Karen Harbaugh (6 page)

Richard woke up with a start and pressed a shaking hand to his eyes. He had to get that bill and find a way to keep his sister quiet. But how? One more confrontation with his father and he was stripped of his next quarter’s allowance. He got up and gazed into the mirror above the mantelpiece. He groaned. He looked very much like he felt. He would definitely have his breakfast brought up to him. Breakfast. His stomach clenched, and bile rose in his throat. Perhaps he would not have it after all.

William, Lord Rothwick, awakened slowly and turned on his bench, almost falling off it. He righted himself and then looked about him with the usual disorientation one had when waking in an unfamiliar room. Ah, yes, the Lion’s Stone. And then the events of the night before hit him, and the consequences of his actions rose up and mocked him.

Oh, Lord! Sophia! He had forgotten about Sophia last night. It must have been because their betrothal was so new. Or perhaps a part of him did not want to deal with any complications without enough sleep to fortify himself. Which all went to prove, he thought grimly, that things
didn’t
seem better in the morning. He would have to make sure he and Miss Ashley departed unnoticed; otherwise he would have to do the honorable thing and lay his case in front of Sophia and Lord Amberley. It was lucky their betrothal was but a few days old and that his and Amberley’s solicitors had not yet drawn up the marriage papers.

Rothwick did not think the interview with Sophia would be easy, though. The man and his wife doted on Sophia—sickeningly so, he had often thought. And he was not at all sure that Sophia would release him from their betrothal. Perhaps he could convince Sophia that she was better off without him. Perhaps she would break the engagement. Rothwick did not feel very hopeful this would happen. Well, then! He would have to be as discreet as possible when leaving this inn.

Chawleigh still did not have another room available. The innkeeper looked uneasy and clearly expected a reproof when he could not comply, but he did offer his own attic room for his lordship to refresh himself. Rothwick smiled genially and thanked the man, relieved that at least he could make himself somewhat presentable.

When he entered the innkeeper’s room, the earl stopped and cursed softly. They had left his belongings in Miss Ashley’s room! He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his chin, and frowned. He was damned if he was going to show himself in public in his present disheveled state!

Nicking himself with the innkeeper’s dull razor did not put the earl in a better mood. A cut on his Adam’s apple oozed blood. He searched for something with which to staunch it, but there was nothing—except his neckcloth. He sighed, cut a piece from it with the razor, and put the piece of cloth on the cut. He cursed again, loudly and long. The makeshift plaster looked grotesque, a cancerous-looking blob that no self-respecting throat should sport.

A neckcloth. He needed another neckcloth. An otherwise well-dressed man without a neckcloth was a very noticeable thing indeed. He looked around for a bell-rope, but there was none. He went down the attic steps, hoping to see a servant in the hallway. Neither hide nor hair of one. He would have to get a neckcloth himself.

Rothwick sighed and made his way to Linnea’s chamber, looking around him first to see that no one was watching. God help him—and Miss Ashley—if anyone saw him going in!

He knocked, but no one responded. He crept quietly into the room. The maid had gone, and Miss Ashley was still asleep. One arm was flung over her eyes, stretching the material of her dress so that it outlined her bosom. It was a delightful bosom, reflected Rothwick. Certainly in that realm the change of fiancées should make little difference, if it happened. Sophia’s was probably as delightful—he had not seen her for a few days, and he’d heard she had retired to the country for a while—but he was sure it must be since he had approved of the whole package when he first saw his betrothed.

He retrieved his neckcloth from a small carpet bag that had been brought in from his coach. He turned toward the door again to leave, but just as he put his hand on the doorknob, he heard voices outside in the hall. He grimaced. He could not leave quite yet, it seemed.

Sighing with impatience, he looked at the neckcloth in his hand. Well, he might as well put it on before Linnea awoke. He wouldn’t want to shock her sensibilities any more than they had been, he reflected wryly. Not that he hadn’t done that to the utmost already. He sighed again.

