A Lady’s Secret (11 page)

Petra was happy with the big bowls of café au lait. Coffee, at last.

While he ate, Robin was talking easily with the new postilion about the storm, the road, and travel to the coast. He’d said he spoke French like a native, and it seemed to be true. She didn’t have the ear to be sure, but she suspected he was even roughening his accent a bit for the comfort of these country people.

Soon their old postilion went off to his quarters and the new one went out to help bring horses. Powick went along, too. Madame Crespin began to clear the table, and Robin sent Fontaine for his writing desk.

“As we still have a short wait,” he said to Petra in English, “I might as well write a letter about the events of the night.”

Fontaine returned to tenderly place a traveling desk on the table. It was small and shallow, but a work of art, its sides covered with marquetry designs of birds and flowers all done in exotic woods and mother-of-pearl. As Robin sat, the valet slid open a drawer in the side to remove a pen and a small container of ink. He inspected both, then passed them over. Robin took out a sheet of paper and laid it on the sloped top.

He began to write in a strong, purposeful hand, each letter beautifully formed, each line as straight as if he followed a guide. Petra was so struck by the neatness that she leaned closer to see if there were faint lines drawn to guide him, but no. She’d have expected careless handwriting with an excess of loops and squiggles. What did such writing say about this mystery of a man?

He completed his account, and then hesitated. Petra wondered what was wrong, and wished he’d hurry. She heard horses being led by the house. They’d soon be able to leave.

He dipped the pen again and scrawled. It was completely at variance with the rest of his writing. The “Robin” was rough but legible; the rest was not. It might be “Bonchurch,” but it might well not. He sanded it, shook off the sand, and folded it quickly, but still with every crease just where it should be. Then he took a ring out of his pocket. Fontaine dripped wax. Robin impressed a seal into it.

Petra stared at the ring and its impression. The ring had the patina of old, well-used gold. The design in the impression it left was curlicued, but mainly a letter. It might be an B, but she doubted it. An A? An H? Perhaps a K or an R? Didn’t she have trouble enough without having to wonder who this man really was?

He stood, pocketing the ring and handing the document to Madame Crespin with some coins and instructions about delivery to Monsieur de Guise. That impressed madame greatly, as it should. They were one of the great families of France. He had mentioned them, Petra remembered. She shouldn’t be surprised. Despite informality he admitted that he was part of the English nobility and that he had just visited Versailles.

He turned to her. “Are you ready?”

Petra returned practicalities and hurried to the privy. She returned to hear Madame Crespin exclaim, “Another early one!”

Petra’s heart jolted, but through the front window she saw part of a large carriage, loaded with luggage. Varzi would never travel like that. She relaxed, but then a strident voice told her who had arrived—Lady Sodworth. The woman must have left Abbeville at first light!

Petra went to the window and peered out from one side. The grooms were leading horses to Robin’s chaise, but how could she get into it unobserved? She remembered her disguise and went to the door.

Lady Sodworth stormed out of the coach, her strident voice slicing the air as she demanded horses
immediately
. The postmaster promised only a short delay.

She marched toward the house, but then she whirled to scream, “Arabella, Georgie, get back in the coach!”

Of course the little monsters paid no attention, and Lady Sodworth continued on to the house, ignoring them.

The back way,
Petra thought and turned, but it was too late. Lady Sodworth swept in, blinking in the darker room, still complaining. But then her eyes widened. “You!”

Petra took the only possible route. “Me?” she asked as if confused.

Lady Sodworth carried on in English. “How dare you abandon me, you ungrateful wretch! The night I had with the storm and the children. I didn’t sleep a wink. The sooner I’m out of this horrible country, the better.”

She seemed blind to her two children grabbing bread off the table and running out through the back door. Petra turned to do something about that, but Lady Sodworth grasped her arm.

“Oh, no. You’re coming with me!”

Petra twisted free and dodged behind a chair. “I don’t know who you are,” she cried, “but you are clearly mad. Robin! Help me!”

Lady Sodworth stared, and Robin ran in.

“This woman,” Petra cried, pointing, “she imagines I am someone she knows and is trying to drag me away.”

