Regina Scott (6 page)

But what if she was wrong? What if the pleasure of his company had blinded her to his faults? What if he truly was so cruel as to dominate his own sister?

“Is she given to wandering away, my lord?” she tried. “Perhaps she only sought a book to read before retiring.”

Even his chuckle sounded strained. “Unlike you, Phoebe is not given to much reading. If she isn’t in her room, there’s something afoot, you may depend upon it.”

“But where could she go in a storm?” Meredee protested.

He paled as if just imagining made him ill. “You might be surprised. Forgive me for troubling you. Sleep well.” He turned from the door, and Meredee could almost see the weight that pressed him down. She did not think he would sleep at all at this rate. She reached out a hand and snagged the back of his waistcoat, her fingers brushing the muscle in his back. “My lord, wait.” When he turned with a frown, she lowered her voice and her hand. “I do not like betraying a confidence, but your sister is here, with me. We were chatting before retiring.”

She had the satisfaction in seeing his shoulders slump as if she had relieved a burden.

“Thank you,” he said, straightening. “Now if you would just send her out to me, I have a few words for her before she retires.”

It was an order, not a request, just as Phoebe had predicted. Did his sister really need him to keep such a close watch on her? Who did he think was a danger? His friend, Sir Trevor? Mrs. Price?

Or Meredee?

T
he storm blew itself out sometime in the middle of the night, and Chase woke to a world washed clean. His own mood was surprisingly light as Valcom, his valet, shaved him and helped him dress for the day. A good ride along the hills above town—that’s what he needed: fresh air, quiet, an unobstructed view. He had no urgent estate business. Phoebe was his only concern, and, if he knew his sister, she wouldn’t rise before noon. He could not imagine his unexpected guests would do otherwise. He had all morning to himself.

“If Miss Price or her stepmother come down to eat before I return,” he told Beagan over breakfast, “ask them to wait.”

The butler cleared his throat. For a butler, Beagan was rather short, coming only to Chase’s chin. He also had a slow, considerate voice and a walk to match. But the set to his rounded face, the stiffness in his
bearing, brooked no nonsense. “I’m afraid Miss Price has already gone, my lord.”

Chase frowned. “Gone? But the sun can’t have been up over an hour.”

“She came down to the kitchens before the sun rose.” His wrinkled face showed how scandalized he was by this unorthodox behavior. “She thanked the staff for our service, asked to be remembered to you and Lady Phoebe and took herself off.”

“On foot?” When Beagan nodded, Chase tossed down his napkin and rose. “Have my horse saddled and out front in five minutes.”

His butler’s steps were considerably faster than usual as he hurried to comply.

What was wrong with the woman, traipsing about the streets in the early morning hours? Who knew what kind of ruffian she’d meet! Had she no thought for her own safety? What was so urgent that it would require her attention? He considered rousing her step mother and demanding an explanation but decided against it. If Mrs. Price knew something personal, she was unlikely to confide in Chase. If she didn’t know the reason for her stepdaughter’s sudden departure, he’d only worry her.

Five minutes later, he was riding down the drive, good mood flown with his freedom. Wasn’t it just like a society miss to act so fecklessly, with no thought bout how it might affect others? Small wonder he
had to watch out for Phoebe at every turn. Miss Price obviously needed just such a protector.

He realized that he’d urged his horse into a canter and slowed the bay to a walk. When had Meredee Price become his responsibility to protect? He was no relation, and he had no claim to her affections. He wasn’t even sure he wanted such a claim. At times, she seemed more intelligent and sensible than most of the women he’d known. But until he knew Phoebe was settled and his own affliction had been dealt with, he was in no position to offer a lady anything. It was only, he told himself, that Miss Price had been a guest under his roof that drove him to ensure her safety now.

He rode into the coaching yard of the Bell Inn and dismounted, tossing his reins to a waiting stable boy. Of the inn’s inhabitants, few were stirring so early in the morning. A young maid was poking up the fire in the great hearth, and two older gentlemen were nursing cups of steaming tea by the front window. Chase caught a glimpse of a slight, dark-haired young man heading up the stairs. At the sound of Chase’s boots on the floor, the fellow turned, and Chase started.

Algernon Whitaker? Here?

The man scurried up the stairs before Chase could be sure. He shook himself. It couldn’t be Whitaker. He very much doubted the fellow rose any earlier than Phoebe. And he’d certainly never show himself in his shirtsleeves in the common room of an inn, especially
in anything so mundane as pale linen. Algernon Whitaker favored bright yellows and lurid reds. Chase shuddered just remembering.

