Highlander's Hope (4 page)

Christian duty? Breeding
?

Was Mrs. Pettigrove truly that bird witted? Yvette clamped her teeth over her bottom lip to dam the sharp retort struggling to escape. She couldn’t, however, prevent her foot from tapping a cadence of vexation.

She stole a sidelong glance at Mrs. Quimby.

The innkeeper, her face a mask of composed annoyance, stared at Mrs. Pettigrove. “It is past tea time.”

  Was that satisfaction Yvette heard in Mrs. Quimby’s voice?

A moue of disappointment contorted Mrs. Pettigrove’s full lips. “Oh, I suppose I’ve no choice but to wait until supper is served then. If you’re sure?”

“Quite sure,” snipped Mrs. Quimby.

“What time is supper served?” Mrs. Pettigrove’s gaze hovered on the entrance to the dining room. “I’m quite famished. I haven’t had a bite to eat since luncheon.”

Yvette’s eyes narrowed once more.
When was that? An entire hour ago?

Mrs. Quimby didn’t answer Mrs. Pettigrove but remained silent, pressing her lips into twin lines of disapproval. Yvette presumed she waited for her approval.

She met Mrs. Quimby’s troubled gaze and attempted a smile. “‘Tis all right.”

Drawing in a shaky breath, she feared she might burst into tears. It wasn’t all right, not at all. Nothing about this was right. She should have her own room, deserved her own room. It wasn’t fair for Mrs. Pettigrove to commandeer her chamber, even if Yvette was in need of a chaperone.

The nasty ache behind her eyes throbbed full on now.

At Mrs. Quimby’s doubtful look, she attempted a smile. Not trusting herself to speak, her throat clogged with unshed tears, she nodded her approval.

“Supper begins at half-past seven.” Mrs. Quimby handed Mrs. Pettigrove the room key.

Calling for a maid, and a strapping young lad whom she introduced as her son, Henry, Mrs. Quimby sent Mrs. Pettigrove on her way.

“That was kind of you.” Mrs. Quimby smiled at Yvette.

“I spent the past two months in a tiny cabin with her.” Yvette drummed the counter with her fingers. “Trust me when I tell you, she is not a congenial companion.”

“I shall arrange for supper to last longer than usual this evening.” Mrs. Quimby came around the counter, then handed Yvette her room key. “I’ll have a bath prepared, and a tray of food too. Perhaps wine as well? You look as if you would benefit from a glass of sherry.”

“I don’t tolerate spirits. They sicken me, but tea would be wonderful.”

Taking a step toward the stairs, the hair raised on the nape of Yvette’s neck. She shuddered and looked over her shoulder into the common room. Had someone been standing in the entrance just then?

“You’re quite sure no one inquired about my arrival?”

Chapter 5

“No one, but the sailors,” Mrs. Quimby assured Yvette. “By-the-by, Miss Stapleton, they didn’t leave the keys to your trunks.”

Yvette patted her reticule. “I have a set, thank you.”

Her uneasiness lingering, she followed Henry as he climbed the narrow staircase. Nodding his head at the lone door at the end of the hall the lad volunteered, “The inn’s been busy these past weeks. That’d be the other vacant room. It connects to yer room. The door between the chambers be kept locked though.”

Yvette reached for her satchel. “Thank you, Henry.”

“Do ye wish to bathe or eat first?” Gaze glued to the floor, he shuffled his feet. “Mam told me to ask.”

“Food, please. I’m ravenous.”

“Molly’ll bring it straightaway then.”

Entering the chamber, Yvette stopped cold. Merciful God in heaven. She searched the room again. There was no mistake. The room held a single bed. She was tempted to revoke her offer to share the room. It was either that or share the lone, much too small bed, with Mrs. Pettigrove’s plentiful form. She’d never get any sleep. Was there even room for two people in the bed?

