A Lady’s Secret (3 page)

“I’ll see to it. Stay out of sight.”

He lowered the blind on the inside of the chaise window and began to close the door, but realized he still had Coquette. He put her on his nun’s knee. “Discuss desire,” he said, and shut the door. He scanned the area but saw no danger, so he strolled over to the Berlin. There inside was the sister’s small trunk.

Two men came out and unloaded a fancier, leather-covered trunk, carrying it between them. Robin decided he needed his men, anyway, and went into the inn to beckon them. When they came over, he explained the situation and gave them their orders.

Fontaine—sighing because they were leaving—lurked to distract any porters, while Powick, sighing at Robin’s new game, pulled out the small chest, hoisted it on his shoulder, and carried it over to the chaise.

A nun or not a nun, that was the question. That was a very plain, nunlike box, but even if Sister Immaculata was genuine, she was still up to something odd. In two days’ travel he should be able to uncover all her secrets.

Powick was making room in the boot for the box. Robin turned to tell Fontaine all was clear.

“You there!”

He turned to face a furious woman. It had to be Lady Sodworth, but she didn’t match her harsh voice, being petite, beribboned, and even pretty in a bad-tempered way.

“Have you seen a nun here?” she demanded in her bad French, not seeming to recognize that he was a gentleman, never mind an Englishman.

Robin looked around in puzzlement. “Here, madame?”

“Anywhere here, you fool!”

He gave a mischievously Gallic shrug. “If you need a nun, madame, you should perhaps go to a convent?”

“Dolt!” she spat in English, and rushed off in her chaotic search. Another Coquette, and with a worse temperament. Robin wondered at any man marrying her, despite her looks. He searched his memory again for a Lord Sodworth, but felt certain there was none. So, a knight or baronet, and probably of recent creation. Excellent. That made it unlikely he’d meet Lady Sodworth again.

He collected Fontaine and headed for his chaise, where ostlers were putting horses to under Powick’s scrutiny. He’d been a groom in his youth, and knew the trade.

Powick had put Robin on his first pony and then become his tutor in riding, hunting, fishing, and other country lore. Eventually he’d become a kind of manservant-companion of endless usefulness. Having steered Robin into adulthood, however, he still thought he held the reins. Even Robin becoming earl a year ago hadn’t convinced the man that he was able to manage his own affairs.

“The nun’s coming with us, sir?” he asked in a forbidding tone.

“A damsel in distress. What would you?”

“I, sir, would return her to her mistress.”

“As would I,” said Fontaine. “The chaise, it will not fit three.”

“Therefore,” Robin said, “you will ride.”

The valet normally traveled in the coach. “Impossible. It might rain.”

“Think of it as a favor you are doing me in thanks for all the times I’ve ridden and you’ve had the chaise to yourself.”

“Not in the rain, sir,” Fontaine protested.

“Sir—” Powick protested for other reasons.

“I’m all innocence,” Robin insisted. “The holy lady needs to reach England, and do you really want me to abandon her to that harpy?”

“We could be days on the road if the weather turns. Days and nights.”

“And she will have a room to herself, I promise.”

“The weather….” Fontaine tried again.

Robin held on to his patience. “We need only go as far as the next stage. What is it—Montreuil?”

“Nouvion,” Powick said.

Robin shrugged. “As long as we’re away from all things Sodworthy. Let’s be off.”

In the end his word was law, so soon Fontaine and Powick were mounted. A postilion took his seat on the leader of the chaise horses, and Robin took delivery of the basket of food and wine he’d ordered earlier. He opened the door, winked at the shadowy nun, and placed the basket on the carriage floor. Coquette leaped out to relieve herself.

Once the dog was ready, Robin glanced around, saw no problems, and put the dog in the chaise. Coquette leaped right onto Sister Immaculata’s lap.

“If you think to make me jealous,” Robin said to the dog as he sat beside the nun on the one seat, “prettier ladies than you have failed.”