Linnea awakened slowly, easily, and stretched, like a swimmer reaching for the surface of a deep pond. She opened her eyes and was bewildered at being in a strange room, until the events of the past night rushed into her mind. She covered her eyes with a moan. The sound of movement made her uncover them again and swing her head sharply around. A man had his back to her, but she could see his face in the mirror he was using. Lord Rothwick. Linnea pulled the bedsheets up close to her chin. “My lord, how dare you—”

“Shhh!”

Linnea, startled by his abruptness, stopped what she was about to say and stared with surprise at his lordship in the mirror instead. His fingers seemed to be moving in an intricate pattern about his neck. They paused, hovering above a fold near the top, then dropped. Slowly Rothwick lowered his chin into the top fold.

“Mmmm, yes, it will have to do,” he murmured. He turned and smiled at her. “Never, my dear, interrupt a man who is tying his neckcloth. Distraction has been known to ruin a dozen, at least.” He paused. “And as for my presence here, I am sorry, but the innkeeper forgot to bring my clothes to my room. I intended to leave as soon as I retrieved it, but I heard people out in the hall, and deemed it unwise.”

Linnea nodded, understanding. She looked at Rothwick’s intricately tied neckcloth. She remembered her father’s care for his dress—for all that he was a vicar—and could understand Rothwick’s wish to be presentable, but she thought such concentration on the mere tying of a neckcloth frivolous. She was much too polite to say so, however, so instead she said: “My lord, I thought on the matter last night. Perhaps you could take me temporarily to my former schoolmistress’s home, and then recommend me to some one of your acquaintances as a governess. In that way, I would neither ruin her school’s reputation, nor impinge on your... sense of honor.”

“Miss Ashley, the tying of a neckcloth is not frivolous in the least—at least not when one must go about in society.”

Startled, she replied: “I did not say it was!”

“No, but you thought it. Your expression revealed as much, you see. No matter. I am afraid I cannot do as you request. I have no acquaintances who need a governess, and if I did, I doubt they would hire you with my recommendation.”

“Perhaps you have relatives, sisters...?”

“All my sisters are older than I and are past the need of a governess for their children,” he replied unequivocally. He picked up his jacket and brushed at it, shaking his head. He pulled it on carefully. “It is possible, however, that one of them knows of someone who is in need of a governess.”

“Oh.” Linnea absently smoothed a wrinkle from the bedsheet on her lap. “My lord, I cannot think of much else I may do. But wait! I can keep house very well, perhaps I can—”

“No, I think not. Ladies of your station do not become housekeepers.”

“But now that you have ruined me, I do not think I can be called a lady, can I? So there should be no impediment in my seeking that occupation,” she said practically.

Rothwick looked pained. “You are not ruined yet. You will be if we do not salvage this situation.” He paused. “You are taking this very calmly,” he said.

“Would you rather I fell into hysterics?” Linnea replied tartly. “I assure you I was very close to it last night! It would be a small thing to recall all that occurred and have the vapours this instant.”

His hand flew up in mock horror. “No, not at all! I have a positive dread of vapours.”

“Yes, it seems that most gentlemen do,” she reflected. Smiling, she continued prosaically: “Well, then it would hardly be worthwhile for either you or me if I did have them. I would not be in a state to solve my situation, and you would be sorely discomposed, I am sure.”

“Most sorely!” Rothwick replied with a hint of a laugh in his voice.

Linnea’s eyes twinkled in response, but she said: “To return to the subject at hand.... Sir, I am sure I would do very well as a housekeeper.”

“I am sure you would if you were given the chance.” He held up a hand. “And no, it is not I who would deny you that chance. Think! Even the lowest of servants usually needs a recommendation, and if I were to give you one, what do you think would happen?”

“I would get hired, of course.”

“The worse for you, too, if you did!” he said. “I could not recommend you to a female household, and those male households to which I could send you do not contain men who are made of ice! I think you an attractive woman, and they would as well.”

“And they would try to—”

“Yes, they would!” Rothwick said hastily. “As I said, I will lodge you with one of my sisters, and see if we can find you a situation.” He paused and looked at her curiously. “Is the idea of marriage with me, or marriage in general, odious to you? Have you even bothered to reflect on its possibility?”

Linnea was silent. She had not dared to think on it.