That had been hours ago. Yvette was inclined to be more charitable now that she was bathed and her stomach was full. She had endured weeks with Mrs. Pettigrove in a room far smaller than this. Another night was endurable. Tomorrow she fully intended to find other accommodations, and she’d have Mr. Dehring make them in a fabricated name.

She giggled. She rather liked Cordelia Daisywagon.

She had another reason for feeling benevolent. She’d discovered a jewelry box earlier when she’d unlocked her trunks intent on finding a lightweight nightgown. A note in Fairchild’s perfect script explained the jewels, and the cash stuffed atop them, had been inside a safe at Papa’s office. Papa must have moved them there after Edgar arrived in Boston. The captain of the
Peaceful Wind
had been paid handsomely to keep Yvette’s trunks under lock and key the entire voyage.

She’d unabashedly searched Mrs. Pettigrove’s possessions in hopes her other missing valuables might be unearthed. She’d no luck. Her conscience pricked her. Perhaps Mrs. Pettigrove had been telling the truth on the ship.

Wearing only a light shift, her hair wrapped in a towel, Yvette relaxed against the overstuffed armchair. She had given herself over to the luxury of her bath. It had been pure, calming bliss.

Supper had been superb. She licked her lips again. Even now she could taste the fresh strawberries and clotted cream. She’d eaten every bite of the food Mrs. Quimby had sent, and she didn’t regret it one bit. She had not been this full, well, ever that she could recall.

True to her word, Mrs. Quimby had extended supper past the ninth hour. Yvette imagined Mrs. Pettigrove’s antics at having her meal delayed. She grinned. Patience wasn’t a virtue of Mrs. Pettigrove’s either, especially when it came to mealtime.

Yvette scooted to the edge of the chair, then unwrapped the towel from round her head and briskly rubbed her hair. Bending over, she shook her head and fanned out the damp strands. She curved her lips into a half-smile. Somersfield, where Vangie and the babe she carried waited. There she would be safe from Edgar and his relentless attempts to wed her. Ian was a member of the Diplomatic Corps, and in his stables he employed several soldiers who had no work when the war ended.

Yvette doubted Edgar even knew she had a cousin. He’d never met her, and Vangie had only visited London once. Her other visits with Yvette had been at Rosewick, Papa’s country estate. Edgar refused to visit there. Until he’d arrived in Boston, Yvette hadn’t spent more than a half hour in his company, and no conversation had ever arisen about Vangie.

He had been at university when Papa and Belle-mére married and afterward was busy being a man about town. He hadn’t wanted his mother to marry Papa and had kept his distance the first six years they were wed. Poor Belle-mére had often commented how much she missed her sons, especially after she moved to Boston.

Yvette narrowed her eyes in resolution.
No man
would force her into marriage, no indeed. There was more to marriage than a cracking good match, and most of what she knew about the sacred institution left her cold. Wives were expected to be their husband’s shadows and ignore their indiscretions.

Balderdash!

The tales Pippa had whispered about Belle-mére’s first marriage haunted Yvette. The abuse Belle-mére suffered at the Earl’s hands. Yvette shuddered in remembrance. Her heart broke for her stepbrother, Rory, the Earl of Clarendon. His marriage had ended tragically when his wife had died after giving birth to a stillborn son. With her last breath, she had confessed the child wasn’t his.

Yvette yawned and stood up, then ran her fingers through her hair to speed its drying. They caught on a tangle. She winced and tears filled her eyes when the snag jerked her scalp. Pippa had brushed her hair nightly since she was a small child. But Pippa was in Boston, with the Fairchild’s and Yvette’s dogs, Apollo and Artemis.

Tears washed over her cheeks. Lord
,
she missed them. Fairchild and his sons, Isaiah and Josiah, had been a part of her life since she was two. After Papa and Belle-mére died, they had consoled her. They were her family now, and she’d been forced to leave them and her dogs behind to escape Edgar. They would return to England of course, at the earliest opportunity, but Yvette had no idea how soon that would be.

