Vanity (4 page)

Whatever response Octavia might have made died on her lips as she saw the lights of an inn glowing up ahead, throwing a welcoming shaft through the gray-white veil of driving snow. The sign of the Royal Oak swung violently in the gusting wind, and as they drew rein, Peter blowing and snorting with the effort of cantering five miles against the wind and the snow, the front door flew open and a burly man in a baize apron emerged, accompanied by a gangly lad.

“Eh, Nick, such filthy weather! We’ve been waitin’ on ye,” the man said as the lad grabbed Peter’s reins. “Is it done?”

“Aye, it’s done. They’ll bring the bodies here.” The highwayman swung down and took the man’s hand in a tight grip. Then they both nodded as if they’d put some issue to rest, and Lord Nick turned back to Octavia, still on her perch. “Journey’s end, Miss Morgan.” He reached up to lift her down. “In with you now.” A hand in the small of her back propelled her into the inn, to the left of a stone-flagged passageway and into a room where the heat from two massive fireplaces nearly knocked her sideways.

The taproom was brightly lit, tallow candles augmenting
the firelight, and seemed full of faces, all turned toward her. Mouth-watering aromas came from the kitchen Octavia could glimpse through an open door behind the bar, and she realized how hungry she was. It must be past noon now and she’d eaten nothing since before dawn, when she’d had a piece of bread and butter before going out to work the crowd at Tyburn.

“Well, what’s this ye’ve brought back with ye, Nick?” a jovial voice demanded from the inglenook, where the owner sat placidly puffing on a long churchwarden pipe.

“This, my friends, is Miss Octavia Morgan,” Nick said, shrugging out of his snow-covered cloak and tossing it onto a settle, together with his hat, whip, and gloves.

“Is that so?” A woman stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her angular body swathed in a floury apron. Her arms were folded across a meager bosom, and she held a wooden ladle in one hand. Her eyes were sharp and unfriendly as they rested on Octavia, who stood in the entrance to the taproom, melting snow from her cloak dripping to the flagstones to form a puddle around her sodden boots. “And jest who’s Miss Morgan, Nick?”

“A most artful young lady, Bessie,” the highwayman responded. He regarded Octavia with a quizzical smile that merely increased her unease. “Do take off your cloak, Miss Morgan.”

When she didn’t immediately obey, he deftly unfastened the clasp at her neck and removed the sodden garment, handing it to a wide-eyed serving wench. “Dry it, Tabitha…. Now, your muff and gloves, Miss Morgan.”

They were removed in short order, and Octavia felt uncomfortably exposed in her demure gown of cream muslin. Her fingers twitched at the torn lace fichu. She was totally out of place in this room full of rough countrymen, the only other women the hard-eyed Bessie in the doorway and the little serving girl.

“Now, to the first order of business,” Lord Nick said cheerfully. “Time to pay your dues, Miss Morgan.” Catching her round the waist, he swept her up and onto the long deal table in the center of the room.

Octavia was for the moment too stunned to say anything. She stared down at the sea of faces, amused and anticipatory now, as if waiting for some entertainment to begin.

“Somewhere on her person, Miss Morgan has concealed the fruits of her morning’s work at Tyburn,” Lord Nick solemnly informed the room. “And not incidentally, my watch. One of my most valued possessions,” he added judiciously.

“Not the one ye nabbed from old Denbigh, Nick?”

“The very same, Thomas,” he concurred with a grave nod. “Now, Miss Morgan, I think it’s time for you to reveal your hiding place and show us your proceeds.”

She stared at him, her cheeks crimson as she understood what he was saying. In the doorway, waiting for the mob to pass, he’d seen her hand move stealthily when she’d been about to restore his watch. He knew precisely where she kept the pouch. He would know it was fastened around her waist, and to untie it, she would have to raise her skirts.

“You pox-ridden bastard,” she said softly.

“Retribution, Miss Morgan, remember?” One eyebrow lifted. Casually, he reached up to the rack of clay pipes above the bar and took one down. She stood unmoving on the table as he filled the pipe, struck flint on tinder, and lit the tobacco. A plume of smoke rose to mingle with the wood smoke, and the already heavy cloud of pipe smoke, in the low-beamed room.

