More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (35 page)

But surely she would not leave the house now. Surely she would wait.

He did not go back.

I
F
L
ADY
W
EBB WAS
surprised when her butler handed her a card on a tray and informed her even before she could look at it that the Duke of Tresham was standing in her hall below requesting the honor of a few minutes of her time, she did not show it by the time Jocelyn was
announced. She rose from a small escritoire, where she was apparently engaged in writing letters.

“Tresham?” she said graciously.

“Ma’am.” He made her a deep bow. “I thank you for granting me some of your time.”

Lady Webb was an elegant widow of about forty with whom he was acquainted, though not well. She moved in a more civilized set than any with which he usually consorted. He held her in considerable respect.

“Do have a seat,” she offered, indicating a chair while she seated herself on a sofa close by, “and tell me what brings you here.”

“I believe,” he said, taking the offered chair, “you have an acquaintance with Lady Sara Illingsworth, ma’am.”

She raised her eyebrows and regarded him more keenly. “She is my goddaughter,” she said. “Do you have any news of her?”

“She was employed at Dudley House as my nurse for three weeks,” he said, “after I had been shot in the leg in a, ah, duel. She came upon me in Hyde Park while it was happening. She was on her way to work at a milliner’s at the time. She was using an alias, of course.”

Lady Webb was sitting very still. “Is she still at Dudley House?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.” Jocelyn sat back in his chair. He was experiencing extreme discomfort, a feeling relatively unknown to him. “I did not know her real identity until a Bow Street Runner came to speak with me yesterday. I knew her as Miss Jane Ingleby.”

“Ah, Jane,” Lady Webb said. “It is the name by which her parents called her. Her middle name.”

Foolishly it felt good to hear that. She really
was
Jane, as she had told him earlier.

“She was a servant, you must understand,” he said. “She had temporary employment with me.”

Lady Webb shook her head and sighed aloud. “And you do not know where she went,” she said. “Neither do I. Is that why you have come here? Because you are outraged to know that you were duped into giving sanctuary to a fugitive? If I knew where she was, Tresham, I would not tell you. Or the Earl of Durbury.” She spoke the name with disdain.

“You do not believe, then,” he asked, “that she is guilty of any of the charges against her?”

Her nostrils flared, the only sign of emotion. She sat straight but gracefully on her seat, her back not touching it. Her posture was rather reminiscent of Jane’s—a lady’s posture.

“Sara is no murderer,” she said firmly, “and no thief either. I would stake my fortune and my reputation on it. The Earl of Durbury wanted her to marry his son, whom she held in the utmost contempt, sensible girl. I have my own theory on how Sidney Jardine met his end. If you are lending your support to Durbury by coming here in the hope that you will learn more from me than he did a few days ago, then you are wasting your time and mine. I would ask you to leave.”

“Do you believe he is dead?” Jocelyn asked with narrowed eyes.

She stared at him. “Jardine?” she said. “Why would his father say he was dead if he were not?”

“
Has
he said it?” Jocelyn asked. “Or has he merely not contradicted the rumor that has been making the circuit of London drawing rooms and clubs?”

She was looking steadily at him. “Why are you here?” she asked.

All day he had wondered what exactly he would say. He had come to no satisfactory conclusion. “I know where she is,” he said. “I found her other employment when she left Dudley House.”

Lady Webb was on her feet instantly. “In town?” she asked. “Take me to her. I will bring her here and give her sanctuary while I have my solicitor look into the ridiculous charges against her. If your suspicions are correct and Sidney Jardine is still alive … Well. Where is she?”

Jocelyn had risen too. “She is in town, ma’am,” he assured her. “I will bring her to you. I would have brought her now, but I had to be sure that she would find a safe haven here.”

Her gaze became shrewd suddenly.

“Tresham,” she asked, as he had feared she would, “what other employment did you find Sara?”

“You must understand, ma’am,” he said stiffly, “that she gave me a false name. She told me she had been brought up in an orphanage. It was clear that she had had a genteel upbringing, but I thought her destitute and friendless.”

