A Lady’s Secret (23 page)

R
obin woke to a deep voice drawling, “What have you been up to now, you madman?”

“Thorn?” he asked, opening his eyes, but only slowly recollecting events. He moved, winced as pain shot up his leg, but then grinned. “Thank heaven and hell. Help has arrived.”

“It certainly has,” the Duke of Ithorne said, sinking onto a chair that an awestruck Mistress Gainer had just pushed up to the bed. He turned and thanked her, which made her blush. Presumably he was here as plain Captain Rose, but still they swooned.

He was dark-haired and his love of sailing meant his skin was always brown. In addition, his features were strong rather than fine, so he was never described as handsome, but somehow women never noticed. Like Robin he wore his own hair, but Thorn’s was neatly confined and staying there, and his buckskin breeches, plain brown coat, and neckcloth were impeccably neat. It was most annoying, but now he was a blessing.

“How did you get here?” Robin asked.

“By coach?”

“I mean, how did you know?”

“Captain Rose received a letter. How did you get wounded?” But then Thorn stared. “What,” he asked, “is
that
?”

Coquette had risen from her place by Robin’s arm to stare at him.

“The latest thing in guard dogs.”

“It certainly scares me.” Thorn took out a gold quizzing glass to inspect the dog, then shook his head.

“No wonder someone got away with sticking a sword into you. Will it grow?”

“I fear not.”

Thorn tucked away the glass. “I thought not. She’s one of those idiotic papillons they favor at the French court. What possessed you?”

“A whim—what else?” Robin said, hitching himself up to a sitting position, cursing as his leg pulled. “How long have you been here? Has Petra told the tale?”

“Petra?”

“Mrs. Bonchurch, then.”

“My dear Robin, did you suffer a blow to the head?”

Robin looked over at the hovering woman. “Where’s my wife?”

“Wife?”
echoed Thorn.

“Why, I’m not sure, sir. We was just wondering that. She seems to have wandered off somewhere.”

Robin began to struggle off the bed, cursing women and pain. Thorn stopped him. “Decency, old fellow.”

Robin realized he wore only his drawers, and they weren’t whole. He looked at Mistress Gainer. “Please, ma’am, can you find me something to wear? Anything.”

The woman hurried off, while Thorn rose to pick up the bloody, slashed breeches between finger and thumb. He dropped them again and asked, “It truly is only a slash?”

“So I gather.”

“May I inspect?”

“Please do.”

Behind the laconic words lurked the fact that Robin’s father had died of a minor wound turned poisonous. A gash from a farm animal, and thus dirtier, but he’d received the best treatment. And died.

Thorn folded back the quilt and leaned closer. “It looks well bandaged. No sign of redness or smell.”

“It’s early for that.”

“True.” He flipped the quilt back. “We’ll have the doctor see to it at Ithorne. What happened to your shirt?”

“Bandage.”

“Ah. The absent Petra?”

“Yes. Damnation, get off after her, will you?”

“Where? And no. I’m getting you to Ithorne and a doctor first.”

Robin cursed him, but he knew Thorn in this mood. “Are my waistcoat and coat wearable?”

Thorn tossed over the waistcoat, but when he picked up the coat he paused and pulled a pistol out of each pocket. He checked each to be sure it wasn’t cocked. “One discharged? I thought it was a sword wound.”

“Petra fired.”

“Robin, Robin…” Thorn shook his head and passed over the coat. Robin felt something else in one pocket. He pulled out a rosary.

“Never say you’ve turned Papist!”

“No.” Robin found a wooden cross, as well. After a moment, he pushed them back, but he’d seen his notebook. “Pass me that.”

Thorn did, and Robin read the marked page. “The woman is insane. She can’t possibly survive alone in England.” He struggled into his waistcoat, then his coat.

Thorn read the few words. “Perhaps you should tell me who she is?”

“Not sure I know. Sister Immaculata of the order of Saint Veronica. Petra d’Averio…no, I forget.
Contessina
Petra d’Averio.” Stifling a curse at the pain, he swung his leg so he could sit on the side of the bed. “Or
contessina
someone-else-entirely, but she’s mine to take care of. Until she finds her mythical father, that is. Plague take it, where’s that woman with some clothes?”