“Of course, Bessie could assist you if you find yourself in difficulties,” he observed, gesturing to where the aproned woman still stood in the kitchen doorway. He held Octavia’s livid gaze, his eyes cool and penetrating and not in the least amused. This was not a man to cross, Octavia recognized with dull foreboding as Bessie readily stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron.

She had no choice but to comply—not if she was to prevent the woman from stripping the gown from her back in the middle of the room.

Closing her mind to the grinning circle of faces as they pressed closer to the table, she hitched up her skirt and her
top petticoat. In her haste and embarrassment, her fingers were all thumbs. During an eternity of mortification she fumbled desperately with the ribbon that secured the lambskin pouch to her waist. But at last it fell free.

The highwayman was standing at the table, one hand extended for his prize, the other cradling the bowl of his pipe. His face was expressionless. Octavia hurled the heavy pouch at his head with all her force; then she jumped from the table and ran for the door, shoving her way through the audience. She grabbed her soaked cloak from the girl who still held it in the doorway and raced into the passage and out into the blinding blizzard, not knowing where she was going or what she was going to do, just running down the street, her feet sinking in the drifting snow.

The wind cut through the flimsy material of her gown as she struggled to wrap herself in her cloak while she was running. She’d left her gloves and muff behind, and her fingers were quickly numbed, but she continued to run, head down into the storm, sobbing with rage.

The pounding footsteps behind her were deadened by the snow and she heard nothing until a hand descended on her shoulder and the highwayman declared in tones of considerable exasperation, “Odd’s bones, woman, ate you mad?”

“Let me go!” She twisted away from him, glaring at him through the thick curtain of snow. “Scum! You got what you wanted, now leave me alone.”

“I do not want your death on my conscience,” he declared.

“What conscience? You don’t know the meaning of the word, you filthy piece of kennel slime!”

Disconcertingly, the highwayman laughed, and it was a rich, merry sound this time, worlds apart from the mockery of before. “You’re entitled to that, I grant you. But I owed you something for a bite on the arm and a fist to the chin. You weren’t hurt, and you showed no more than a petticoat, so cry truce now and come back in the warm before you catch your death.”

“I’d rather die!” She swung back into the storm, plowing
her way up the narrow street, blinded now by snow-flakes clinging to her eyelashes.

“You are given to extravagant language and distempered freaks, Miss Morgan.” So saying, he swept her off her feet. She yelled with the full force of her lungs, but the sound was snatched away on the wind, and she could do nothing to save herself from being carted unceremoniously back to the Royal Oak.

He kicked the door closed behind him and headed for a flight of wooden stairs, calling, “Bessie, send Tabitha up with mulled sack and towels. And we’ll have dinner in half an hour, if you please.”

Bessie appeared in the doorway, watching as Lord Nick ascended the stairs two at a time, seemingly unhampered by his still struggling and cursing burden. She pursed her lips disapprovingly and returned to her kitchen. “Tab, you heard Lord Nick. Mulled sack in his parlor.”

“Aye, mistress.” Tabitha curtsied and hastened to the range, where a copper pot of mulled sack steamed fragrantly.

Above stairs, a door banged resoundingly.

“Lord of hell, woman, for such a slip of a thing, you’re no lightweight,” the highwayman declared, setting his captive on her feet with a sigh of relief. “Now, just stop cursing me and settle down. You can’t go anywhere at the moment, so you might as well accept my hospitality with a good grace.”

There was an inexorable logic to this that even Octavia in her fury couldn’t deny. And at least they were private, away from the sea of grinning faces that had witnessed her embarrassment.

She fell silent and looked around the chamber. It was warm and well lit with wax candles, a checkered carpet on the oak floor, a round table in the window, two upholstered chairs set on either side of the hearth, where a log fire blazed. The scent of lavender and beeswax mingled with the wood smoke; the andirons gleamed with polish, the pewter candlesticks shone, the wooden furniture had the rich patina of good housekeeping.

Suddenly, she was very tired, and her hunger rose anew with the aromas wafting up the stairs. With a little shrug she tossed aside her sodden cloak and stepped over to the fire, bending to warm her frozen hands, wincing when her fingertips tingled with returning sensation. Her eyelashes and hair were white with snow, her feet numb in her wet boots. The hems of her skirt and petticoats were drenched, and an uncontrollable shiver ripped through her.

The highwayman stood watching her, a speculative frown in his eyes. Her body was a graceful curve as she bent toward the flame, and now that she’d ceased her vilification and her struggles, he absorbed again the madonnalike beauty of her oval face, the innocent radiance of her tawny eyes.

