge. There was naught to do but peel the damp clothing from her body, get her dry, so as to fend off an inflammation of the lungs, or worse.

What a coil to be in, trapped for the night with an unconscious but beautiful and very shapely miss. He had noted the supple grace of her form when he carried her. The damp gown clung to her body, revealing a great deal to his appreciative eyes. Was there someone who would step forth to demand he do the honorable thing after compromising her by his actions? He’d meant to save the chit, and hadn’t thought about the ramifications of his deed. She looked innocent, vulnerable. He glanced at the dratted dog, who looked for all the world as though he laughed.

“Aye, laugh you might, I’m the one to pay the price, my fellow.’’ The thought did not cheer, in spite of her beauty.

He wasn’t experienced in this sort of thing. Not being in the petticoat line, he limited his knowledge of the fair sex to conversation at dinner, casual chat at a party, and silent communication at the gaming table. A twinge of his leg was a grim reminder of just why he maintained the discreet distance. His first experience with rejection from a lady, when the extent of his injuries was revealed, had prompted a reluctance for repetition of the same. The other sort of woman never revealed her reaction.

He proceeded to strip the spice-brown gown from her, trying not to tear the opening at the neck. Buttons and tapes were alien to him, and more than a bit daunting at this moment. At long last he had removed all but her shift and stays, and left them on, even if faintly damp, for what he was certain would be her modesty. She looked to be the virginal sort.

About to cover her with the faded wool blanket that had been folded at the foot of the narrow bed, he paused. She had shifted slightly, an encouraging sign for all that she had been as limp as a dead frog while he removed those damp garments, and something caught his eye. The woman wore a necklace, not an unusual thing as a rule. However, her movement revealed the design of an iris on the locket at the end of the chain, a blue iris done in lapis lazuli in an instantly recognized style. He knew it well.

Intrigued, he bent closer. Could it be possible she was associated with
that
group? A dangerous association, if so, and he examined her face again.

In the language of flowers the iris meant “I have a message for you.” It had been adopted by a ring of spies as their secret identification, a fact few people, other than members, and a number in the government, knew.

How could any woman who looked as innocent and angelic as this one be a part of such a group? His instincts told him she was what she first seemed to be, innocent and respectable. But appearances could be deceptive. She might be selected for her part for that very reason. He touched the edge of the locket, and the top sprang open, revealing two miniatures, a man and a woman. Parents? There was a resemblance.

He tucked the blanket around her, then stood thinking. Rather than attempt to revive her again, he examined her garments. They might be plain, but they were of the highest quality. Delicate embroidery decorated her petticoat. Her footwear bespoke a fine boot maker, and the unusual gold ring on her finger, while oddly shaped, was exquisite.

He turned again to study her face. Long dark lashes fanned over porcelain cheeks. He wondered if that straight little nose was the inquisitive sort, and bet that it was. Was she perhaps the one he sought? No one in her right mind would have set out on such a day . . . unless she had very pressing business. And what might be hers?

He raised a skeptical brow and limped over to the fireplace. He added wood to the fire, then turned to contemplate his companion and her guardian. Odd, how the dog had permitted her garments to be removed, not objected to his presence in the least. What did that say for his mistress? “Here, old fellow,” Edward said, snapping his fingers.

The dog obeyed. It rubbed a curly head against Edward’s good leg, establishing a friendship of sorts, and the two settled down to hold watch on the young woman.

“Elizabeth? Julia?” Victoria murmured, turning her head from side to side. “My head hurts.” Then her eyelids fluttered before she opened them wide and stared, utterly dismayed, at the stranger. He was a handsome man, one with a fascinating face. Tall, perhaps? But who? She knew she had not seen him before.

“How do you feel? A cup of tea, perhaps?” His gentle offer revealed a cultured background, proper upbringing.

“Sam and the horses? Are they all right? I should have stopped before ...” She went still, suddenly aware of something most significant. She moved slightly, then stiffened as the enormity of her predicament reached her befogged mind.

“You . . .” she sputtered, unable to do more than glare at him, for she felt as weak as a new chick. He might look like a gentleman, but surely no true gentleman would undress a helpless female! She transferred her gaze to the dog. “How could you, Sable? I thought you would defend me.”

She closed her eyes. This man had stripped her of most of her clothes, wooed her dog away from her, and now had her in his complete power. No man should have her in such a position. Yet here she was. Helpless. She fingered the ring she always wore and amended that thought to: almost helpless.

“Your coachman took the horses to Canterbury, as did my groom. The vehicles will be tended to as soon as possible, I have no doubt. The weather is so nasty I question whether anyone will attempt to use the Dover Road tonight, so there is little worry for the coaches. I fear we are stuck in this windmill, but it could be worse.” He gestured to the fireplace. “We have a rousing fire, there is bread and ale, and possibly tea. I thought you’d not take kindly to a trip through the rain back to Dover. Was your trip so pressing?” he probed.

