A Lady’s Secret (25 page)

R
obin ate breakfast, feeling useless. There’d been no good news yesterday and he couldn’t see why there’d be any today, and he wanted to be galloping around the country, seeking her. But Petra was working hard at not being caught, and she was succeeding. Strangely, he was proud of her. If only he could be sure she was safe.

Thorn sat by his bed, drinking tea and studying a map. “I wish we knew her destination.”

“That would be entirely too easy.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“No, of course not. Do I make it seem…I probably do. Petra berated me for it. It’s just my way.”

“I know, I know.” Thorn tossed aside the map. “I suppose I’m worried about her, too. But she chose to leave, and you met her only a few days ago.”

“Unless my nursemaid popped me in her cradle. Sorry. Flippant again. Some days are a lot longer than others, I find. Was I ever the lighthearted Earl of Huntersdown, who knew not Petra d’Averio?”

“There you go again.”

“I’m a hopeless case.”

A footman entered then with a letter. Thorn opened it and said, “Some good news. The man I sent to Dover reports that a man of Varzi’s description followed your men. They took the coach; he rode.”

“So he’s not gone to the Folkestone area. Right, then. Let’s follow him to London. Petra’s greatest danger is from Varzi. If I can stop him, her situation is improved, and your people can continue the search down here.”

“That’s actually an excellent and surprisingly sane idea. If the doctor approves.”

Robin suppressed his opinion of the doctor. “She might well be going there anyway, to seek help of Teresa Cornelys. That could be disastrous. The woman would give her up for some pieces of silver.”

“Gold, Robin, gold,” said Thorn, and sent to hurry the doctor.

Once he’d arrived, Doctor Brown pulled a face, but Robin knew that when the physician agreed to stitch the wound and permit travel—gentle travel—he was healing. The man had even muttered something about healthy young flesh, shaking his head.

Soon Robin was hobbling out to the traveling chariot with the aid of a footman and a sturdy walking stick. He knew Thorn would insist on careful travel to favor his leg, but even so, he was out of his damned bed and they’d be in London by evening.

“London,” he said as they set off, “and something useful to do.”

Petra parted from Alice Hythe and walked north. It was only a few miles to Maidstone, and she felt comfortably anonymous in her shabby clothing. In any case, she doubted anyone was looking for her this far afield.

Having been trained all her life that men were dangerous and that a woman alone was indecent, she was nervous about walking the open road. Most, however, were simply polite, and the few who smiled too broadly or even made lewd suggestions didn’t persist when she walked by. Perhaps it was simply that country people were busy. Idleness is the devil’s garden, as they said. Or perhaps her shabby clothing concealed her attractions. That would be a very pleasant change.

She arrived in Maidstone to find a market in the street and wandered it in hope of cheap food. When she saw a place selling used clothing, however, she checked the goods. Two brown pennies purchased a battered, wide-brimmed straw hat. It would help shield her from the sun, but it also reminded her pleasantly of Mistress Waddle.

“Welsh, then, are you?” the man asked.

Petra agreed, and he nodded, pleased. “Thought so.”

Very well. If anyone asked where she was from, she would say Wales. Unfortunately her knowledge of Wales was almost nonexistent, but she thought Monmouth was there, connected to the tragic Duke of Monmouth, bastard son of King Charles II. She hoped that would do.

A man came by with a tray on his head, shouting, “Hot pies!” Petra bought one and sat on a wall to eat it. It was delicious, filled with potatoes, meat, and thick, rich gravy. With some plums and water from the town pump, she felt she’d dined well. She ached for coffee, but that only made her think of Robin, so she closed that door in her mind.

She explored the market a little more, finding that her clean but poor clothing and a mention of Wales seemed to make her acceptable and unremarkable. She indulged in a currant bun and then bought some more plums to take with her, and a piece of hard cheese that would keep. She was content until she heard, “…Woman in a green flowered dress beneath a red cloak. Foreign. Lost her wits…”

Petra peered from under her straw hat and saw a young man in brown coat and breeches and a three-cornered hat weaving his way through the market, asking all the stallholders. Would Robin never give up? She hated that he be so worried, and prayed he’d accept the message of her letter.

