Almost a Lady (14 page)

Except that she wasn’t ready to go home.

Meg set down her fork and stared into the middle distance, chin resting in her elbow-propped hand. After such an absence she’d have to return to the parental home in Kent. Whatever story had been concocted to cover her vanishing, it would certainly entail a period of seclusion in the country. She drew in a breath of salt air, the scent of the sea pinks and clover on the hillside. The ship moved gently beneath her and she realized that she no longer noticed the motion.

Was there a way to extend this interlude?

Biggins’s knock banished the question for the moment. He entered with his acolyte, both bearing steaming jugs. Meg waited through two more trips before the bath was pronounced deep enough to immerse herself. “Thank you,” she said warmly. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” Biggins announced, gesturing to the boy that he should clear away the dirty dishes. “Not much to do when we’re in port.”

Meg nodded her understanding. She’d seen what life was like on board the
Mary Rose
when they weren’t in port. The door closed behind them and she threw off the nightgown and sank with a sigh of pleasure into the bath. Her eyes closed as she revisited the question of whether there was a feasible way to extend this passionate interlude. It could only be a temporary reprieve from the seclusion in the country, but could the possibility be broached with the privateer?

She doubted it. He’d told her he was on a mission and she suspected that extraneous women, however passionate, would interfere with that mission. He’d shown as much last night.

She heard the cabin door open. Cosimo called softly, “May I come in?”

Her heart speeded. She was a naked offering in a bathtub. “You are already, aren’t you?”

“Only with your permission, if your remember,” he returned. “I always keep my promises.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” She soaped one foot. “Where’s Gus?”

It was an unnecessary question since the macaw at that moment appeared on the lintel to the head. “G’day.”

Cosimo loomed behind him, leaning on the frame of the partition. His eyes ran appreciatively over her body, barely immersed in the shallow depression of the bathtub. “Pity there’s not enough room for two.”

“There isn’t,” Meg said definitely. She reached for a towel on the floor and stood up in a shower of drops, wrapping herself in the towel. “What happened to my clothes?”

“Biggins will have dealt with them,” he said carelessly. “I expect he decided they needed laundering.”

“Why didn’t you wake me before you left?” She followed him into the cabin, heedless of her wet footprints on the polished mahogany decking.

“My dear Meg, it would have been the utmost cruelty,” he said, taking her towel-wrapped form in his arms. “Believe me, you wouldn’t have heard the last trump.”

“Maybe not,” she conceded, kissing his hovering mouth. “Did you complete your business?”

That shadow crossed his eyes again but it was only for a second, then he said, “Tedious business with Murray. The man drives me insane with his rules and regulations. The navy must have this, navy ships must make such and such a report.” He shook his head and moved away from her to the chart table. “Bureaucracy does not win wars.”

“No, I’m sure,” she agreed. He wasn’t telling her the truth, not by a mile and a half. But even after last night’s ecstasies she still didn’t feel she could pry. She came up behind him as he bent over the chart table, wrapping her arms around his waist. “So will business occupy you all day?” She let the towel fall from her.

He reached behind him, running his hands over the cool naked body at his back. “That rather depends.”

“Depends on what?” She nuzzled the back of his neck.

“On what other diversions are on offer.”

Arabella had been pacing the drawing room all morning, staring out of the long windows onto The Leas, willing Jack’s return from London. Boris and Oscar, her two red setters, lay on the hearth rug watching her uneasily, every now and again going to pace at her side. She touched their heads abstractedly. The atmosphere in the house in the last two days had upset them enough to put them off their food. A highly unusual occurrence.

It was almost noon when, instead of Jack on his raking chestnut gelding, a lumbering old-fashioned carriage drew up at the front door. She recognized it immediately and her heart sank. It was Sir Mark Barratt’s. They must have left at dawn to reach Folkestone so quickly. What could she possibly tell them? They were expecting to find an ailing Meg, not no daughter at all.

Why the hell had Jack insisted on going to London? she thought even though she knew it had been the best thing—the only thing—to do. In a curious state of paralysis she stayed at the window watching as Sir Mark descended from the carriage and then handed down his wife. The dogs, recognizing old friends, jumped up at the window barking excitedly, then raced to the door, gazing back impatiently at their mistress.

