Highlander's Hope (3 page)

“Most assuredly, my old friend, it will not be a burden. As for my social life, you know I prefer the company of the highlanders over that of the
Haute Ton
.”

“Indeed.” Yancy yawned behind his hand. “What of Marquardt?”

Yes, what of Marquardt? Someone had given him the documents he’d smuggled to the French. Until the man was caught, Yancy wasn’t about to accept Ewan’s resignation. The Regent wouldn’t allow it, and as long as Ewan remained tied to the War Office, he wouldn’t be free to marry. None of the specialized agents were married. Prinny claimed it would be a distraction and forbid it.

Ewan scowled. This from a man whose hedonistic activities left him minimal time to rule effectively.

“I say, Ewan, did you hear me?”

Ewan nodded. “I’ll not use Miss Stapleton as an enticement, if that’s what you’re asking.” Not if he could help it, leastways. The option existed though.

Yancy’s face darkened. “You insult me.”

Ewan frowned, and cupped the nape of his neck with one hand. “Aye, my friend, and I do apologize. I meant no offense.” He extended his hand, which Yancy immediately grasped.

No indeed, reflected Ewan as he stepped onto the bustling Horse Guards Avenue and put on his hat. A week in Miss Stapleton’s company would not be a burden. In fact, he quite looked forward to it. His agent in Boston, as well as Warrick and Vangie, had kept him abreast of her goings on. Ewan felt he knew her, he’d heard so much about her.

She’d been cavorting about in his mind for two years. It would be most interesting to see how the flesh and blood woman compared to what he’d been told of her.

At any rate, he was sick of the War Office and everything it represented. A break from intelligence work was overdue, as was a visit to Scotland. He hadn’t seen his family in five months—hadn’t played the bagpipes in that time either.

He grinned. His keep overflowed with kin. Three younger sisters and a brother, cousins, two uncles, an aunt, his mother and stepfather, and a passel of dogs.

Yes, a visit home was in order.

It was time he took his dual seats. One on the Dais at Craiglocky Keep, and the other in the House of Lords, though truthfully, he much preferred the Highlands over parliament.

Mayhap it was also time to pursue other areas of interest. Namely a golden-haired, sapphire-eyed, freckle nosed, ungraceful heiress.

He shook his head.
Stop it, old chap.
Duty first. He daren’t think along those lines until the traitor was caught. That effort might cost him his life.

Besides, Miss Stapleton was the last woman he should be thinking of in those terms. His fascination with her didn’t trump his need to exploit her connection to Marquardt. Though loath to admit it to Yancy, Ewan had nearly exhausted his other options.

Chapter 4

Yvette rested her head against the worn, cracked hackney seat. The stale air trapped inside the vehicle was intolerable. She tried taking small breaths but only succeeded in becoming light-headed. Or mayhap, her faintness was due to hunger.

Her last meal had been supper last eve, and it was late afternoon now. Her stomach rumbled in protest. The light biscuits and tea Mr. Dehring had provided did little to curb the gnawing in her belly.

Mr. Dehring had assured her he’d have funds available for her tomorrow. He’d paid for this hackney and loaned her a few crowns to hold her over until then. The inn she was staying at was paid for in advance, thank goodness.

Yvette had been most careful to keep her travel plans a secret after Edgar’s first abduction attempt. True, he knew she was planning on returning to England, but he didn’t know where she intended to reside, or precisely when she was sailing.

A great deal of monies had exchanged hands to keep that information confidential. Yvette had purchased every available passage on ships sailing for England in April just to ensure Edgar was unable to acquire a ticket and wouldn’t know which ship she sailed on.

She knew the minute word was out she’d sailed, the other captains would pad their pockets by collecting a second passage, so Fairchild had contrived a plan to make it appear she was still within the mansion hoping to keep Edgar off her trail for a few days. They would follow her to England when the wounded staff had recovered.