Feeling safe in her disguise, she decided it was better not to try to slip away. The searcher looked around and his gaze went right over her. She was safe. She turned away casually and strolled onward in search of a place where she could buy a seat on a wagon.

It was easy, and within an hour she climbed into the back of the enormous cart. It was covered by canvas stretched on big hoops and fully loaded with boxes and sacks, but at the very back end benches on either side would hold about ten people. At the moment Petra greeted a young woman with two small children, an ancient couple, and a peg-legged sailor. She saw that wagon travel was mostly for those unable to walk, and hoped she wouldn’t be conspicuous.

No one seemed surprised by her, however, and when they asked her name, she said Monmouth. They seemed to accept that and her being Welsh. The team of eight huge horses started their steady plod, and she was on her way. A short distance out of town, Robin’s hound rode past with only a cursory glance, off to ask questions at the next place. It didn’t matter. Petra d’Averio of the green dress and red cloak had completely disappeared.

In London, Robin went to Thorn’s house rather than his own, because he’d realized Varzi might be watching Hastings Street. One of Thorn’s men was sent to visit the house and get news. He returned as Robin and Thorn ate a late meal.

“Your man and valet have left as ordered, my lord,” he told Robin. “A couple of people have called at the back door who might have been suspicious, but they might have been seeking employment or directions as they claimed.”

“No one lurking?” Thorn asked.

“Not as I could see, your grace.”

When the man had gone, Thorn said, “Seems to me it’s going to be as hard or harder to find Varzi as to find your Petra.” Robin glared at him, and Thorn raised a hand. “Pax!”

“I need a good fight.”

“You’re still recovering from the last one.”

“Yes, plague take it. I want to fight Varzi, but he’s an old man.”

On the journey, they’d discussed what to do with the villain and come to no good conclusion. Neither could swallow coldblooded murder, but if Petra was correct, nothing short of death would deter him from his task.

“I remember boasting to Petra that in England I could deal with Varzi, but now…”

“The difficulty is finding him. You’ll deal with him then.”

Robin speared a piece of roast chicken. “Don’t patronize me.” After a moment, he said, “You know, we’re playing the game on his terms. I’ve no need of secrecy now. The Earl of Huntersdown can get away with landing without due process, and I can protect the smugglers if necessary. I can accuse Varzi of complicity in that attack on me,” he said with relish. “In fact, I don’t see why I can’t advertise.”

“Advertise what?” Thorn asked.

“For Varzi. Reward to be given, man of this description, et cetera et cetera…”

“On what grounds?”

“Complicity in the attack, as aforementioned. If I catch him, I can have him before the courts for an attack on a peer of the realm. Heinous.”

“’Struth, you’re showing terrifying depths. I assume one simply sends the notice to the papers. Overstone will know.”

His plump, dull, but extremely efficient Town secretary did know. He showed no reaction to his instruction, but did say, “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I will suggest that if you do not wish to draw attention to this house or any involvement of Lord Huntersdown, perhaps any responses should be directed to a discreet third party?”

“Overstone, you are invaluable. See to it, there’s a good fellow.”

Robin went early to bed and this night he quickly fell asleep. It might be exhaustion, but it was probably because he finally felt he was doing something to keep Petra safe.

P
etra woke to Saturday in a common inn room close to a place called Sevenoaks. She was relieved not to be itching, for she’d discovered the unpleasant side of this form of travel. The wagon passengers had all slept together, each on a narrow mattress on the floor, along with four other travelers. There’d been a baby who’d woken twice, and the old man had snored. All the same, she’d had some fairly decent sleep.

She ate a simple breakfast with the rest and then climbed back into the wagon for her second day. She wouldn’t reach Guildford today, but she’d be there tomorrow, Sunday. It began to rain, proving that England wasn’t always idyllic, but she was dry and safe inside the wagon and counted her blessings.