No, Whitaker couldn’t be in Scarborough. Chase was just so used to seeing villains in the shadows that he now saw them in the early morning light. The fact disgusted him.

“My lord,” the innkeeper exclaimed, hurrying in from the kitchens and bowing low. A gentleman of ample proportions and neat appearance, he wore a wide smile, his bald head gleaming. “An unexpected pleasure! How may I serve you?”

“I’m concerned about one of your guests,” Chase explained. “Miss Meredee Price. She and her stepmother stayed with my sister and me last night in the storm, but I understand from my staff that she left at dawn. Has she returned?”

“Returned and gone,” the innkeeper proclaimed.

Chase frowned at him. “Gone? Gone where?”

The innkeeper chuckled. “You must not have known Miss Meredee long, my lord. She’s gone where all Prices go after a storm—to the shore.”

He knew his frown was growing, for the innkeeper’s smile faded. “To the shore?” Chase asked. “Why?”

Servants and merchants usually catered to his least desire, but the innkeeper’s round face tightened up like a miser’s purse. “I’m sure you’ll have to ask the lady, my lord, seeing as how she didn’t see fit to
confide in you herself.” He nodded to the door. “Very likely she’s crossed half the South Bay by now. If you hurry, you may catch her before the tide turns.”

Meredee Price certainly commanded loyalties, Chase thought as he nodded his thanks and strode out to his waiting horse. He obviously wasn’t the only one she’d impressed. But that didn’t mean she was safe wandering around Scarborough unattended. This time, he didn’t rein in when his horse began to canter.

He only wished that Scarborough’s streets were straight and clear enough to make him comfortable with galloping. As it was, he had to weave his way around farmers bringing milk, eggs and produce to market. The wagons of fishmongers lumbered past, brine trailing like smoke in their wake, as they ferried Scarborough’s catch inland. Still, he reached the harbor a short time later and guided his horse onto the firm sands.

The tide was low; he could not remember seeing it so far out. The stretch of gold seemed endless, the sails of the Scarborough fishing fleet mere dots on the horizon. Still, it was easy to spot the lone figure standing by the water’s edge. What was she doing?

Clucking to his horse, he rode down the sands, leaping over debris from the storm and the occasional rock. As he approached, he could see that she was moving, but so slowly she scarcely took one step for four of his horse’s. Her head was bowed, her hands
clasped behind her back, and her skirts tucked up so that several inches of bare ankle and toes showed in the crisp morning air. He was so surprised he was reining in before her head snapped up.

“What are you doing?” she cried, rushing up the beach to him. Her hair was hastily tucked up on top of her head, gold strands flying every which way. He’d never realized gray eyes could look so fiery. “You get that great beast off this beach immediately!” She flung out an arm to point to the shore. “Immediately, sir!”

Her tone was so commanding, her face so determined, that Chase found himself complying without thinking. A shame Phoebe wasn’t younger, he thought—Meredee Price would make an outstanding governess.

Or a captain at arms.

He rode his horse back to the road lining the shore, dismounted and tied the bay to the ornamental iron railing that stretched the length of the beach. She had returned to her slow dance with the waves. More curious than concerned, he hurried back to her side.

“Behind me,” she ordered this time when he approached, and Chase fell obligingly, if mystified, in step behind her.

She took a step, head turning from side to side as if she were scanning the sands from about three feet to her left to the water’s edge on her right. That must be why she wore no bonnet; it might obscure
her vision. She had a strong profile, nose straight and firm, though dotted by freckles, chin a bit on the determined side. That came as no surprise. Though her simple blue dress was clean and neat, it was patched in places, as if it had been worn often and in difficult circumstances. Waves rolled up to tease her feet, brushing her bare skin like lover’s fingers.

He snapped his gaze higher.

“What,” he ventured, “are you searching for, Miss Price?”

“A
tellina incarnata,
my lord.”

He struggled to remember his Latin. “And what would that be?”

“A seashell, Lord Allyndale.”

Chase blinked. Then he increased his stride, grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “Do you mean to tell me you ran away from my home, ordered me to abandon my horse and nearly scared the life out of me for a seashell!”

Meredee recoiled from him. His handsome face was florid, his blue eyes narrowed to slits. If he’d looked like that when she faced him across a dueling field, she thought she might have turned and fled, and honor be forfeited. She shook his hand off her shoulder, raised her head and took a step back. “I told Mrs. Downthistle when I left. You had no reason to be concerned.”

“You leave before dawn and expect me not to wonder?”

