St. Raven (5 page)

She would stay in her room. But then she remembered that St. Raven had promised to bring breakfast himself.

She glanced in the mirror and yelped. Her rumpled calf-length shift was no cover at all, and with her hair all over the place, she looked like a blowsy slut! She hunted through her hair, pulling out stray pins, then tried to use her fingers to comb it into some sort of order. Hopeless. She checked the drawers in the dressing table, but there was no brush or comb.

Somewhere in the house a clock started to chime. She froze, counting. Two. Not two o’clock, surely, so half past something.

Oh, what did it matter? She needed to be
dressed
!

The key. She dashed over and turned the key in the lock. Now, at least, he couldn’t walk in on her before she was decent.

Walk in on…

The incident last night crashed back on her, so she sagged against the door. The sight of his body, the look in his eyes, the way he’d kissed her…

The way she’d reacted!

She sucked in a breath and blew it out again. It was as if she’d wandered into another world. Not long ago she’d woken with no greater problem than what gown to wear for morning visits, and whether to attend a fashionable ball that was bound to be a boring crush. Back in that world
shocking
meant that a man had pressed too close in a dance or tried to inveigle her apart for a mild kiss.

She pushed away from the door, concentrating on clothing. She’d left her silk dress in a puddle on the floor, and when she picked it up it was as creased and crumpled as she feared. She shook it out and spread it on the bed, but she knew that nothing short of an iron would restore it.

And it was the only dress she had here. That, her shift, her turban, and her corset were her sole possessions. When had she lost her shawl? It had been Norwich silk and very expensive, but that wasn’t her main concern right now—it would have been another decent layer. Her stockings and garters had been sliced, and heaven knew what had happened to her shoes.

She sat beside her poor sad dress, feeling poor and sad herself, frightened in a way she hadn’t been before. She’d never thought that clothes could be so important to courage, but she longed to be decently covered, even in fustian.

A servant’s clothes?

But this was a house of men.

One thing was sure, at this moment she was a prisoner here. Even if she decided to break her parole, she couldn’t set off to rejoin Crofton in her bare feet and shift.

She stiffened her spine and stood up. She’d do what she could, and the first thing was to make herself as decent as possible before the duke intruded.

As a start, she drew back the curtains, letting bright summer light lift the gloom. Then she set to getting dressed. She picked up her corset from the floor. Beneath, she found her earrings and Crofton’s money. Money would be useful. She’d tuck it back down behind her corset in a moment.

But then she realized that she could no more tie the laces than she’d been able to untie them. She tossed it on the bed, refusing to cry. She doubtless couldn’t fasten the back of her dress, either, but if she put it on, it would be something.

The robe! The robe he’d brought for her. Where was it?

Struck by his thoughtfulness, she searched and found that it had slid off the far side of the bed in the night. She put it on, the heavy silk cold against her skin for a moment, that smell of sandalwood rising to torment her. She tried to gather it around her, but the sleeves were far too long.

With a slight laugh, she set to work. First she rolled up the sleeves until they cleared her hands. Then she fastened the buttons down the front. A foot or more of the fabric trailed on the ground, and when she looked in the mirror she saw a child playing in grown-up clothes. She was, however, covered. Decent.

Decent!

She’d lived twenty-one years in Matlock, a solid member of respectable Matlock society, decent from top to toe. Would she ever be decent again?

She pushed that aside. No point moping over what couldn’t be changed, and anyway, if her plan worked, she and her parents would soon be back in Matlock and stolid decency. She must focus on her purpose and not let weak emotions get in her way. She sat on a chair by the empty fireplace and tried to plan a strategy to deal with the Duke of St. Raven.

He was never going to believe that she was a whore, which meant he’d refuse to take her to Stokeley Manor. Her choices, therefore, were to escape—which needed simpler clothing, good shoes, and a map—or to tell him the truth and gain his help.