Thorn put his hand on Robin’s forehead as if checking for fever. Robin dashed it away so Thorn said, “Toga,” and helped Robin to his feet. He pulled the sheet free and wrapped it around him.

“Wife?” he asked again.

“We merely pretended to be married.”

“Bonchurch?” But then Thorn said, “I suppose it was your name du jour. Good and holy?” He rolled his eyes.

“You’ve been known to travel as Captain Rose.”

“But I, my dear fellow, am a duke.”

Mistress Gainer returned then, some garments in her arms. Robin didn’t want to delay even long enough to put them on. He sent her his most charming smile. “No need to deprive your husband, ma’am. If you will just allow me to purchase this sheet. A guinea, my friend?”

Thorn produced one. Mistress Gainer protested the amount. Robin assured her it was a pittance for her kindness, and then limped with Thorn’s support to the waiting coach, toga clad and attended by a fluffy butterfly.

“Somewhat grand for a captain?” he murmured at sight of the ducal traveling chariot.

“The note said ‘comfortable accommodations.’”

It hurt like blazes to get into the luxurious vehicle and settle sideways on a seat, his leg outstretched, and Robin felt shaky and glad of the offer of brandy. He found a smile as he thanked the Gainers, however, and managed a wave. Then he gritted his teeth because even the well-sprung coach lurched as it made its way back to the road.

Coquette tried to comfort him by licking his hand.

Thorn was studying him in that way he had. “When you’re ready, I’ll have the whole story. But don’t worry, we’ll get your other bit of fluff back, word of a duke.”

Petra watched the coach leave and knew it was time to go on her way. She was surprised by the grandeur of the vehicle, but that merely confirmed her belief that Robin had told her a parcel of lies. She supposed it was a rake’s nature to conceal who he truly was.

There’d been no immediate search other than some calling by the Gainers. Perhaps he’d be relieved to be rid of her, but all the same, she’d do her best to cover her tracks. She also had to consider that Varzi might come to this area. She suspected that the Fletchers would make the dead man disappear, but if Varzi heard about the wounded man at the Gainer farm he would be intrigued. Some questions there, and she’d have him on her trail.

She headed off down the footpath, not worrying for now about direction. She simply wanted to be far from the Gainer farm and not leave a trail that could be followed.

She tried to avoid people, but this area was dotted with farms and she heard signs all around—a dog barking, a woman calling a child, and a clock chiming the hour. One man passed her on the path, merely nodding a good day, but he might remember a woman in a red cloak. She took it off and made a tight bundle of it. She should discard it, but she might need it.

Of course, she was now in the green sprigged dress that Robin knew well, and he also knew she was wearing the pale petticoat on top. She remembered his gentle caring in the garden of the Coq d’Or….

How could a couple of chaotic days have dug so deeply into her heart? She walked on, facing the fact that absence from Robin Bonchurch was eating at her like a wild beast. He was beautiful, but she’d known beautiful men. He was feckless, he took everything too lightly, he lived only for pleasure and seduction….

He’d fought for her, been wounded for her, and if he sought her now, it would be because his honor would not let her be at risk.

She tried to push all thoughts of him out of her head and focus on evasion.

She was young and active, but not accustomed to walking such long distances. Her legs began to ache, and her thirst became intolerable. When she saw an isolated cottage or what was perhaps a small farm, she took the risk. After all, this was one farm among hundreds. What chance that any hunters would find it soon enough to matter?

A brown dog ran out snarling, and Petra was truly afraid until a young woman appeared and called it off. Young, but hard-faced and suspicious. Petra supposed she wasn’t exactly a picture of respectability. The woman let Petra dip water from a well, but she kept the dog by her side and watched every move.

Petra would like to rest, but now she had to distance herself from the farm. She headed north, where the ground rose and might be less populated, but when clouds drifted in to cover the sun, it turned chilly. She put on the cloak again, but it didn’t fight a deeper chill.

As the cloudy day began to sink into evening, Petra desperately wished she knew where she was and where she would sleep this night.

Robin arrived at Ithorne Castle with his leg throbbing and the bandage wet beneath the sheet. As soon as the coach stopped, he said, “Get the hunt started.”

“I’m getting you to bed and sending for the doctor. A few minutes isn’t going to matter at this stage.”

“Damn it all to Hades.”