The nun stroked, and the damned dog seemed to smirk. The chaise rolled out onto the Boulogne Road, leaving the screeching and howling behind.

“Welcome to tranquillity,” Robin said.

“Can you promise that?”

“If it’s what you truly desire.” Her reaction to the word “desire” seemed to be a weary sigh. Very well; she wasn’t ready for the game.

“I must confess,” he said, “that I’ve suffered tranquillity for days. I was hoping you would remedy that. But not in any naughty way, Sister. See, I’ve even provided female companionship.”

She glanced down. “She’s a bitch?”

“With a name like Coquette, she’d better be.”

“Why don’t you like her?”

He shrugged. “I can tolerate tiny, frivolous women, but not tiny, frivolous dogs.”

“Then why own her, poor thing?”

“With a collar of gold and pearls, there’s nothing poor about her.”

She looked down at the collar. “It’s
real
? Why?”

“You tell me your stories and I’ll tell you mine.”

She gave him a scathing look and turned away, as if fascinated by the outskirts of Abbeville. So she did have secrets, and some must relate to why she’d accepted his invitation. There was time. To increase her comfort, he angled into his own corner and stretched his legs, widening the space between them on the seat.

“You can still change your mind, Sister. We can return you to Lady Sodworth.”

She clearly thought about it before saying, “No, thank you.”

“Then perhaps you would like to return to your convent.”

She turned, frowning. “You would take me to
Milan
?”

“I’m a wealthy man. It would not discomfort me.”

“You’re a madman!”

“What a shame you’ve cast your lot with me, then.”

Her reaction seemed to be irritation rather than fear. “You don’t appear rich.”

“I’m modest, and don’t flaunt it.”

“If you truly are rich, you could arrange for me to travel to London in a more respectable way.”

“But how would that benefit me?”

“How does this benefit you?”

“It amuses me.”

Perhaps she tightened her hand, for Coquette jumped down with an affronted twitch. The dog considered Robin, but then circled and settled onto her pink velvet pad.

“I’m your amusement?” Sister Immaculata demanded.

“Of course. Would you really wish me to pay strangers to escort you to England?”

“
You
are a stranger.”

It startled a laugh out of Robin. “So I am. But I’ve taken charge of you, you see, so now my honor requires that I personally see you safe.”

That created an intriguing, wary silence.

“So where, Sister Immaculata, does your safety dwell?”

“In England.”

“Any specific place?”

“None that need concern you, sir.”

“I am to deliver you to Dover and abandon you? I think not. Do you even speak English?”

She smiled and answered in that language. “Perfectly.”

As best he could tell from one word, that was the truth. Yet more dazzling twists to his puzzle.

He asked his next question in English. “Where do you plan to go in England?”

“London. At least to begin with.”

Ah, now he heard the accent, but perhaps only one of extra precision, which gave it an almost liquid charm.

“And after?”

“Again, sir, that need not concern you.”

He didn’t argue at this point, but she’d not shake him off so easily. He’d acquired a mysterious adventuress, who had not, he suspected, joined him merely out of temper. He perceived urgency and some fear. Of what? He really should be more worried about that, but he was entranced.

He had mysteries to solve, wits to challenge, and a companion so beautiful that simply looking at her enriched his day. Her every action and reaction thus far promised more. She had courage, spirit, and a spicy temper. Given a few days on the road, he’d explore all her secrets, including those only discovered in a passionate bed.

P
etra d’Averio knew she’d leapt out of a pan into another boiling pot.

Lady Sodworth and her impossible brats had been almost unbearable, but she was accustomed to penance. The real problem was that Lady Sodworth traveled like a snail. Now that Petra had glimpsed Varzi—thought she’d glimpsed Varzi—the pace was unendurable.