She grimaced. Perhaps some of the truth. If she could escape this without him knowing her real name, she would.

Would he help her in her plan? She wouldn’t normally think that a duke would be any use at thievery, but this was no ordinary duke. Could she spin a tale that—?

A knock on the door.

She shot to her feet, clutching the robe around her.

He turned the knob. Knocked again. “Miss?”

A woman’s voice!

Grabbing handfuls of silk to hold it up, Cressida hurried to the door to unlock it and peer out. She saw the blessed sight of a respectable middle-aged woman bearing a large steaming ewer.

“Good morning, miss,” the woman said with an apple cheeked smile. “I’ve your water here. His Grace sent for me to look after you.”

Though Cressida felt that her world had taken another strange turn, it was a wonderful one. She opened the door. “Come in, please.”

The woman did, bustling over to the washstand to pour water into the bowl there. She had extra towels that she hung over the rail, and from a pocket she produced a new bar of soap. “Nice flowery stuff, miss. You don’t want His Grace’s.”

Cressida wasn’t so sure of that, but it was doubtless for the best. She was touched almost to tears by this kindness. He’d thought of her predicament and sent for a maid.

She walked to the washstand, unbuttoning the robe. “The duke said he kept no female servants.”

“That’s right, miss, and if he wants any for the nonce he’ll only have us older ones. Which is as well,” she said, but added with a wink, “even if it does assume that we’re dead from the neck down once we’re forty.”

Cressida laughed, not knowing what to say to that.

The woman came over to help with the buttons. “I’m Annie Bark way, miss. I live in the village, and I’ve one son who’s a footman here and another working on the grounds. It’s a grand thing to have His Grace here, miss. He’s a good master even with his wild ways.”

The woman stripped off the robe and began to lather a cloth. A delightful perfume of flowers and lemon rose to freshen the air.

Cressida woke from her daze and took cloth and soap from her. “Thank you.” As she began to wash, she wondered what sort of story the duke had told to account for her being here in such a state.

Mrs. Bark way went to tidy the bed. Cressida turned to watch as she washed, and saw the woman grimace at the state of her gown.

“Lovely silk this is, miss. I’m not sure I’d dare try to iron it.”

“It doesn’t matter, though I’ll have to put it on. The duke said he’d bring my breakfast…” She realized there was no need now. Mrs. Bark way could do it. And just as well, she told herself.

“No hurry, miss. He’s ridden out.” Mrs. Bark way finished smoothing the coverlet. “He ordered breakfast ready at ten, and said he’d eat it up here with you, miss, so we’d best get you decent.”

Cressida turned away to rinse her cloth, and hide her betraying blush of excitement. “Did he explain how I came to be here?”

“Such a shocking tale!” Mrs. Bark way exclaimed, flipping open a towel and holding it out for Cressida. “I didn’t think men tried to kidnap heiresses anymore. Lucky for you that His Grace came upon you after you’d fled.”

Perhaps Cressida’s silence looked like fear, for the woman added, “All will be right now, miss. Don’t you worry.”

Cressida smiled her thanks, thinking that his ingenious story was no more outlandish than the truth. He did seem to be a man who thought of everything.

A good partner in crime, perhaps?

“And don’t you worry about gossip, miss. His Grace pays well for closed mouths, and he knows I’ll not say anything to embarrass you.”

Cressida dried herself on the soft cloth. “Thank you, Mrs. Barkway. You’re very kind.”

The woman blushed. “Go on with you. Sit down now, and I’ll see what I can do with your hair, though I’m no ladies’ maid.”

The wonderful woman produced a comb from her pocket, and Cressida sat at the dressing table. There were knots in her hair, of course, but the woman was as gentle as she could be.

“No curl,” Cressida apologized. She picked up her turban with the false curls dangling around the front.

The woman chuckled. “Very clever, miss, but they do look strange now, don’t they? Like a scared cat hiding in a bag.” She stroked a hand down Cressida’s hair. “Your hair is lovely, miss. Like dark brown silk, it is, and thick right down to your waist. How do you want to wear it?”