She closed her eyes briefly, but she did not relax her very erect posture. “Bring her to me,” she said. “You will have a maid or some respectable female companion with her when she arrives.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I do, of course, consider myself affianced to Lady Sara Illingsworth.”

“Of course.” There was a certain coldness in the eyes that regarded him so keenly. “It just seems a rather sad irony that she has escaped from one blackguard merely to land in the clutches of another. Bring her to me.”

Jocelyn made her a bow, resisting the urge to don his usual expression of cynical hauteur. At least the woman
had enough integrity not to be rubbing her hands with glee at the thought of netting the Duke of Tresham for her goddaughter.

“Enlist the help of your solicitor by all means, ma’am,” he said. “In the meantime I will be doing my own part to clear the name of my betrothed and to release her from the bonds of an inappropriate guardianship. Good day.”

He left her standing straight and proud and hostile in the middle of her drawing room. Someone to whom he could quite safely bring Jane. A friend at last.

J
ANE REMAINED IN HER
bedchamber for a whole hour after Jocelyn had left, doing nothing but sit on the dressing table stool, her slippered feet side by side on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes glazed as they gazed unseeing at the carpet.

Then she got up and removed all her clothes, everything that had been bought for her. She took from her wardrobe the plain muslin dress, the serviceable shift, and the stockings she had worn to London and dressed again. She brushed out her hair and braided it tightly so that it would fit beneath her gray bonnet. She pulled on the bonnet and matching cloak, slipped her feet into her old shoes, drew on her black gloves, and was ready to go. She picked up her bag of meager possessions—and the priceless bracelet—and let herself quietly out of her room.

Unfortunately Phillip was in the hallway below. He looked at her in surprise—she had never been out before, of course, and she was very plainly dressed.

“You are going out, ma’am?” he asked redundantly.

“Yes.” She smiled. “Just for a walk and some fresh air, Phillip.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hurried to open the door for her and looked uncertainly at her bag. “Where shall I tell his grace you have gone, ma’am, if he should return?”

“That I have gone for a walk.” She retained her smile as she stepped out onto the doorsill. She immediately felt the panic of one who fears falling off the edge of the world. She stepped resolutely forward. “I am not a prisoner here, you know.”

“No, of course, ma’am,” Phillip was hasty to agree. “Enjoy your walk, ma’am.”

She wanted to turn back to say a proper good-bye to him. He was a pleasant young man who had always been eager to please. But she merely walked on and listened to the sound of the door closing behind her.

Like a prison door.

Shutting her out.

It might have been just oversensitive nerves, of course. She realized that as soon as she sensed less than five minutes later that she was being followed. But she would not turn around to look. Neither would she quicken her pace—nor slacken it. She strode along the pavement at a steady pace, her back straight, her chin up.

“Lady Sara Illingsworth? Good afternoon, my lady.”

The voice, reasonably pleasant, not raised, came from close behind her. She felt as if a reptile were crawling up her spine. Terror attacked her knees, nausea her stomach. She stopped and turned slowly.

“A member of the Bow Street Runners, I presume?” she said just as pleasantly. He certainly did not look the
part. Neither tall nor large in girth, he appeared like nothing more than a poor man’s imitation of a dandy.

“Yes, my lady. At your service, my lady,” the Runner said, looking steadily at her, not making any obeisance.

Jocelyn had been wrong, then. He had not succeeded in lifting the watch on her house. He had described the Runner as shrewd, but he had not guessed that the man was too shrewd to allow himself to be ordered away from his prey when he knew she was close.

“I will make your task easy,” she said, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. Indeed, it was amazing how terror receded once one had faced it head-on. “I am on the way to the Pulteney Hotel to call upon the Earl of Durbury. You may escort me there and claim all the glory of having apprehended me, if you wish. But you will not come closer or touch me. If you do, I shall squawk very loudly—there are any number of carriages and pedestrians in sight. I shall make up every story I can think of to convince my audience that you are stalking and harassing me. Do we have an agreement?”