Instead of opening up the manor in Berkley Square, where Edgar was sure to seek her out, Yvette had written Vangie and asked her to make lodging arrangements at an inn for her and Pippa until Ian arrived to escort them to Somersfield. Given the unpredictability of traveling by ship, Yvette had prudently asked that a room be reserved from the middle of June to the middle of July.

She frowned. Drat. Pippa’s absence complicated matters. It was most improper for Yvette to stay at the inn without a female companion. But what else was she to do?

Vangie and Ian knew about Edgar’s first attack on her. They’d no idea of the second. There had been no time to get word to them about the assault or that Pippa had remained behind in Boston. Yvette fiddled with the hackney window in a futile attempt to open it. It seemed to be sealed shut.

Even without her maid, it was still far safer for her, as well as her staff, if she stayed at the inn.

Her last letter from Vangie had said Ian would travel to Town toward the end of June. Mr. Dehring had already dispatched a messenger to Somersfield in the event Ian hadn’t, as yet, left for London.

Yvette wiped drops of perspiration off her forehead with her handkerchief. She had never been this hungry, sweaty, and tired in her whole life. Stifling a yawn, she fanned her flushed face with her ungloved hand. In her haste to leave Boston, she’d not packed a fan, an oversight she now dearly regretted. She closed her eyes feeling the twinge of a headache. A hearty meal, other than ship’s fair, and a lengthy soak in a tub would be wonderful.

“Tonight, I shall have a room to myself,” she declared aloud. “No snoring or wheezing. No listening to Mrs. Pettigrove babble on in her sleep about her husband’s bedroom skills.”

Last week, Yvette awoke to moaning and feared the matron was ill. Until Mrs. Pettigrove had groaned, “Willard, oh, yes, yes, you’re such a stallion.”

Inside the scorching cab, Yvette’s face reddened even further. She might be naive but she had a strong notion what Mrs. Pettigrove was carrying-on about.

She waved her hand even faster.

The hired cab slowed and lurched to a bumpy stop. The lanky driver jumped from the box and opened the door. She stuffed her gloves and handkerchief into her reticule, then hopped from the hackney.

“Thank you.” Accepting her valise, she smiled and passed him a crown.

Toting her bulging satchel, Yvette climbed the time-worn steps to the inn’s entrance, and shoved open the heavy door. The inside of the foyer appeared quite dark after the bright sunlight outdoors. She blinked several times before her eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior. There was a busy common room to the right, and what appeared to be private dining compartments to the left of a narrow corridor leading to a stairway at the rear of the building.

“May I help you?” A woman spoke behind Yvette.

Swinging her gaze from the hallway, she saw an attractive middle-aged woman with a spotless apron tied at her waist. The woman offered a kind smile in greeting.

Yvette smiled in return. “Yes, please. I’m Yvette Stapleton. A room’s been arranged for me.”

The woman’s face beamed brighter. “Oh yes, Miss Stapleton. We wondered how soon you’d be arriving. We expected you when the
Peaceful Wind
docked two days ago.”

Yvette stood rooted in astonishment. Sweet Lord above.

She was supposed to have sailed on the
Peaceful Wind
, but after Edgar’s second attack, she’d fled Boston in the middle of the night aboard the
Atlantic Star
with only an overstuffed satchel and the clothes she was wearing. The ship had encountered a storm at sea, and although the gale hadn’t been overly fierce, the squall combined with a persistent headwind had extended the voyage nearly a week.

Why hadn’t it occurred to her that the
Peaceful Wind
, scheduled to sail a week later, might arrive in port before the
Atlantic Star
?

Thank God, her travel arrangements had been kept secret. Only Fairchild and Pippa knew where she was staying. But then again, tomorrow it might be wise to seek lodging elsewhere. She shifted her valise, feeling the comforting weight of her gun within.

She’d consult Mr. Dehring first thing in the morning and ask for his advice. He was already alerting the authorities about Edgar, though since his abduction attempts had taken place in America, there wasn’t much to be done in England in the way of punishment.