Robin had told the story. Thorn had been as incredulous as Robin at Petra’s quixotic quest for a father who had no idea she existed, and was inclined to believe it all a lie. Robin had argued for truth, but even so, it was no help. She’d never said where this father might be other than her idea he was at court, and that was little help. The summer court was Richmond Lodge, an unpretentious house at Kew, and the king kept few of his household in attendance there. Riddlesome, if he existed, could be anywhere.

Thorn forced him into a hand-chair made by two footmen, to be carried up to a bedchamber. “Plague take you, anything could be happening to her. I can’t take to my bed like a dowager!”

“What can be done, will be done,” Thorn said as they reached the bedchamber. “Your presence isn’t needed.”

“At least cover that bedspread with something that can be bloodstained.”

This bit of household efficiency made Thorn raise his brows, but a footman was sent off with the task, and Robin took the chance to limp to the window to look out. Impossible that Petra appear, walking across the lush park toward him, but he had to look.

A black-clad housekeeper came in, attended by a maid bearing a large cloth. They spread it over the bed and Robin was forced to lie down, propped up on pillows, but at least he could see the park by turning his head.

When the servants left, Robin said, “She doesn’t know the country. She looks like a vagrant. She speaks English with an accent. What if people think she’s French? It’s not long since we were at war….”

“You seemed to think she could take care of herself.”

Robin pounded the bed with his fists. “She thinks she can take care of herself. She’s a demented idiot!”

Thorn leaned against one of the bedposts, arms folded. Unlike Robin, who often looked lighthearted when he wasn’t, the Duke of Ithorne often looked in a dark mood when he wasn’t, but he was somewhat somber now.

“The question is, why has she fled you?”

“Secrets.”

“What secrets?”

Robin reared up. “Devil take you! If I knew—”

Thorn spread his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”

Robin fell back. “She’s probably a spy.”

“From Italy?”

“Milan’s controlled by Austria.”

“So it is,” Thorn said, suddenly thoughtful.

“Oh, pay no attention to me. It’s all wrapped up in this mad idea of finding her father. She doesn’t want me to know who he is in case she decides not to claim the relationship. In effect, she doesn’t trust me.”

“You have given her a false name,” Thorn pointed out.

“It didn’t seem important at the time.” Robin cursed again. “Powick and Fontaine! I need to send instructions. Get me some writing materials and a messenger.”

Coquette yapped a demand to be lifted onto the high bed. Thorn rather gingerly obliged.

Robin petted her, but said, “It’s a damned nuisance having so many people to take care of.”

“You’re an earl,” Thorn said, using the bellpull by the fireplace. “Responsible for hundreds.”

“Who all seem hell-bent on taking care of me. Don’t give me that look. You know they’d all faint and die if I demanded changes.”

“It’ll happen one day.”

“They’ll faint and die?” But Robin pulled a face.

“I know, but the earldom works like a perfect clock.”

“Then you should enjoy this bit of chaos.”

“This,” said Robin, “isn’t chaos, it’s torture. Of your kindness, send for some coffee,” Robin begged.

“Coffee, always coffee. I think you love it more than women.” But Thorn sent the order. He drank only tea, but he kept a cook able to make coffee well especially for Robin’s sake. For his part, Robin kept stores of Thorn’s favorite teas, even though he disliked the stuff.

Robin’s mind turned to Petra, and her almost ecstatic delight at the coffee in Montreuil. He’d supply her with the best coffee she’d ever tasted. They’d explore all its variations together. He’d sampled a new recipe in Paris, with chocolate, brandy liqueur, nutmeg, and whipped cream that might carry her halfway to orgasm before he even kissed her….

“The desk?” Thorn said.

Robin started and found it on his lap. He took out paper and the pen Thorn had prepared for him and pulled his mind back to business. “Powick and Fontaine were to wait for me at the London house, but they’ll be sitting ducks for Varzi.”

“You think he’ll attack them out of spite?”

“He’s capable of it, but he might think they can tell him where Petra is.”

“How positively medieval.”

“It sounds as if Milan still is, beneath opera and gloss. Where will they be safe but not connected to you or me? Is Christian in London?”

“Doing his stint at court, and thus at Kew.” Christian, Major Lord Grandiston, was in the Guards.