“It is like this, my lady.” The Runner’s voice sounded pleasantly regretful. “Mick Boden does not let criminals escape him once he has them in his sights. I don’t foolishly let them off the leash just because they are ladies and know how to talk sweet. And I don’t make bargains with them. You come quiet after I have tied your hands behind you under your cloak, and you will not embarrass yourself. I do know that ladies don’t like to be embarrassed in public.”

The man might be shrewd, but he certainly was not wise. He took a purposeful step toward Jane, one hand disappearing inside a deep pocket. She opened her mouth and screamed—and screamed. She startled even
herself. She had never been a screamer, even as a child. The Runner looked both startled and aghast. His hand jerked out of his pocket, clutching a length of rope.

“Now, there is no need to take on so,” he said sharply. “I’m not going to—”

But Jane never did discover what it was he was not going to do. Two gentlemen rode up at a smart trot and proceeded to dismount from their horses. A hackney coach stopped abruptly on the other side of the street, and its burly driver jumped down from the box while shouting directions to a young sweeper to hold the horses’ heads. An elderly couple of respectable middle-class demeanor, who had passed Jane a few moments before, turned and hurried back. And a giant of an individual, who looked as if he might well be a pugilist, had materialized seemingly from nowhere and hugged Mick Boden from behind, pinioning his arms to his sides. It was this action that cut the Runner’s sentence in half.

“He accosted me,” Jane informed her gathering rescuers. “He was going to tie me up with
that
”—she pointed one genuinely shaking finger at the rope—“and abduct me.”

Everyone spoke up at once. The pugilist offered to squeeze harder until the villain’s stomach came spurting out his mouth. The coachman suggested taking him in the hackney to the nearest magistrate, where he would surely be sentenced to hang. One of the gentlemen riders gave it as his opinion that it would be a shame for such a slimy toad to swing before his facial features had been rearranged. The elderly gentleman did not know why such a villainous-looking thug should be allowed to roam the streets of a civilized city, terrorizing its
womenfolk. His wife set a motherly arm about Jane’s shoulders and clucked and tutted with mingled concern and outrage.

Mick Boden had recovered his composure even though he could not free himself. “I am a Bow Street Runner,” he announced in a voice of authority. “I am engaged in apprehending a notorious thief and murderess and would advise you all not to interfere in the workings of justice.”

Jane lifted her chin. “I am Lady Sara Illingsworth,” she said indignantly, hoping that none of the gathered spectators had heard of her. “I am on my way to visit my cousin and guardian, the Earl of Durbury, at the Pulteney Hotel. He will be very vexed with me when I confess that I came out without my maid. The poor girl is nursing a chill. I should have brought a footman instead, of course, but I did not understand that desperate men will accost ladies even in broad daylight.” She drew a handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak and held it to her mouth.

Mick Boden looked reproachfully at her. “Now, there was no need of all this,” he said.

“Come, my dear,” the elderly lady said, linking her arm through Jane’s. “We will see you safely to the Pulteney Hotel, will we not, Vernon? It is not far out of our way.”

“You go on, my lady,” one of the riders told her. “We know where to find you if you are needed as a witness. But I’ve a mind to do the law’s work for it without bothering any magistrate. You go on.”

“Now see here,” Mick Boden was saying as Jane took the offered arm of the elderly gentleman and proceeded along the street, protectively flanked by him and his
wife. Under other circumstances she might have been amused. As it was, she felt a mingling of boldness—now at last she was
doing
something—and apprehension. He had been going to
tie
her hands.

She thanked her escort most profusely when they arrived before the doors of the Pulteney, and promised that never again would she be foolish enough to step out alone onto the streets of London. They had been so kind to her that she felt guilt at the way she had deceived them. Although she was, of course, no thief and no murderer. She stepped inside the hotel.

A few minutes later, she was knocking on the door of the Earl of Durbury’s suite, having declined the offer to have his lordship informed of her arrival while she waited in a lounge downstairs. She recognized her cousin’s valet, Parkins, who answered her knock, and he recognized her. His jaw dropped inelegantly. Jane stepped forward without a word for him, and he jumped smartly to one side.

She found herself in a spacious and elegant private sitting room. The earl was seated at a desk, his back to the door. Despite herself, her heart was thumping in her chest, in her throat, in her ears.