Fairchild had tried to protect her. He’d reported Edgar to the authorities and had posted guards around the manor. But Edgar was clever. He’d hired men to help him using the jewels and money he stole from the mansion to pay them. Isaiah had ended up with a cracked skull, three other staff had been wounded, and two of the guards had been killed.

That’s when she realized Edgar would stop at nothing. He wasn’t sane. That very night, with only minutes to pack, Yvette had been smuggled from the rear of the manor, while one of the maids had pretended to be her and had left through the front entrance.

Throwing the towel on the chair, Yvette climbed into bed, curled into a ball, and sobbed. She was alone and afraid. She missed her parents and Pippa and Giles and his sons. Artemis and Apollo weren’t curled next to her on the bed. She wept until exhaustion claimed her and, at last, put an end to the tormenting memories.

Not more than an hour later, a tipsy, and very noisy Mrs. Pettigrove trundled into their chamber. Yvette pretended to be asleep, having no desire to hear her litany of complaints about supper. Little good it did her. Mrs. Pettigrove plowed about the room, banging into things, and muttering beneath her breath, before stopping beside the bed, breathing heavily.

“Miss Stapleton, are you awake?”

Yvette held her breath.

“Miss Stapleton?” She was nudged by a pudgy finger.

Yvette didn’t move.

Mrs. Pettigrove shook Yvette’s shoulder, none too gently. “I need your help to undress.”

Bother it all. Yvette sat up, then swung her legs off the edge of the bed. “Let me light the lamp.”

It had been no easy task to undress the half-foxed Mrs. Pettigrove and see her tucked into bed. And Yvette wasn’t the least bit surprised when rhythmic, grating rattles filled the room mere moments after the dame’s head settled on her fluffy pillow.

Yvette wasn’t as fortunate. She lay awake staring at the flickering moonbeams slanting across the ceiling. Her thoughts shifted to earlier in the day, to Laird McTavish. Thank goodness he’d happened by when he did. He had saved her from God only knew what. He disturbed her in the most intriguing way. Even now thinking of him brought a ripple whispering across her flesh.

A rude noise rumbled throughout the room, interrupting her fanciful musing. Yvette wrinkled her nose in disgust. She closed her eyes and sighed. The grittiness under her eyelids, and the thickness in her head, were evidence she had cried herself to sleep and had slept but minutes before Mrs. Pettigrove had lumbered into their room.

How she had wanted—no needed—a peaceful night’s sleep. She attempted to turn on her side and stopped short. Mrs. Pettigrove was lying on her hair.

“Oh for pity’s sake.” Tugging, Yvette managed to extract her hair from beneath the matron’s hefty arm. She rose from the bed, then eyed the armchairs on either side of the room. They simply would not suffice. “There isn’t even an extra blanket to create a pallet on the floor,” she muttered.

Mrs. Pettigrove rolled to the middle of the bed, threw her arms wide, and released a ponderous expanse of wind.

Yvette swirled away from the bed in fatigued exasperation. Her gaze caught a bright reflection. A moonbeam angled through the billowing curtains, pointing its frail finger at the brass knob on the adjoining room’s door. The handle, illuminated by the enticing glow, drew her persistently closer. “I couldn’t,” she said, even as she reached for the handle.

“‘Tis way past midnight. If the other guest was going to arrive, wouldn’t they have done so by now? Hadn’t Mrs. Quimby said this room was only used on occasion?”

Yvette bit her lip in indecision. “I haven’t heard any movement.”

Mrs. Pettigrove snorted, releasing another startling round of thunderous expulsions. They echoed grotesquely throughout the bedchamber.

“That tears it.” Before she allowed her conscious to stop her, Yvette seized her dagger, then turned the key and twisted the knob. The door glided open.

The curtains were parted. The moon’s bright rays bathed the chamber’s large,
empty
bed. With a small huff, she released the breath she held. The room was unoccupied. She tiptoed to the window and peeked at the street.

Nothing.

Not a hint of movement. Stepping backward, her decision made, she drew the panels.