Arabella knew she ought to run out to the street, greet Meg’s parents in person, but she still didn’t know what to say. In essence Meg had been in her charge and she had lost her.

Of course, it was ridiculous to imagine that she could be responsible in any real way for a grown woman who had always cleaved to her own path, and Arabella didn’t think that Sir Mark or his lady would hold her responsible—they knew their own daughter well enough—but the reflection did nothing to assuage her panicked guilt.

Lady Barratt held on to her bonnet as a gust of wind from the sea threatened to lift it from her head. She grabbed her husband’s arm with her free hand and almost dragged his tall stooped figure towards the door, her agitation obvious on her round, pink-complexioned countenance.

Arabella forced herself to move. She crossed the drawing room and the dogs shot between her legs as she opened the door, nearly unbalancing her. She entered the hall just as a footman was opening the door to their guests, Tidmouth standing behind him in readiness to greet them. Boris and Oscar pranced on the black and white marble tiles, their nails skittering.

“Sir Mark . . . Lady Barratt.” Arabella hurried towards them, hoping the rising panic didn’t sound in her voice. “How good of you to come so quickly.”
Stupid . . . stupid thing to say,
she castigated herself. There was nothing unusual or praiseworthy about parents rushing to an ailing daughter’s bedside. She embraced Lady Barratt.

“Oh, my dear Bella. How is she? Meg is never ill.” Her ladyship hugged the duchess tightly, oblivious of the prancing dogs. “Is it a fever? Pray God it’s not the typhoid. Or smallpox, I have been in such a worry . . . couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”

“No, it’s definitely not typhoid,” Arabella said, shooting an agonized glance at Tidmouth even as she submitted to Sir Mark’s paternal kiss on her forehead. He snapped his fingers at the dogs, who were the progeny of his favorite bitch and well known to him. They sat obediently, open mouths panting, huge black eyes glowing, long feathery tails thumping.

Lady Barratt’s voice continued without cease, asking and answering her own questions. “Has the physician been? Oh, but I’m sure he has. You wouldn’t neglect such an attention, my dear, of course you wouldn’t.”

Tidmouth coughed and said, “Perhaps your ladyship would like to go into the drawing room. You’d like some refreshment after your journey, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I must go straight to Meg,” Lady Barratt said. “Sir Mark, will you come?”

Sir Mark’s sharply shrewd green eyes, eyes that his daughter had inherited, had been on Arabella from the moment she’d appeared, and he had intercepted the glance between the duchess and her steward. He said now, “We’ll go up in a minute, my dear. Let’s go into the drawing room and compose ourselves first. You wouldn’t wish to agitate Meg with your anxieties, I’m sure.”

His wife took a deep breath as the calm voice of reason soothed her. “Yes, of course, I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

Arabella took her arm. “Come, ma’am, you must be cold and tired if you left at dawn. Tidmouth will bring coffee to the drawing room. Sir Mark, would you prefer madeira or sherry?”

“Sherry, m’dear, thank you.” He was still regarding her with a question in his eyes, and a deep frown now drew his thick gray eyebrows together over the bridge of his long nose.

Arabella ushered them into the drawing room, the dogs racing ahead of her. “Let me take your bonnet and cape, ma’am. Sir Mark, let me take your stick and your cloak.” She beckoned to a hovering footman. “John, please, take Sir Mark and Lady Barratt’s cloaks.” She was beginning to feel less panicked but she still wished Jack had returned in time for this.

“When did Meg fall ill, Bella? It wasn’t clear from the duke’s note.” Sir Mark stood before the empty grate, his hands laced at his back beneath the long tail of his brown wool coat. Boris and Oscar sat sentinel on either side of him.

Arabella didn’t immediately answer as Tidmouth entered with a footman and her guests were provided with refreshment. She was relieved to see that Lady Barratt was less agitated under her husband’s calming influence and took her coffee with a hand that trembled only slightly.

She waited until the door had closed on the departing servants, then said, “I don’t quite know how to tell you—”

“Oh, my dear, she’s dead. My girl is dead,” Lady Barratt declared, her complexion as white as marble. The coffee cup clattered in its saucer and her husband moved quickly to take it from her.

“Hush, hush, my dear,” he said laying a hand on her shoulder. “Let Arabella speak.” He looked at Arabella and there was alarm in his eyes despite his apparent composure and his voice was sharp as he demanded, “Come, Arabella, let’s hear it.”