One couldn’t judge a package by its wrapping. His lips tautened at the bitter reminder, and he waited for the angelic image of his twin to fade with the violent surge of icy rage that always accompanied it. It was a familiar cycle, one he’d lived with for eighteen years. But one day very soon he’d be able to put the evil to rest, and he’d be free of the malignant chains of deceit and injustice. And Philip would know his twin again….

A knock at the door cut into his reverie. He bade the knocker enter, and Tabitha came in, a tray with a jug and two tankards in her hands, a pile of towels under one arm.

“’Ere y’are, sir. Will I set the table for dinner?”

“In ten minutes, Tab.” He waved her away. She put her burdens on the table, curtsied, and left.

Octavia turned from the fire. The highwayman tossed her a towel. “Dry your hair, Miss Morgan.”

She caught it automatically and began to unpin her hair while he poured two pewter tankards of mulled sack. Bending once again to the fire, she rubbed her loosened hair vigorously, but she was still shivering in the thin, damp gown and her feet were still numb.

“Drink this.” He handed her a mug. She cradled it between her hands, inhaling the heady, spicy fragrance. She could think of nothing to say to him and no reason for the moment to quibble with his curt commands.

Abruptly, he left the room. Octavia drank deeply of the sack before sitting in an armchair to pull off her boots and stockings. With a sigh of relief she wriggled her frozen toes in the fire’s warmth. It hurt dreadfully as they came back to life, but the pain was almost welcome.

“Take off that gown and put this on. Tab will dry your clothes.”

In the bliss of warming herself, she’d almost forgotten her abductor and hadn’t heard him return. She looked up, startled. He was holding out a velvet robe, his expression impassive.

“My gown will dry quite well on my person,” Octavia declared icily.

“Don’t be a fool, you’ll have an ague by morning if you stay in those clothes.” He dropped the robe into her lap. She continued to stare at him, that delicate, innocent beauty a picture of outraged modesty, and for a moment he was almost persuaded by it.

But one should never judge a package by the wrapping. She’d fooled him once today already, and he knew her for a consummate actress. She was a grown woman, a thief who worked the streets. And she would have used her body as currency whenever necessary.

“Don’t pretend it would be the first time you’ve removed your dress in front of a man,” he said with dismissive scorn. “However, I don’t object to the play. Games can add a little spice, I agree.” He smiled but it was not a nice smile. “Shall I turn my back?” He suited action to words.

Octavia looked for a knife … for anything. She found the poker.

He caught the chink of iron as it touched the fender and spun round just as she raised the weapon, her little white teeth bared, murder in her eyes.

“Lord of hell!” He jumped sideways as she brought the poker down with a force that would have cracked his skull. She came after him again and he caught her arm. They swayed in a deadly ballet, and he was surprised at how strong she was—or maybe it was her fury that gave her
strength. Grimly, he twisted her wrist until her fingers opened and the poker clattered to the floor.

“What on earth was all that about?” he demanded, taking her shoulders and shaking her vigorously. “You would have killed me.”

“That was my intention,” she said with soft venom. “You dare talk to me like that …”

“Now, wait a minute!” He held up a hand imperatively. “You’re not going to tell me you’re still a maid.”

“What gives you the right to assume that I am not!” Golden fires burned in her eyes, and her face was deathly pale. And he knew absolutely that this was no act.

“Hell and the devil!” He released her and ran a hand over his chin, his mouth twisting ruefully. “How was I to assume otherwise, knowing what I do about you?”

“You know nothing about me!”

“No,” he conceded. “Clearly not. Well, for what it’s worth, pray accept my apologies for the uncalled-for assumption, Miss Morgan. And now I suggest you get out of that gown while I turn my face to the wall and contemplate my sin.” He stalked over to the window and stared fixedly out into the driving snow and the darkening afternoon.

In silence Octavia picked up the robe that she’d tossed to the floor in her fury and turned back to the fire. The wind rattled the windowpanes, and an icy draft needled its way into the room. She knew she couldn’t stay in her soaked clothes. Hastily, she threw off the muslin gown and unfastened the tapes of her whalebone pannier, dropping it to the floor. Shivering in her chemise and starched cambric petticoat, she reached behind her for the laces of her corset.