Before she changed her mind, Yvette returned to her chamber door, and edged it closed. The key rested in its keyhole on the other side. Walking to the room’s outer door, she tried to open it and found it locked and the keyhole empty. She pressed her ear to the door.

Silence.

Exhaustion wrapped its arms around her, claiming what scant reason she had left. It would not be too great a sin to sleep a few hours in this unused bed, would it? It was perfectly safe here. She had her small dagger and the door was locked from without. Her chamber was a few scant steps away. She would slip into her room before dawn, and Mrs. Pettigrove would be none the wiser.

Too tired to think, Yvette succumbed to the beckoning of the welcoming bed. After folding the weighty coverlet to the end of the bed, she hopped onto the mattress, then flopped onto her back. “Oh, this is wonderful,” She said, sliding between the cool, satin sheets. Sighing in contentment, she turned onto her side, tucking her knife beneath the pillow.

Edgar had experienced the end of her blade once. She’d not hesitate to use it on him again.

Ewan closed the door without whisper, then strode across the carpet to the window and slid the curtains aside. With a twist, he unfastened the latch, before shoving the sash open, letting in the bright moonlight and refreshing night air. He inhaled, savoring the tangy coolness. Standing in the path of the light breeze, he removed his coat. Habit caused him to survey the deserted street below.

With measured tread, he moved to the chair. He grinned and shook his head. It had become second nature to him to move about a room soundlessly after so many years working as a spy.

He sat, then toed off his Hessian boots. The rest of his garments followed. He rose and stood naked before the window. With one last lingering look, he padded to the washstand in an alcove, where a second, smaller window gleamed with moonlight.

As always, the washstand was prepared with water, towels, and soap. His garments would be pressed and hung in the wardrobe, and the satin sheets he required would be washed and spread upon the mattress.

Lord, he craved some sleep.

Without a doubt, Marquardt was in London. He’d been seen in the less reputable establishments Ewan had visited this evening.

That’s not to say the evening had been a total loss. He grinned in satisfaction. Belvidere’s lair had been uncovered, thanks to a tip from Nighthawk. No one knew who the phantom informer was, but he had been assisting the War Office for over four years.

With the help of Yancy’s agents, Belvidere was detained. Yancy and Ewan had spent the past several hours interrogating the spy, who had remained stubbornly closemouthed about his association with Marquardt.

He sighed in frustration. Blister it. Ewan wanted to be done with this subterfuge. For over six years he’d been at Yancy’s beck and call. No, that wasn’t fair. He’d been at Prinny’s beck and call. Ewan yearned for Craiglocky, his clan, and his kin. His obligation to the crown came first, though. Until he caught the treasonous bastard—he exhaled in frustration—the highlands would have to wait.

After splashing water on his face and head, Ewan lathered a bar of soap, and quickly washed. Toweling off, he tied the linen about his waist and cleansed his teeth. He ran a hand across his face. Shaving could wait until morning. He winced when he connected with the tender skin on his jaw. Grinning, he recalled the precise moment his charming passenger had smacked her head on his chin.

He yanked the toweling from his hips, then rubbed the cloth across his hair one more time before turning in the bed’s direction. Bunching the linen, he lifted his arm to toss it on the nearby chair and froze.

Lying on his bed, sound asleep, was Miss Stapleton. He’d known she was staying here. Ian had told him as much, but what was she doing in his chamber?

Doubting his senses, he shook his head to clear his muddled mind. Was he so exhausted his sleep deprived brain conjured her image? Was he hallucinating? Or was it the excess of spirits he’d consumed tonight while venturing into numerous pubs, gambling dens, and other hell-holes?

He approached the bed. She lay on her back, her shift midway up her thighs. She’d kicked the sheets aside in her sleep. One slender arm curved above her head, and the other lay across her midsection. The moonlight illuminated her golden hair fanned across the pillow and wrapped around one shoulder. A shiny lock curled under one breast.