Yvette inhaled a deep, calming breath. Schooling her face, she approached the desk with hesitant steps. “The
Peaceful Wind
made port two days ago?”

“Why yes. Your trunks arrived yesterday. Myles put them in your room.” She added, “I’m Abigail Quimby. My husband, Myles, and I own the Banbury.”

Yvette fought waves of panic. What if Edgar had sailed aboard the
Peaceful Wind
? There’d been no passages available on the ship, but Edgar was devious and resourceful. When he didn’t find her at the Berkley Street manor, he was sure to start making inquiries.

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Forcing an expression of calmness onto her face, she prayed her alarm didn’t carry to her voice. “Has anyone inquired about my arrival?”

Glancing up from the ledger, Mrs. Quimby responded, “Why no, other than the seaman whom delivered your trunks. Should we expect someone else? Your companion perhaps?”

The question hung in the air awkwardly, until Yvette remembered Vangie had arranged for both she and Pippa to stay at the inn.

“Circumstances required me to sail on another ship, and unfortunately, my lady’s maid wasn’t able to accompany me. I arrived in port this morning. She must have arranged for my trunks to be shipped on the
Peaceful Wind
after I left.”

Mrs. Quimby continued to stare at her. Yvette’s mind raced. What had she forgotten? “I am expecting my cousin’s husband, Viscount Warrick, however. He’ll be my escort.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Mrs. Quimby nodded. “Yes, her ladyship’s letter requesting your accommodations said he would be meeting you.”

“Did Lady Warrick say when Lord Warrick would be arriving?” Would she have to wait long for Ian’s arrival? The notion was disturbing, given Edgar might be lurking about already.

At least she had her pistol and dagger. Papa had insisted she and Vangie be trained in weaponry, though Yvette’s skills weren’t what they once were. Truth to tell, Vangie’s talent with a blade—and her gift for healing—were the result of time spent with her Romani family and not Papa’s instruction.

“No,” said Mrs. Quimby, “only that he’d be here near the end of the month.”

Her gaze swept Yvette’s valise. “You sailed on a different ship? Have you other baggage with you then?”

“No. Only my . . .”

“Miss Stapleton!”

The piercing voice of Mrs. Pettigrove raked across Yvette’s already brittle nerves. Slowly she swiveled halfway around, blinking in disbelief. Mrs. Pettigrove materialized from the common room, huffing and puffing as she trundled her way to her side.

“My dear, Miss Stapleton, imagine my surprise at seeing you again so soon.”

Yvette’s dazed mind balked, refusing to comprehend what her eyes were seeing. She’s here?
Was this some kind of cruel joke, Lord? Why was she scowling at Mrs. Quimby?

“I’m afraid you’ll find yourself inconvenienced if you think to acquire a room at
this
establishment.” Mrs. Pettigrove raised her hooked nose into the air, her chins jiggling with the emphatic statement.

Yvette’s gaze swung between Mrs. Quimby and Mrs. Pettigrove. The women glowered daggers at each other. Animosity permeated the air.

Yvette firmed her lips, then looked directly into Mrs. Pettigrove’s eyes. “You took my funds and hired a hackney with them, then left me stranded on the docks.”

Mrs. Pettigrove sucked in a sharp breath and clutched at her ample bosom. “I did no such thing. Mr. Collingsworth told me to go along, that you had other arrangements.”

Yvette eyed her doubtfully, but given Mr. Collingsworth’s frightening behavior on the docks this morning, she grudgingly admitted the matron might be telling the truth.

Mrs. Quimby drew herself up, and after giving Mrs. Pettigrove, what Yvette presumed was a dismissive glare, turned her full attention to her. “Miss Stapleton, as you have a room reserved, we’d be delighted to have you stay with us for as long as you
wish.”