By now, Robin would have her message, so she could stop worrying about him. That didn’t quite happen, but she managed not to think about him at least part of the time.

Robin woke to anxiety fueled by vaguely remembered dreams of struggling to reach Petra, who was crying out for help amid dancers wearing Venetian masks. Chasing Varzi wasn’t easing him when there was no sniff of the man yet, and his own doctor was coming soon to inspect his wound. Every sense said it was healing, but he still broke into a cold sweat when he remembered his father’s suffering.

He got out of bed to test his leg again. It was sore and the stitches pulled, but he could move around reasonably well with the stick. It had to be all right, but when Dr. Wright was announced, his heart pumped. Wright was his family’s London physician and knew the story. He looked both grave and disapproving.

I can’t wrap myself in flannel,
Robin wanted to protest as the man unbandaged his leg, but he knew there was a lot of ground between swaddling and dueling.

He sat up to look for himself, trying to persuade himself that the ugly, sewn gash was in good shape. He wasn’t sure until Wright muttered, “Better than you deserve, sir.”

“Perhaps actually good?”

The man looked at him sternly, but then relaxed into a smile. “Very good, my lord, but you’re demmed lucky. You, above all, should know…”

“I know life is chancy and might as well be enjoyed.”

The doctor sighed and rebandaged the wound, leaving strict instructions to take things gently and alert him at any sign of increased pain or fever. Having thus diluted his optimistic opinion, he took his leave.

Robin decided to take the positive point of view and celebrate by hobbling downstairs for breakfast. Thorn was equally delighted by the assessment, and they ate with some merriment as they pored over the newspapers. There was the advertisement, responses to be sent to a legal office not previously connected to him or the Duke of Ithorne.

“I can’t wait to see Varzi locked up for highway robbery.”

“It won’t stick,” Thorn warned.

“I’ll make it stick for a while,” Robin said, “and then think of some other reason to hold him. Why haven’t we heard from Christian about Italians at Richmond Lodge?”

“Because the whole world hasn’t stopped to attend to your business. Eat!”

Robin picked up his café au lait and sipped. “No news from the watch on the coaching roads?”

“None. Coffee isn’t food.”

Robin took a bun and buttered it. “It’s as if she’s not traveled by coach, but…”

Thorn spoke gently. “If she were dead, someone would have found her body.”

“Perhaps.”

“She’s merely disappeared efficiently. Perhaps she’s an old hand at it.”

Robin wanted to object, but the same idea was growing in his mind. Petra had slipped away from Lady Sodworth without much of a qualm. Perhaps she’d found another protector. Perhaps she was behaving with him as she had at Montreuil and on the
Courlis
. After all, she hadn’t been a virgin, and how could a gently raised foreign lady evade his search without help?

“I doubt she ever was a nun,” he said. “Consider how she left her rosary and cross behind without a twitch. Perhaps she thought that funny.”

Thorn, wisely, didn’t attempt a response.

“She used claws, pistols, swords—”

“Claws?” Thorn queried.

Robin almost scratched at the healing scabs on his shoulder. “And wounded Varzi’s man in an unthinkable spot.”

“I thought that gave you some satisfaction.”

Robin swigged coffee without tasting it. “She probably discarded that cloak within a furlong of the farm and got rid of the gown shortly after.”

“To wander naked?”

“Quite likely. No, but she’d find something else easily enough. After all, I’m not the first protector she used and abandoned.”

“Lady Sodworth?” Thorn said. “The intolerable harpy with a voice like a screeching peacock?”

“A commitment is a commitment.”

“Which, according to you, the Sodworth woman broke in many ways.”

Robin pounded the table. “If I only knew what she was really up to! Then I could put her out of my mind.”

“As you don’t, put her out of your mind, anyway.”

Thorn didn’t expect him to agree to that, so Robin did out of sheer perversity. “Excellent advice. I’ll hold a card party tonight.”