“Meg’s disappeared,” she said, opting for the bald truth. “Three days ago. We were walking on The Leas, I came home, she went to the lending library, and no one has seen her since she left there.”

“Disappeared?” Sir Mark sounded incredulous, ignoring the soft moan from his wife. “How could she possibly disappear? She’s a grown woman, more than capable of taking care of herself.”

“Dead,” his wife moaned. “Murdered by footpads.”

“Ma’am, don’t be ridiculous,” her husband said briskly. “They’d have found her body by now.”

This didn’t appear to comfort his lady, who fell back against the sofa cushions, fanning herself with her hand. “She could be in the sea . . . thrown into the sea.”

“I’ll fetch the sal volatile,” Arabella said hastily, seeing that Lady Barratt was about to swoon. She hurried to the door. “Tidmouth, will you send Becky for sal volatile, Lady Barratt is not feeling very well.”

“I anticipated as much, your grace.” Tidmouth produced a small brown vial. “Should I send Becky to attend her ladyship?”

“No, there’s no need. Thank you.” She closed the door again and went back to the couch, taking the stopper from the bottle. “Sniff this, ma’am, it will help.” She waved the bottle beneath her ladyship’s nose and the sharp vapor made her own eyes stream.

Sir Mark was tapping his feet impatiently while Arabella attended to his wife. Finally he said, “Where’s your husband, Bella?”

“London,” she said, rising from her knees beside the sofa. “He left yesterday to enlist the Bow Street Runners.”

Sir Mark’s ruddy huntsman’s complexion lost a little color. The Runners were inevitably associated with scandal of some kind. “I suppose he thought it was for the best.”

“Jack said we couldn’t waste a minute. If the trail went cold . . .” She let the sentence fade. “I’m so sorry . . . I don’t know . . .” Tongue-tied, she wrung her hands and looked helplessly between Meg’s parents.

“It’s hardly your fault,” Sir Mark said. “Meg was not in your charge, Bella. Or your husband’s. She’ll be thirty next birthday.”

Lady Barratt began to weep softly into a lace handkerchief. Arabella knelt beside her again. “She’ll come back, ma’am. She
has
to.”

The drawing room door swung open and Jack stepped in, dust coating his boots and forming a fine powder on the shoulders of his riding coat. He tossed his curly-brimmed beaver onto a settle as the dogs hurled themselves at his knees with adoring barks. “Down!” he commanded sharply, pushing them off him. “Sir Mark, Lady Barratt, I’m glad you were able to come so quickly.” He kissed his wife quickly before bowing to the weeping lady on the sofa and shaking hands with Sir Mark.

“The Runners are looking for her in the countryside,” he said. “I’ve had every square inch of the town combed already, but they’ll go over the ground again. In the meantime, we have put it about that Meg is ill and taken to her bed. If you wish it, we could say that you came for her and took her home to recuperate.”

“Your staff?” Sir Mark queried.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “My staff, sir, will say only what I tell them to say.”

The assurance appeared sufficient for the baronet. He allowed Jack to refill his glass. “I think it would be best for us to remain in Folkestone for a few days. My wife . . .” He gestured to his still-weeping wife.

“Yes, of course,” Jack said, pulling the bellrope beside the fireplace. “Much better for you to be here when she comes back.” He turned as the steward entered. “Tidmouth, Sir Mark and Lady Barratt will be our guests for a few days.”

Tidmouth bowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Prepare the Chinese Bedchamber,” Arabella said. She smiled at Lady Barratt “It’s at the back of the house, away from the noise of the street, ma’am. And Becky will look after you.”

“You’re very kind, my dear,” Lady Barratt said, trying for a watery smile. “I think perhaps I’ll lie down for a few minutes. The shock . . .”

“Yes, of course. I’ll come with you.”

The two women left the drawing room and Sir Mark said, “Tell me honestly, St. Jules, what do you think has happened?”

Jack pulled at an earlobe. “Quite frankly, sir, I’m at a loss. The distance between the lending library and this house on The Leas is no more than half a mile. It was raining very heavily, and maybe Meg took shelter somewhere, but if so, surely we’d have heard something? Someone would have seen her.”

Sir Mark was silent. He sipped his sherry, then said, almost to himself, “Is it possible she left of her own accord?”