“It was a good few minutes after dawn. And frankly, my lord, after your sister stomped back to her room with you last night, I thought you’d be relieved that I’d left.”

“Nonsense.” He seemed to be calming. The red was fading, and his breath came more slowly if the gentle rise and fall of his paisley waistcoat and bottle-green coat were any indication. “You were my guest. Of course I wished to know you were safe.”

Meredee spread her hands. “As you can see, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, and good day, my lord.”

She turned, determined to put him out of her mind. She only had a short time. It wouldn’t do to waste it mooning over the way the sun gilded his hair and the breeze ruffled it tenderly. Shading her eyes with one hand, she gazed down the shore toward the lighthouse instead. She still had a third of the bay to cover, and already the tide was a foot higher than when she’d started. Every day the tides grew closer together, more shallow. Every day her chances of finding the shell grew smaller.

Lord, help me!

“Are you really looking for seashells?” he asked with remarkable restraint behind her.

Meredee sighed. No one ever seemed to believe her quest. “Yes. A particular shell to be exact. The
tellina incarnata,
otherwise known as the carnation tellin.” Just the name conjured up warmer waters and exotic shores. “It is a rare clam with a delicate pink shell.” She scanned to the left and back to the right, then took another step as her father had taught her. She’d been so certain last night’s storm would have washed a few ashore. Why couldn’t she find one?

“And is there some reason you need this shell?”

Confusion laced every word. Meredee smiled to herself. Lord Allyndale clearly could not imagine anyone so devoted to shells. He’d never met her father.

“There is no need for you to tarry, my lord,” she called back as she scanned and took another step. “I’m quite used to searching on my own.”

“Does the shell hold some monetary value?”

This was beginning to feel like a game of twenty questions. She’d always been rather good at that game, but she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d win if she stumped him now. “I believe some collectors would pay for the shell, but that’s not my purpose in searching for it.”

“Then does the shell have medicinal properties?”

My, but he was persistent. “None that I am aware of. Nor, before you ask, is it used for any industrial purpose. The
incarnata
only has value to me and a handful of conchologists around the Empire.”

“Conchologists? Men of science who catalogue shells?”

Meredee took another step. “Not just men, my lord.”

He was so quiet for a time that she thought perhaps he had abandoned her. She wouldn’t have blamed him. Mrs. Price refused to brave the waves, and Algernon had long outgrown his amusement for the sport. She’d sometimes wondered why she’d bothered following her father on his hunts. He never acknowledged her presence, rarely responded to her questions with anything more than vague grunts. Oh, but when he found the perfect shell, when he knelt and drew it from the sands, his face held such an awed reverence that she knew she was looking at the very handiwork of God.

“Won’t you tell me, Miss Price,” he murmured, closer behind her than she’d thought, “why a seashell should require you to rise at dawn and roam the sands barefoot?”

Oh! She could feel her face heating in the cool morning air. Her feet had gone numb after the first quarter hour, and she’d completely forgotten the picture she must make. “I am barefoot,” she managed with strained dignity, “the better to feel the sand and its treasures. Boots, like your horse’s hooves, crush shells.”

She risked a glance back and noticed that he was keeping his brown leather boots well away from the waves that slid in with the tide. They were not as stylish as she would have expected; worn, comfortable-
looking, well-fitted to his large feet. She dared not look at his face to see what he thought of her explanation.

“I am impressed that you take this so seriously,” he said, but she didn’t hear another word. There! Just peeking from the moist sand, the thinnest edge of pink. Afraid even to breathe, she bent and brushed the grains of sand from the shell and lifted it into the sunlight.

The shell was long and thin and striped a vibrant hade of salmon pink, the edges pearlescent. It felt like fine porcelain against her trembling fingers. Then she looked closer, and her breath hissed out in a sigh. he right half was missing, cracked off in a jagged edge. Meredee returned it to its place.

Lord Allyndale bent and retrieved it. “Ah, I see. It’s broken. I suppose you need a whole shell.”

Meredee nodded, afraid to talk lest she start crying.
Why can’t I find one, Lord? Just one? I promised!

Beside her, he glanced up and down the beach. A few people were venturing onto the sands, she saw, and the creak of wagon wheels heralded the arrival f the first bathing machines. Her time was running out.

“Still plenty of sand to go,” he said as if to encourage her. “There must be more than one.”

“Not necessarily,” Meredee managed. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “My father searched for
twenty years for this shell. It’s common in the Mediterranean and along the African Coast, but it’s been sighted in England only along the Yorkshire Coast. It was the one thing he regretted, dying when he did—that he’d never found the
incarnata.
”