“Here?” Thorn asked. “Is my house available for rent, then?”

“No, at my house. It’s time for me to go home.
I’m
not the fugitive, after all.”

Thorn leaned back, mouth tight. “I don’t suppose Varzi—you do remember Varzi?—will really attempt to kidnap you and torture the wayward
contessina
’s whereabouts out of you.”

“I only wish he’d try.”

“’Struth, you madman! But if that’s the way of it, I demand a return of hospitality. I want to be in at the kill.”

“Done. Just to make sure of it, I’ll let the papers know of my entertainment. How? Ah yes.” He snapped his fingers, and Coquette danced over to be fed a tidbit. “I’m sure it will amuse the world that I’ve acquired such a dog.”

Petra approached the end of her second day in the wagon bored and prey to many doubts.

In Milan, full of her mother’s substantial memories of her lover and spurred on by very real fear, it had seemed reasonable to seek out her English father. Now, with endless time to think, all the unlikely aspects grew in her mind.

Why should any man remember an impetuous liaison during a wild Venetian festival twenty-two years ago? In her mother’s memories it had been a unique event, but to that merry young man the naughty contessa di Baldino would have been only a passing amusement.

He’d probably been very like Robin Bonchurch. Had he been as appalled by impetuous loving? Had he been as courteous afterward, trying to conceal the truth? When she thought back to Robin after the ship, she couldn’t help seeing only kindness and courtesy and obligation. He’d be hunting her under the same pressures, that was all.

She completely understood his position, for she’d been raised under the same code. There were people one married and people one did not, and any marriage was to serve the family, not personal taste.

She was thinking about Robin again! She turned her mind to Lord Rothgar, troublesome though that was. If he remembered, even if he remembered with fondness, why should he believe that she was his child? Hidden in the spine of her prayer book was a short letter from her mother attesting to the fact, but would that impress? Showing him that picture of his eye would mean nothing. Her mother had said she resembled him, but similarities between a young woman and a mature man couldn’t be so marked. Did she have any absolute proof to offer?

No. She even began to wonder if her mother had been correct. She couldn’t believe that she’d lie, but over time, might she have become mistaken? Had there only been the one lover when she’d been so very unhappy in her marriage, or were there more? After all, her best friend had been Teresa Imer, who had never been quite respectable.

Could a woman shift the truth over time to suit romantic notions or a guilty conscience?

When they stopped for the night in Dorking, Petra found the common bedroom intolerably crowded and noisy, and went out after supper to find some peace. That wasn’t easy, because the White Horse was a busy coaching inn, so she walked a little way down the road, tussling with her future.

She was learning much about herself, including that she enjoyed company, but would choose solitude over some people. It would be horrible not to have choice. If her father rejected her she would need to find work. She might find a position as a lady’s companion if she were lucky, but the lady might be someone like Lady Sodworth. She’d likely hang for murder before the year was out.

She’d survive in a convent, but she’d learned by now that Robin had told the truth. There were no monasteries or convents here, and the English were wary of Papists, as they called Catholics. She said her prayers silently and never crossed herself.

She wasn’t afraid of menial work, but she wasn’t trained for anything except the elementary nursing of the poor.

There was always Robin, and she had promised to ask his help if she needed it, but she didn’t know what to expect from him or what she could endure. She could not be his whore, but it would be almost as intolerable to be in his orbit with nothing.

Shadows were lengthening, so she turned back toward the inn. The words of the psalm invaded her mind.
Si ambulem in medio umbrae mortis, non timebo mala….
Though I walk in the shadow of death, I will not be afraid….

She had to step back sharply to avoid a speeding coach that halted at the White Horse, and the dangerous moment made her laugh. There were practical reasons to be afraid of walking in shadows. She watched the public coach disgorge passengers and their luggage and consume others. All people with purpose in their lives.

She asked an ostler what vehicle it was.