“I see you have not,” he said. “Before you make any other plans, please do. If everything else fails, it is something you must consider.” He sighed. “I am going to procure a private parlour for breakfast should one be available. It will take me a few minutes. While I am gone, reflect at least about what marriage with me might give you, and we can discuss it over the table.” He walked to the door. “It would not be very odious, I promise you.” He smiled at her before he left.

Linnea arose from bed and straightened her dress and hair as best as she could. She realized that she did not want to think of his lordship’s proposal most probably because it seemed the perfect solution to her situation. Too perfect. She had dreamed of marrying for love, but living—no, working at her cousin Boothe’s had shown her that marrying at all was only a dream. And now here was Lord Rothwick, handsome and no doubt wealthy, offering his hand, if not his heart. She knew she could not do better even if she had all the money and position in the world.

She could come to like him—for that matter, he was quite amiable now that all was explained, and she liked him a little already despite last night’s events. Many men, she knew, would have done worse than he and not even offered any recompense.

But you cannot marry without love
, Linnea said to herself.
But most people do,
argued Miss Ashley.
But do you want what, say, cousin Boothe has?
retorted Linnea. Miss Ashley reflected on the formal distance between Lord and Lady Boothe and fell silent.

Linnea jerked at a wrinkle in her dress. What nonsense! She and Lord Rothwick would leave this inn, go to his sister’s house, and she would find some employment. After that she would never see him again.

It was not long before Lord Rothwick returned. “Are you ready for breakfast?” She nodded. “But not for a discussion,” he said, looking at her uncertain face. “Well, perhaps some sustenance will help. Come.” He stopped. “Wait. I will go first. Count to ten, then go down to the private parlour. I should be out of the hall by then, and anyone who may see me coming downstairs will not think you are associated with me. Except the landlord, of course.” He left.

As she counted, Linnea wondered if she could come up with another, better plan before breakfast was done. She doubted it.

* * * *

Richard Amberley was not given the luxury of enjoying his misery in peace, of course. Sophia was quite ready to begin her day, but she knew well that she could not breakfast in the common room alone. When the chambermaid brought Sophia’s freshly pressed dress—a lovely round dress of cerulean bombazine trimmed with pearl buttons and pink ribbon around the neck—Sophia instructed her to summon Richard.

The maid, yet another admirer won over by Sophia’s charm, obeyed with alacrity. Richard eyed the maid with bleary discontent but made himself ready. He later overheard the maid wonder aloud to another chambermaid how such a lovely and charming lady could have an obvious ne’er-do-well for a brother.

“Such a pretty little place, don’t you think?” said Sophia when Richard appeared at her door. Her abigail was putting the finishing touches on her coiffure.

Richard flushed in irritation. It was a thing he did easily, especially in his sister’s company. She could be very close-mouthed if she chose. In fact, she could say anything she chose and their parents would take it as words from the pulpit; she always had been their darling and always looked so angelic. Richard himself had been a well-looking child born but two years before Sophia and was considered a fairly handsome young man now, but he had not the practiced charm of his sister.

“Richard, dear, do you procure a table for us in the public room, if you please.” She added a smile to the request.

Richard looked at her suspiciously. It was customary to obtain a private room if accompanied by a lady and if one could afford it. Her gaze was guileless, an ominous sign; but he could think of no reason to refuse.

“Oh, and a pot of chocolate and a small repast as well.”

Richard’s heart rebelled, but his keen sense of self-preservation prevailed. “Oh, very well,” he said petulantly, and stalked off, slamming the door only slightly.

When Sophia and Richard sat at their table she almost felt like hugging herself in sweet anticipation. She flicked quick looks from under her lashes at various other visitors to the inn and at the doors to the private rooms to see if she recognized anyone. Richard gazed studiously out the window.

A woman dressed in black entered the inn, but Sophia caught only a silhouette through the veil over the woman’s hat. There was something familiar about her.... The innkeeper directed the woman to the stairs. I shall simply die if I don’t find out who she is, thought Sophia.

The maid approached with the chocolate, but Sophia rose and murmured a demure but obviously false excuse about needing to use the necessary, then followed the woman up the stairs.