Once she’d won free of Milan, and then of Italy, she’d prayed that even Ludovico wouldn’t pursue her across Europe. But Varzi was Ludo’s hunting dog, and surely the man she’d seen in the streets of Abbeville had been he.

She’d been trying to persuade herself that she was wrong. The man she’d thought was Varzi had been in the street as Lady Sodworth’s carriage had approached the inn, and how could the hunter be ahead? She knew he could, however. If he’d learned that she was with Lady Sodworth, then he knew her route and destination. It would be in keeping for him to ride ahead and station himself in her sight to warn her of defeat. Such a rotund, swarthy, ordinary-looking man to shoot terror through her, but everyone knew that Varzi never gave up a pursuit and would do anything to make the capture.

She wished she could see his face when he realized she was no longer in Lady Sodworth’s party.
But at what price, Petra? Why this man? He’s danger on long, elegant legs.
He’d been her only chance, however, and she’d seen only a wastrel rake with a ridiculous dog. A man she could manage.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

His dog rose and demanded attention again, so he picked her up. Stroking the fluffy white thing, he should look weak, but though he was relaxed as a cat she sensed danger and almost felt the carriage was too small, too short of air.

Don’t be idiotic.
Just because the man assumed that a smile and soothing words would get her into his bed didn’t constitute danger. She, above all, could resist seduction.

He was simply her means to an end, to safe arrival in England, so she assessed him with that in mind.

He’d claimed to be wealthy, but he didn’t look it. His brown frock coat was loosely cut, as were his buckskin breeches. He wore well-used riding boots, a beige waistcoat that hung unfastened over an unruffled shirt that lay open at the neck. No form of neckcloth. Even his light brown hair hung loose around his shoulders, like a countryman’s.

Yet his poor excuse for a dog wore a collar of gold and pearls—or so he said. She’d inspect it later, for she knew gold and pearls. She’d once possessed some and would still, except for her brother, Cesare, God send him what he deserved.

This Bonchurch was handsome, she’d grant him that. No wonder he expected her to fall into his arms. Women probably did that all the time. He had almost magical eyes—blue, but not a common blue. A sapphire blue that only an unfair God would give to a man, especially with long lashes as trimming.

His fine profile could almost be beautiful, but no one would call him feminine. His cheeks were lean, his jaw square. Even though he couldn’t be much older than she, he had the self-assured arrogance of his sex and an almost palpable aura of the erotic. He was sinfulness incarnate, and spoiled—the type used to getting what he wanted.

And he wanted her.

He hadn’t even tried to hide it.

To her annoyance, that game had stirred a coil of pleasure. What young woman doesn’t want to be desired by a devastating man? And it had been so long….

She pulled her mind back from that pit. He didn’t admire her. He didn’t even know her, and he could hardly be overwhelmed by her charms in her nun’s garb. He wanted a nun as a hunter might want a trophy to hang on the wall, and in this hunting game the advantage would go to whoever broke this silence. Which language? She was more comfortable in English than French.

“Wise of you to travel simply, Mr. Bonchurch. Lady Sodworth flaunted her wealth and title.”

He turned to her. “And was doubtless fleeced left, right, and center. She travels without some man to arrange details for her?”

“She has outriders, but no one with authority since somewhere in La Vanoise. She dismissed the man her husband appointed, for calling her, more or less, a twit.”

“A man of discernment. Where is the husband?”

“He found some pressing reason to travel home by a different route.”

“Sister Immaculata, you’re a cynic.”

“Mr. Bonchurch, three weeks with Lady Sodworth would turn St. Francis of Assisi into a cynic.”

He laughed. “I’m surprised you lasted so long.”

“So am I, but to begin with Lady Sodworth had a lady’s maid, and the children had a nursemaid.”

“The latter, I remember, fell ill in Amiens.”

“And the former abandoned us. We encountered another party interested in her services, and off she went, wise woman. Anna had no means of escape until she developed a fever. I wonder if it’s possible to fall ill on purpose.”

