My Lady Notorious (10 page)

“I fear,” he said, probing gently, “that people will think me a
harsh mistress to dress my maid in the cast-off clothes from the local
foundling home.”

Verity’s revealing face told him he was close to the truth. But what truth?

“It’s the best we can do,” said Charles sharply. “Do you think her looks are changed enough?”

Verity’s hair had been darkened by grease rather than dye, and it
straggled out of the front of her cap. The change was remarkable.

“It will do, I think,” he said. “If we come face-to-face with
someone who knows Verity well, it won’t work, but the main danger
surely is that bills have been posted, and the authorities alerted.
They’ll be looking for a young blond lady with a child. I’m darker, and
must look considerably older as a woman than my true twenty-four. What?
Thirty-odd?”

Verity nodded and smiled. “We’ll do it, won’t we?”

He smiled back at her as if she were one of his raw recruits needing encouragement before the first battle. “Assuredly we will.”

Spontaneously she held out her hands. When he took them she kissed
him lightly on the lips. “Thank you. I’m so glad we found you.”

“Captured him,” corrected Charles sharply.

Cyn turned to his glowering damsel. He grasped her by the shoulders,
and before she could react, kissed her as Verity had kissed him. She
jerked back and scrubbed at her lips.

“My dear sir,” said Cyn, tremulously, which was easy since he was
fighting laughter, “a thousand apologies. I became carried away by my
part!”

“Get carried away like that again,” snapped his damsel, “and I’ll
gut you.” She picked up a portmanteau and stalked off toward the coach.

By noon, Cyn had decided this adventure was a dead bore. Where was
the challenge? Where were the dangers? Where were the dragons for him
to fight?

All he was experiencing was the familiar swaying motion of the
coach, the chill of a sharp November day, and the discomfort of his
disguise. His legs felt smothered in skirts, the wool stuffing itched,
and the coarse strings of the cap were fretting his skin. He’d thought
a stiff stock around his neck was bad enough, but this was undoubtedly
worse.

He’d removed the hat as soon as they were in the coach, but felt he
had to keep the cap on in case a passing traveler looked inside the
carriage. They’d already decided that to pull the curtains would make
them look suspicious. Now he untied the strings of the cap and let them
hang.

“Why the deuce,” he asked, “would anyone make a cap out of such
coarse calico?” Despite his irritation he spoke softly for the baby
slept.

“For durability,” said Charles unsympathetically. “After a score or so washings it will soften up.”

“It would be better, surely, to buy the cloth already softened.”

“But more expensive.”

Curiosity stirred in Cyn again. “Where did these caps come from?”

“We just had them lying around,” she said evasively, then smiled
without warmth. “I’m sorry we had nothing more suitable for your
delicate skin, milord.”

“Why not?”

She flashed a sharp look at him. “Why should we have expensive folderols?”

Cyn glanced at Verity, who looked anxious. “Because you and your
sister are gently bred. Your clothes, sir, though somewhat
old-fashioned, have come from a modish tailor. So, if there are female
garments, I would expect them to be of high quality.”

Charles’ color betrayed agitation, but she answered calmly. “Verity fled in disguise, and I certainly don’t wear caps.”

Cyn persisted. “Then where did these come from?”

Her jaw tightened. “Nana and I were making them for the Magdalene in Shaftesbury.”

It was a plausible explanation, though Cyn doubted it. He relaxed
back and fanned himself with his bonnet. “How charitable,” he murmured.
“Especially on your part, sir.”

She bit her lip.

It was Verity who stepped into the breach. “He’s claiming more
credit than he’s due. I’m sure all he did was to cut out the cloth.”

The coach swung into an inn yard, and the conversation was abandoned with Cyn little the wiser.

The change was slow since Hoskins had no one to blow for a new team
or help the ostlers. Though they were still on Cyn’s prearranged route,
he had decided not to use the teams of Rothgar’s horses which awaited,
and he’d told Hoskins to avoid the inns where he would be known.

As far as Cyn knew, Rothgar was in London, not at the Abbey, but
once he learned of his brother’s disappearance, Cyn suspected he would
institute a search. No need to leave a blazing trail. He had no desire
to be ‘rescued’ by the marquess a second time.