Lady Sodworth stared at him. “You!” she exclaimed, not much given to originality. “You were in Abbeville.” Though not original or clever, she wasn’t stupid, and she looked, narrow-eyed, between the two of them. “So the nun is not so virtuous after all.”

Petra thanked God the woman had spoken in English, though she feared Madame Crespin was interpreting tone all too well.

Robin faced her calmly and bowed. “I’m afraid you’ve made some mistake, ma’am. This is my sister.”

“But…” The first trace of uncertainty crinkled Lady Sodworth’s brow. That air of authority was working again.

“Powick!” he called.

The groom came in.

“Powick, this lady is under an extraordinary misapprehension. Kindly assure her that my sister is my sister.”

Powick’s face twitched, but he must be used to such demands. “Of course, sir.”

Robin waved him away, and looked a polite question at the baffled lady.

“And who are
you
?” she demanded.

He bowed in an elegant but moderate manner.

“Robin Bonchurch of Derby. And you, ma’am?”

“Lady Sodworth.” When she added, “Of Bristol,” it didn’t come naturally. That only confirmed Petra’s belief that the Sodworths were nouveau riche at best.

Lady Sodworth studied Petra again, not swallowing the nonsense, but not knowing what to do. She turned her anger elsewhere. “What is happening here?” she demanded of Madame Crespin. “Why are there no horses for my carriage? I insist that you provide some immediately, or I shall lodge a most serious complaint.”

Madame Crespin snatched up her baby and rushed out to chivvy her husband to his work—or perhaps she simply escaped.

Lady Sodworth glared between Petra and Bonchurch. “What, then, is your sister’s name, sir?”

He answered with a relaxed courtesy that managed to be dismissive. “Maria Bonchurch, ma’am.”

Lady Sodworth’s sharp eyes turned on Petra. “You do not dress your sister well, Mr. Bonchurch.”

“I do not dress my sister at all. Most improper.”

“Then where is her maid?”

“Absconded with Gypsies, taking my sister’s entire wardrobe with her. If you were a little larger, ma’am, I’d ask your charity for her.”

Lady Sodworth came close to snarling, baffled by his light, polite nonsense.

“Horses are being brought now, ma’am,” Madame Crespin announced from the door, adding coldly, “and your children are chasing my hens.”

“They’ll not hurt them,” Lady Sodworth said, reaching for some bread. “I’ll have coffee, woman.”

Madame Crespin moved the plate away. “They will put them off their laying, ma’am. Kindly stop them, or I will.”

Lady Sodworth’s arm rose to slap the woman, but then she spat, “I will report your insolence, you…you ugly trull!”

In her fury she’d abandoned French, but the meaning was clear. After a fraught moment, Lady Sodworth caved, turned, and swept out into the backyard to scream at her brats.

Robin beckoned, and Petra was only too glad to hurry outside. But Lady Sodworth caught up with them, literally dragging her infants. “So, Maria Bonchurch of Derbyshire,” she screamed, “how is it that you speak English with an Italian accent?”

Petra turned to face her. Again, the woman had used English, but the post keeper, postilions, outriders, and even Madame Crespin were all watching this show.

“You’re mistaken,” Petra said, trying to imitate Robin’s manner. “It’s a Derbyshire accent.”

Lady Sodworth laughed. “Oh, you’re a bold piece. I always suspected it, but that won’t wash. I wondered why the nuns were so eager to get rid of you. With child?”

“No!”

“Spend much time with that ‘brother’ of yours and you will be. Come with me now, and I won’t tell all these people the truth.” The predatory woman would do anything to get her own children off her hands.

Robin stepped between them, and this time his tone was icy. “Your horses are ready, ma’am. I suggest you get on your way.”

Color flared in Lady Sodworth’s cheeks. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“It is hard not to hear you, but create trouble here and I will repay you tenfold in England. Do not doubt that I can.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“I know perfectly well who I am, though I have no idea who you are.”

“Lady Sodworth,” the woman said, but even she knew that wasn’t what he meant. Her face pinched to ugliness with the need to carry out her threat, but it would take a braver woman to face down Robin Bonchurch in this mood. She threw her children into the Berlin, and in moments it rolled on its way in a cloud of dust.