“Quite probably. What happened to her?”

“She was left in a convent.”

“That sounds like a tranquil alternative.”

“But Lady Sodworth gave only the most miserly donation for her care, and how is she to get home? She’s only sixteen, and has never been out of Italy before. I don’t know what will become of her.”

Petra had added a few of her own coins, but she knew it wasn’t enough. She would send more if she was ever in a position to.

“Give me the name of the convent and I’ll provide for her.”

“Why?” she said, sharp with suspicion.

“So you’ll pay the debt with your body.” When she shrank away, he waved a hand, a smile tugging at his lips. “Forgive me. I have an impish sense of humor. Why should I not provide for her? The price is likely less than I’d pay for buttons.”

She eyed his horn buttons.

“I mean my better ones.”

“I don’t think you’re rich at all.”

“I don’t think you’re a nun.”

At that challenge, Petra took her well-worn prayer book out of the leather pouch she wore on her rope belt and turned her eyes to the Latin.
Take that, you wicked rake, and chew on it.

She tried to concentrate on prayer, but was aware of him to an infuriating degree. On the edge of her vision, he still stroked his dog, and she began to imagine those long fingers stroking her.

“If I removed your headdress, would I find long hair?”

Petra didn’t look up. “No.”

“Is that the truth?”

“What difference if I answer yes or no?”

“A point. Let’s make this more interesting. Promise to always speak the truth.”

She frowned at him. “Why?”

“For amusement.”

“I don’t need amusement.”

“I do, and we have two, perhaps three, days’ travel ahead. I’m providing free transportation and protection, Sister. You might give a little in return.”

He had a point, and Petra knew she needed to learn more about him. “If I promise truth, you must do the same.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“You think I do?”

“Sister Immaculata, you are a box of secrets, and I intend to discover every one. Let’s establish the rules.”

“Let’s not.”

He ignored her. “We may ask anything of each other. We need not answer, but if we do, we will tell the truth.”

“Why on earth should I indulge you in this?”

“As I said, in payment.”

“If you wanted payment you should have said so before I joined you.” She returned firmly to her prayer book.

“Seek guidance from heaven, Sister,” the taunting voice said. “I’m sure God will see that I have right on my side.”

Petra had to fight not to return to the fray. She won, but only just. She knew her own weaknesses. Force would not break her, but gentle seduction, especially seasoned with humor and whimsical delights, might melt her before she recognized her danger.

She tried again to concentrate on prayer, for she surely needed it, but the presence of the man beside her, his body occasionally brushing hers with the swaying of the coach, made it impossible. She began to sweat, and not just because of the oppressive weather. She tried to avoid all sight of him, but his long legs were always in front of her, his body in the corner of her eye.

Two, maybe three days….

She gave up, closed the book, and put it away, shifting slightly to face him. “There are some matters to be discussed,” she admitted. “Where will you take me in England?”

“Our agreement, Sister? Truth for truth?”

She sighed, but said, “If you insist on such folly, I agree. Well?”

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

“Scotland,” she said promptly.

His eyes twinkled. “Is not in England.”

Irritating man. “I know that. I was countering nonsense with nonsense. I won’t be obliged to you, sir, so I will not take you out of your way.”

“I will ask no payment that you are unwilling to make, Sister, but let’s say London.”

“That will suit me perfectly. Thank you.”

“London is your destination?”

“It will suit me,” she repeated.

“Where in London?”

“That need not concern you, sir.” Before he could protest, she asked, “Where in London do you go?”

“I’ll merely pass through. It’s moribund in summer.”

“But it’s the greatest city in the world.”

“Which everyone flees in the warm weather. London’s a crowded, dirty place at the best of time, Sister. In summer it’s all stink and disease; thus anyone who can flees to countryside or seashore. Are you sure you want to go there?”

She was wondering, but had to say, “Yes. You go north, then?”