Now, however, they had to hire post horses at each stage, with
postilions to care for them. Hoskins grumbled that the teams were mere
cart horses.

In short, nobody was happy with the state of affairs.

Cyn casually scrutinized the inn yard for posters, or overattentive
observers. Nothing. Perhaps there was no hunt at all. Chances seemed
excellent of them reaching Maidenhead in two days without incident.

How dull.

Then he saw Verity’s pallid face. At every stop, and whenever a
horseman passed them on the road, she tensed with fear. The sooner she
reached her Nathaniel, the better.

As they pulled out, the baby woke and began to cry. Within moments
the complaint grew from a whimper to a howl—an amazingly piercing sound
for one so small. Verity’s face turned rosy as she put him to her
breast under a shawl. Cyn politely looked away, though there was
nothing to see. He found the mental image of a baby at the breast
fascinating, however, and the effect was heightened by the soft
slurping noises the baby made.

He wondered what it would be like to watch the mother of his child
feed the babe, what it would be like to suck on nipples which produced
milk. He slid a look at Charles.

He blinked, amazed at himself. Children? Marriage? Such things had
no part in his life. Married life and soldiering didn’t mesh. As the
veterans said, ‘When a soldier puts his cap on, he should know his
family’s covered.’

Anyway, if he had any thoughts of marriage, he’d be mad to consider
his damsel-in-distress. She showed few womanly attributes. But Lord, it
would be fine to have a wife with her kind of courage…

The slurping stopped and the baby again set up a screech. Verity
hushed and gabbled and patted the child on the back. He kicked and
screamed, red-faced and furious. Verity was almost as red. Cyn stared
out the window, as if unaware of the racket, but wishing he could put
his hands over his ears.

The screams lowered slightly in volume, and he glanced back. Charles
had the baby now and was holding William with more confidence than
anyone would expect of a young man. The baby had quieted to an
occasional whine which might even be a prelude to sleep. They all
sighed with relief.

William had obviously just needed a moment to catch his breath. He
suddenly thrust his legs out and screamed even louder, as if in
terrible pain. Cyn couldn’t imagine what the problem was, but began to
worry that the babe would expire in front of him. Children died from
minor problems all the time.

Verity, however, looked embarrassed rather than terrified.

The noise went on and on. Charles jiggled the babe and looked every
bit as alarmed as Cyn. Verity took the babe back and tried to put him
to the breast again, but little William rejected it furiously. She sat
him up, lay him down, put him to her shoulder.

Cyn decided that being confined in a coach with a screaming baby was
a very effective form of torture. He’d give away national secrets to
stop the racket.

Verity looked close to tears. “Oh, I’m sorry. It must be gas, but I can’t seem to do anything…”

Though he knew nothing about babies, Cyn knew a lot about horses,
dogs, and raw recruits, and he thought that at the moment Verity was
doing more harm than good. “Oh, give him to me,” he said, rather more
sharply than he intended.

She hesitated, but he took the howling babe anyway. He was surprised
by the squirming strength of the tiny mite, and because he’d taken hold
of more blanket than babe, he almost dropped him. Quite by accident,
William ended up face-down on Cyn’s knee with a thump. The child gave a
burp, spit up on Cyn’s skirt, and was quiet.

All three of them looked at the baby, expecting the ear-splitting
noise to start again. Quiet reigned and William didn’t even seem to
object to his position. Cyn turned him cautiously. The child was a
perfect little cherub, and even seemed to smile with gratitude as he
drifted off to sleep.

Verity leaned forward to dab at Cyn’s skirt with a rag, apologizing
again. “I was fretting him,” she said. “I’m sure that’s why he had the
gripe. He’s normally such a good baby.” She sat up again. “I’m so
scared…”

Charles covered her hand. “Don’t be, love. See, here we are close to
Salisbury already, and no sign of pursuit. We have wound ourselves up
into a stew over nothing.”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

“We’ll stop soon for a luncheon.” Charles looked a challenge at Cyn,
but when he made no objection she asked more moderately, “Do you think
we’ll make Basingstoke tonight, my lord?”

“Not without a great push.” Cyn said. “The road is none too good and I see no reason to hurry.”

The sisters exchanged glances. “Where then?”