She evaded his gaze, taking refuge in peeking at the fire, then looking about the room revealed in the dim light. “I need to get to London as soon as possible.”

“Impossible.”

“You spoke with Sam.” She digested the curious fact that Sam had spoken with this man and entrusted her to him. “And you are ... ?”

“Hawkswood,” he replied, looking as though he might swoop down upon her. His dark eyes crinkled slightly as though to smile, and beneath an aristocratic nose, a sensual mouth twitched faintly.

“I’ll fetch you a bit of sausage and bread. Unless I can locate that tea, I fear your beverage will have to be ale.” He rose and went across the room.

Victoria took note of his faint limp and wondered how he had managed to carry her. She was not a featherweight, as tall as she was.

“Where are my clothes?” she demanded, then winced at the sound of her own voice in her aching head.

He bestowed a glance on her from the pantry door. “Drying. Your gown is over the chair—the one upon which I sat, so as not to crowd your narrow bed. The rest are draped here and there near the fire. I have no designs on your virtue.’’

Not in the least amused by his words, nor completely reassured, for that matter, she stretched out a hand toward her dog and was rewarded with his eager nudge. He would remain close by her, of that she was determined. A chestnut curl fell across her shoulder as she shifted beneath her blanket. Oh, she was totally undone.

He returned with a plate and mug in hand, pausing before offering them to her.
“
By the bye, Hawkswood is preceded by Sir Edward. We ought not dispense with the formalities.” His eyes glittered, but with what, she couldn’t say. They were a deep brown, and did not reveal his thoughts in the least.

“Indeed.” She had heard his name, but couldn’t remember where. Stretching out one hand, while managing to retain a hold on the blanket that kept her modestly covered, she accepted the fare.

“I suspect you are concerned over our, er, involvement . . . that is, the forced intimacy of the situation,” he said, then appeared annoyed when she frowned at him. “You have, I repeat, no need to mistrust me, young woman.”

“Well,” she said with asperity, “you are not in your dotage, and there is no one else with us. What the polite world might make of our predicament, I dread to consider.”

“You would be compromised, I suspect.”

“In truth? Or malicious conjecture? One is as damning as the other.” She sighed before nibbling at her bread.

“Your family will be worried about you when you are late in arriving.” He dropped down on the chair, then sampled his food.

“True,” she replied after taking another bite. “But you know how it is with traveling, one is forever running into unexpected obstacles. And this was one of the more unexpected ones.” In a burst of honesty she added, “The road was terrible. I fancy neither my coachman nor your groom could help the crash.”

“I was driving, not my groom,” he replied tersely, then countered, “Why are you alone? No maid, no outriders. ‘Tis not proper.”

“With Sable I have always been safe.” She glared at the dog, who looked innocently from the man to his mistress.

Sir Edward picked up her stockings and petticoat. “These have dried out now. I shall absent myself so you may be a bit more comfortable.”

He was as good as his word, walking off with that faint but distinct limp. Victoria quickly pulled on her stockings, shaking her head to clear its fuzziness. Then she slipped on her petticoat and absurdly felt better.

“All clear?”

“You may come back. I daresay it’s chilly in there.”

He returned carrying the sausage in one hand. “More sustenance.”

She watched as he prepared bread, then sliced off a few pieces of sausage for her. “Hungry?”

Victoria held out a hand. She ought not have been so starved. The girls in the Minerva novels always managed to survive without food—fainting frequently, sighing sadly, and being bird-witted in general. She was more earthy, needing her primitive comforts of food and shelter.

“Your belongings are still in the carriage, my dear.” He studied her with a disconcerting gaze and she shifted uncomfortably under his look. She doubted he had been out to investigate the contents of her portmanteau, but that look of his made her wonder what was in his mind.

“I suppose we had best get some sleep and hope that morning brings better weather,” was her slurred comment, evidence that she was still not quite herself. The dreadful ache in her head refused to subside.

“Aye,” he said, sounding dubious about the possibility.

At last she drifted off into an uneasy slumber, wondering how this ticklish situation could be resolved.

The following morning brought no relief from the storm. Rain still pelted the windmill. Victoria listened, curled beneath the blanket, wondering at the silence. “There is not the sound from a windmill.”

“The sweeps have been disconnected, I would wager,” Hawkswood offered.

“Oh.” She continued, “My head does not ache quite so much this morning, although the lump on my forehead is most tender.” She peered warily at him as he sat by the hearth. In spite of what must have been a tempting circumstance, he had remained the gentleman, and she should be grateful. He intrigued her not a little; she longed to ask questions. A frown furrowed her brow, and she winced. He caught her curious look at his leg stretched out before him toward the fire.

“Stupid accident,” was his terse comment.

She gave him a startled glance.

“No, you did not need to ask me. I expect whenever anyone sees someone with a limp, interest is aroused. I fancy the fellows who come home from the Peninsula experience it frequently.”