“She’ll make trouble,” Petra said, sick with dread.

“Let her try.” He offered his arm. “I believe we can now depart, sister.”

He was trying to be at ease, but some residue of the confrontation with Lady Sodworth lingered. Petra took his taut arm, wondering again who this man was. At times his arrogant certainty was fit for a prince.

He rode again, and she was glad of it. She couldn’t stop teasing at the puzzle that was Robin Bonchurch.
He
should be called Riddlesome. His dress was ordinary, and he sometimes seemed a lightweight in all the worst ways. He’d been effective against Mère Goulart, however, and against Lady Sodworth, in an entirely different way.

He confessed to being highborn, but was he hiding a great title?

She considered Coquette, with her fringed butterfly ears, gold-tipped fur, and jeweled collar, and the haughty valet Fontaine. She remembered that writing desk and old signet ring.

“Who is your master?” she asked the valet.

“Who he says he is,” he replied in a pinched-nosed tone that said he’d give her nothing more.

Petra turned to watch the passing countryside, frustrated by confusion. But it didn’t really matter. Once they were in England, he could go his mysterious way and she would go hers. She’d never see him again.

And any pang that caused was proof that it would be a good thing.

They passed Lady Sodworth’s lumbering Berlin, but the heavy carriage with its big wheels was probably giving a smoother ride on the storm-damaged road than the speeding chaise. Petra was soon aching from bumps and the strain of resisting jerks and jolts, but she had no intention of asking that they go slower. If it were possible, she’d demand more speed. As before, she clung to the strap for balance, and she couldn’t help remembering the wildness of the storm.

The security of his arms.

The shameless way he’d touched her.

The thunder, the lightning, the kiss.

They changed horses in Bernay and found the road better thereafter. At Nampont they learned the storm had never touched there. The post keeper complained that the water carts should be out to keep down the dust. But no, the officials were penny-pinchers….

There was certainly plenty of dust. The road ran close to the coast and the ground was sandy. Traffic became heavier with people traveling to or from the Channel ports. Hooves and wheels whipped dust into fog in places. That probably caused the accident. There was a great bang, splintering, then shrieks. Their chaise didn’t hit anything, but it veered sharply left and jerked to a halt at a tilt.

Petra watched Robin dismount and give his reins to Powick. He shouted, “Stay inside,” at Petra and went to the wrecks.

Fontaine left through the door on the other side, probably simply to escape. Petra swooped to stop Coquette from following, then tried to see what was happening ahead.

Two chaises going in opposite directions had locked wheels, creating a splintered jumble. Those horses were panicked, and all the others were restive. The chaise jolted and juddered as their horses fidgeted.

Servants and gentlemen were running about, yelling for help, giving orders, or simply complaining. Petra couldn’t see or hear Robin, but one thing was clear. The road was impassible, and likely to remain so for a while.

“Truly, God does not favor my cause,” Petra muttered to Coquette. “If we had been ahead of this, any pursuit would have been delayed.”

A new vehicle stopped behind. Petra twisted to look out, fearing to see Varzi, but the head that poked out of a window was round and red. The man began to bellow in French, demanding that someone clear the way.

“Stupid creature,” Petra muttered, “and so are you, trying to go out there amid wild horse hooves.”

Another vehicle pulled up behind—a coach with coachman driving. Perhaps it was the diligence, the public coach. Surely Varzi would use transportation under his own command, but she’d heard so many stories about him. One of his strengths was to do the unpredictable.

She was safely out of sight and would stay that way, but then their chaise jolted and slid to a steeper angle. She wriggled to the other side and saw they were close to a ditch. She pulled up the hood of the cloak and managed the tricky business of climbing out of the safe side, flinching at the swirling dust and noise. She moved quickly to the edge of the road, farther from both. “Stop wriggling to get to him, you stupid creature,” she told the dog.

There were three carriages behind them now. The most recent was disgorging two purposeful men in blue uniforms. Perhaps they’d bring order to chaos. She couldn’t see Robin—until she realized he was the dusty, shirt-clad man helping to break apart the two locked wheels by brute force, Powick by his side.

“Who is he?” Petra demanded of the dog. “Or are all Englishmen in truth mad?”