“The road between Andover and Basingstoke is very bleak, not to be
traveled after dark. There’s a White Hart at Worting and another at
Whitchurch. Both good places. I suggest we see how far we can
reasonably go.”

“How is it you know this road so well?” Charles asked suspiciously.

“I traveled it not many days ago. There’s not a great deal for a
lonely traveler to do but follow the map.” He pulled one out of a
pocket by his seat and handed it to her.

She studied it, finding Salisbury. “Did you travel from Rothgar Abbey?”

“Yes.”

“Where exactly is it?”

“Not far from Farnham.”

“So at Basingstoke we’ll be off your route?”

“Yes.”

“Will we reach Maidenhead tomorrow?” Verity asked.

“That depends on the roads. I suggest we go north at Basingstoke to
join the Bath road at Reading, then we’ll be on a toll road. It should
be better than this.”

They seemed disinclined to argue, which surprised him. Was Charles mellowing at last?

Peace after Bedlam would mellow anyone.

He looked down at the baby, surprised by how pleasant it felt to
hold the sleeping mite. He’d seen plenty of Hilda’s daughter but never,
as a mere male, been entrusted with her. The soft, pliant weight, the
steady rise and fall of breathing, the dreaming sucking motions of the
full lips all charmed him.

And this wasn’t a perfect child. He had a rash on his cheek, perhaps
from his tear-dampened blanket. Verity had changed him once today, but
a sour smell rose from him. Cyn didn’t know who the father was, but he
suspected the child would never make his fortune with his face.

All the same, sweetly, trustingly asleep, the baby caught his heart and made him think again of children of his own…

“Halt!”

The summons caught them all unawares. Charles put a hand toward the pistol-holster. Verity reached for her child.

Cyn held on to the babe. “Look innocent, damn you.” This clearly was
no attempt at robbery, and could only be a military patrol. The door
was sharply opened. Cyn turned toward it with a look of astonishment.
“Please!” he said in a whisper. “The babe is sleeping.”

The young officer looked abashed, and then his eyes sharpened. Cyn had no doubt he was on the lookout for a mother and child.

An added complication was that Cyn knew Lieutenant Toby Berrisford very well indeed.

“My apologies, ma’am,” said Toby quietly, going red. It was an
affliction that went with his pale skin and red hair, but Cyn knew he
never let it interfere with his duty. “I am ordered to keep an eye out
for a young mother with a two-month-old child. I must ask your
identity.”

“I’m Sarah Inchcliff,” said Cyn amenably. “‘Mrs. Richard Inchcliff
of Goole, Yorkshire. I confess, sir, that it is true my babe is only a
little over two months old, but I’m flattered you think me young.” He
gave Toby a teasing smile. “I’ll not see thirty again and this is my
sixth. Why do you seek such a pair?”

Toby frowned at Cyn but more in puzzlement than suspicion. “The
young woman’s wits have been turned by the death of her husband, and
she has run away with her child. It is feared she will do him some
harm.”

Verity made a little sound. “Yes,” said Cyn quickly, “horrible,
isn’t it? But if she is so deranged, would she be traveling in a
private coach?”

“She might be befriended by some misguided person, ma’am, and that
person could then be in danger. Who knows what a madwoman might do?” He
was still frowning. “Forgive me, ma’am, but are we acquainted?”

Cyn faced Toby blandly. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant, but I am told
I bear a strong resemblance to my cousins. My maiden name was Malloren.”

His face cleared. “That’s it! You have quite the look of Lord Cyn, you know.”

“I’m flattered,” said Cyn, adding naughtily, “He’s quite excessively handsome.”

“Isn’t he just?” said Toby with a grin. “And a devil with the
ladies. There’s not a one can resist him. Well, Mrs. Inchcliff,
apologies for interrupting your journey. If you should come across the
poor wretch, put her in the care of the local magistrate. The child’s
guardian and the woman’s father are both in the area, and will care for
them.”

Lieutenant Berrisford then slammed the door and William set up a
squawk. Cyn saw his friend turn red as he made quickly for his horse.
Cyn gave the baby to Verity, and as the carriage rolled by he waved his
fingers coyly at the soldiers.

Verity put the baby to the breast again, her eyes wide with fear. “Father and Henry both hereabouts! Dear heaven.”