Yvette suppressed her instinctive pity for Mrs. Pettigrove. Her arrival at this inn was no coincidence. She knew Yvette was staying here. Yvette had naively told her she had a room at the Banbury Inn when Mrs. Pettigrove had asked her about her plans this morning.

“Oh, you’ve a room reserved?” Mrs. Pettigrove said, in apparent surprise.

Yvette narrowed her eyes.

You know I do.

“I thought I had one too.” Mrs. Pettigrove drew in a ragged breath. “But there’s been a, a misunderstanding.” She spoke haltingly, withering before them.

Angling her head, Yvette scrutinized the matron. Was she telling the truth? Why hadn’t she mentioned she was staying here this morning. No, something was too smoky by far.

“I’m certain Willard’s missive said he had obtained a room for me at the Banbury Inn.” Fingering her brooch, Mrs. Pettigrove muttered, “There’s a logical explanation of course.”

Yvette worried her lower lip, compassion engulfing her. Blister it. The woman didn’t deserve her sympathy.

Mrs. Quimby visage softened. “We only have two vacant rooms. One must be held for an infrequent guest who’s not in residence, but has paid in advance.”

She scribbled in the ledger before opening a drawer and rummaging about in it. Meeting the older woman’s eyes she apologized. “I’m sorry, but I simply cannot permit another to utilize that room.” Returning her attention to the drawer, she continued, “The other room is intended for Miss Stapleton and her companion.”

Oh no! Yvette’s head snapped up, her eyes rounding in horror.

From the gasp and swift, contrite glance Mrs. Quimby sent her, it was apparent she realized her gaffe. She closed the ledger with a thump as she hastily lifted a key from the drawer. “Miss Stapleton, no doubt you’re exhausted and would like to be shown to your room.”

“Companion?” Mrs. Pettigrove’s voice held a hopeful note. 

Cringing, Yvette clenched her teeth.

No, no, no.

This is too much
.
She had been a personal maid to that—that—meddling gossip for the past two months. Lord above, she didn’t think she could she bear sharing a room with her again. Not so soon.

“Miss Stapleton?” Mrs. Pettigrove’s voice wavered and tears swam in her nondescript eyes.

Yvette eyed her. She truly
did not
want to share her room with her. She wanted a room to herself. Was that too much to ask? She’d been through a great deal these past weeks. And Mrs. Pettigrove was extremely difficult. Yvette blinked away the sharp sting of tears.

Mrs. Pettigrove laid a plump hand on her arm. “Please? I could act as your chaperone. It would be most improper for you to stay here alone.”

Yvette’s heart twinged again. Drat, she was too compassionate by far, and Mrs. Pettigrove had a valid point about the chaperonage. Bother it all.

Head bowed, shoulders slumped in defeat, she exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. “The room is intended for two.” Relaxing her vice-like grip on the counter’s edge, she turned and met Mrs. Pettigrove’s watery eyes.

Lord she didn’t want to do this. “Please,” Yvette forced herself to say the words, “share it with me.”

Mrs. Pettigrove promptly lost her prior semblance of humbleness and began issuing orders with the efficiency of a general.

“Mrs. Quimby, have my trunks brought above stairs at once. Do you have a laundress on staff? Good. I shall need a note delivered. I presume my room is supplied with paper and ink? I thought as much. I shall need a maid to assist me with my unpacking, and I must have water for bathing immediately.”

She laid a pudgy hand on her stomach. “Might I trouble you for a tea tray? Some seedcake perhaps? And fruit? And some pastries, of course. Oh, and lemon curd and clotted cream if you have it. Crumpets for the curd, and fruit preserves?”

Her monologue at an end, she eyed Yvette. “‘Tis commendable you knew your Christian duty. It speaks of your genteel breeding.”

Mrs. Quimby snorted and mumbled something unintelligible, though Yvette distinctly heard, “More hair than wit, greedy gut.”

Her compassion evaporated, as an unpleasant wave of hot anger rolled over her.