“To Huntingdonshire, but I’ll linger long enough to see you settled. Where?” he asked again.

She supposed he couldn’t simply leave her on a London street. “You may take me to a convent there.”

“Sister Immaculata, there are no convents.”

“We promised truth.”

“I speak the truth. We’re a Protestant country.”

“But you have Catholics. I know you do. And they are no longer persecuted.”

“Not tortured and executed, certainly, but there are restrictions on them. For all I know there are still laws forbidding religious houses, but for sure, any Catholic lady who wishes to become a nun travels to the continent. Which makes me think—do you have any other clothing?”

“A spare habit. Some changes of linen. A cloak.”

“Then we must purchase something. There may be a law against wearing a nun’s habit in England, but of a certainty wearing one will make you conspicuous and even put you in danger of unpleasantness.”

Petra’s head was spinning. “Unpleasantness?”

“Catholics are not loved and sometimes mistreated.”

“That is barbarous!”

“Is it? Less than twenty years ago a Catholic claimant to the throne, supported by the Catholic King of France, invaded and tried to seize the crown. Memories of the Armada live on, when the Most Catholic King of Spain attempted to seize our country and return it to the rule of Rome.”

Petra looked down in dismay at her gray habit. What she’d seen as protection might now be her peril? Her courage was shrinking by the moment. Religious persecution was notoriously cruel, and she was not the stuff of martyrs.

“Lady Sodworth said nothing of this.”

“Perhaps she simply didn’t think of it.”

“She never thinks of anything but her appearance. But we had an agreement, she and I. I would assist her with the journey if she transported me to England and advised me there.”

“And you trusted her?”

His skepticism stung, but she could hardly respond with the truth, that she’d been desperate.

“Her title…but when I asked her about aristocratic ways, she was evasive. I think she is not a lady at all.”

“In some senses you might be right. What’s her husband’s name?”

Petra thought about it. “She only ever refers to ‘my husband’ or ‘dear Samuel.’ I see now it is all a lie.”

“Perhaps not. He could be Sir Samuel Sodworth and she would be Lady Sodworth.”

“A mere knight?”

He seemed amused. “Most would hardly think it mere. He could be a baron or higher, but I don’t recognize the title.”

“And you would?”

She knew the answer before he said, “Yes.”

Could he provide the knowledge she needed? “You are nobly born, sir?”

“Right back to the Conquest.”

“Then why are you a plain mister and she is Lady Sodworth?”

He settled more comfortably, apparently willing to inform.

“In many countries, the children of nobles are all titled, and that can continue through the generations, but that’s not the way in England. For example, the younger sons and daughters of a duke have the courtesy title of lord or lady, but that’s not inherited, so their children are plain misters and misses.”

“That is your situation?”

He laughed. “The grandson of a duke? No.”

“But wealthy and nobly born?”

“Yes. The point is that plain misses and misters can be rich and important in England, and ladies can be upstarts. Many a foreigner comes to grief by not knowing that.”

Petra nodded. “Thank you.”

“What else do you want to know?”

Alas, she couldn’t ask about the person she’d traveled so far to find. She’d not let a stranger close to that.

“Tell me about the royal court,” she said. “It is the Court of Saint James, I know, centered on Saint James’s Palace in London.”

“True”

“That is where the king lives.”

“Not true.”

“No?”

“The palace is a rambling old warren which the king only uses for official functions. He lives at the Queen’s House—that’s its name—in a more rural setting.”

“And the court? His courtiers?”

“Live in their London houses when necessary and their country ones when they can, as now. In summer even the king moves farther into the country, to Richmond Lodge.”

“How far is that from London?”

“About ten miles.”

Not too far. She could walk that distance if a carriage would be too expensive.

“You seek someone who will be at court?” he asked.

Trapped, Petra said, “Perhaps.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You could trust me.”

“I’ve known you less than an hour, sir.”

“Even so.”

“Exactly so,” she said.