“Why, that’s the Guildford Flyer, that is, miss, and with Mighty Mike Cockcroft on the box. Be there inside two hours tonight, it will.”

Cock.
Petra looked from the dusty, laden coach to a short, burly man downing a huge tankard of something while flirting with an adoring maid. Two hours to Guildford?

“Would I still be able to buy a seat on it?” she asked.

“Aren’t you from the wagon?”

“Yes, but I have some money.”

“I’ll ask, but you’ll have to be quick, though, miss. Mighty Mike won’t wait.”

Petra ran in and up to the sleeping room, where she grabbed her bundle, giving a quick explanation to her fellow travelers. She ran back down to find the coachman on the box, reins in hand.

“Up on top for a shilling,” the ostler said. “Hurry up. You can pay ’im at the other end.”

Petra scrambled up the ladder to squeeze in between two men. The coach immediately jerked into action, and she was glad to be jammed in so tight. The Flyer turned onto the Guildford Road and picked up speed, the groom on the box blasting a long note on his horn to celebrate the fact. She grabbed onto the sleeve of the man to her right. He didn’t seem to mind.

Petra, Petra, only think what happened last time you acted on impulse!

I escaped,
she told her protesting mind.
If I’d stayed with Lady Sodworth I’d be back in Milan by now, or more likely dead in an effort to escape.

And cocks were her good luck symbol.

She saw a weathercock on a clock tower, pointing west.
Follow the cock.

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross.

Wherever that was, if all else failed she’d go there to seek her fortune.

Robin had forgotten that a return to his house would mean a return to duties, but as soon as his secretary, Trevelyan, expressed his delight with his good health he began to mention correspondence and documents to be signed, as well as something Robin should read about the situation between Austria and Prussia.

Austria ruled Milan, Robin instantly thought, but pushed the connection aside. He’d deal with Varzi, but wouldn’t waste any more time on Petra. She’d made her choice. He, on the other hand, had no choice. Trevelyan could be as demanding as a tutor—probably because he’d been Robin’s tutor, but also because he was always right.

After going through the most urgent matters, Robin lost control of one impulse. “If anything comes that mentions Italy, I want to see it.”

Trevelyan was at a nearby table, applying Robin’s seal with precision to correspondence already dealt with. “Italy, sir?”

“Italy. You know, that long country that looks like a boot?”

“Yes, sir.”

Damn. Robin never sank to sarcasm, and Trevelyan had probably picked up some of his ridiculous adventures. He still considered it his duty to keep informed about all Robin’s affairs. Were they done?

Trevelyan brought over one remaining letter, the seal unbroken. Robin saw at a glance that it was from his mother. “Why didn’t you give me this first?”

His secretary was staring at the far wall, his face rather pink. “I, er…I took the liberty of informing the countess of your wound, my lord.”

Rare anger flared. “Damn your black heart! It’s a mere jab, but you know how she’ll worry. I should dismiss you on the spot.”

Trevelyan went from pink to white, his face pinching. “Her ladyship particularly requested that I inform her of any wounds, sir.”

And a man could hardly dismiss his mother. “Oh, go away,” Robin growled, and snapped the seal on the heavy paper. She’d be worrying herself sick….

“’Struth,” he muttered, then shouted, “Trevelyan. Get back here!”

The man returned immediately, alarmed in a new way.

“Mother’s arriving tomorrow. Traveling on Sunday, even. Tell Mistress Dunscape to prepare her rooms and…oh, do whatever else is needed.”

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”

“Oh, hell. If I were in a bad way she’d want to be here, and I suppose she’ll be delighted to see me well.”

When the secretary had left, Robin rose to pace the room, but halted at the pain. A knock at the door brought the well-scrubbed kitchen boy who’d just been elevated to dog care. He put Coquette down and she ran to Robin in her usual fervor of devotion.

“Not you again,” Robin muttered, but picked up the dog. “Petra was right. I’m a heartless monster, aren’t I? Who has so much devotion they can afford to toss some away?”