Cressida realized how much she disliked her caps and turbans, with their false curls. It had seemed necessary because of her father’s desire that she be fashionable, but there was no need for such folly now. In Matlock, she had worn her hair in a simple plait coiled on the back of her head. She tossed aside the turban and asked Mrs. Bark way to do something similar. As the woman worked away, Cressida let her tangled mind drift.

Matlock. Last year she’d welcomed the prospect of playing in fashionable society. Matlock had seemed so dull. Now it was the sanctuary she struggled to regain.

She had to admit to a pang about London, however. Hadn’t Dr. Johnson said something about he who tired of London being tired of life?

It was the heart of the world. Men of power lived there, making decisions that would affect the fates of millions around the globe. It was the center of the arts and sciences, cradle of great discoveries. She had met fascinating people everywhere—explorers, poets, orators, scientists, sinners. And the theaters! They had a theater in Matlock, but it wasn’t like Drury Lane or the Royal Opera House.

That stirred a memory—the Duke of St. Raven at Drury Lane Theater.

It had been months ago. She’d been there with her parents and the Harbisons at the opening of the play
A Daring Lady
. The theater had hummed with excitement, but then the hum had intensified. A stir had directed every eye to one of the finest boxes, to a glittering lady there accompanied by a dark and handsome gentleman.

“The Duke of St. Raven!” Lady Harbison had exclaimed in a whisper—one of the truly remarkable social skills. “He’s here at last.”

This had seemed a nonsensical statement, so Cressida had been pleased when her mother asked for more information. Since the whole theater was staring and whispering, it had to be important. In moments she had the meat of it. The duke had inherited from his uncle the year before and then disappeared. Now, without fanfare, he had stepped onto the stage that awaited him—an eligible duke, a prince of the
ton
.

However, according to Lady Harbison, his partner was killing many hopes. Lady Anne Peckworth was daughter of the Duke of Arran—a most suitable match—and by the looks of it, the match was already made.

He’d kissed Lady Anne’s hand as if sealing the speculation, and Cressida remembered her own wistful desire. Not that the Duke of St. Raven would kiss her hand like that, but that some man would. Would kiss her hand with such elegant ease, gazing into her eyes in a way that spoke of deep devotion. She had suitors—being a nabob’s heiress—but none had shown her reverence like that.

Presumably by now the duke had kissed Lady Anne as he’d kissed her last night, and more.

Lucky lady…

“Now, let’s get you into your clothing, miss, even if it is all a bit the worse for wear. I’m sure you’ll feel better then.”

Cressida pulled out of the past. If any foolish notions stirred in her head about St. Raven, she must remember that he was the sort of man to attempt seduction of one lady while wooing another. So much for reverent hand-kisses.

She focused and saw that her hair was smoothly arranged. She thanked the woman and rose to dress.

Mrs. Barkway had a firm hand with the corset laces so that Cressida had to suck in an extra breath, but in a way it was comforting—a return of restraint and good order. Her evening dress looked out of place in the morning but it, too, brought respectability, even when crumpled. She picked up her pearl necklace and put it on again, then added her earrings.

“Where are your shoes and stockings, miss?”

Cressida turned from the mirror, knowing she was blushing. “I think they were lost in my adventure.”

“Well, I never! And mine won’t fit. If you don’t mind, miss, I’ll go and see what I can find for you.”

“I don’t mind at all. You’ve been very kind.”

“Go on with you. Anyone would in the same situation.” She poured the dirty water into the slop bucket, hefted it, and left.

Cressida checked her appearance again, longing for a sensible day dress, and especially for everyday stockings and sturdy shoes. Now she was dressed, her bare feet felt even more peculiar. Positively wanton.

She should have asked Mrs. Bark way to find a fichu of some kind to fill in the low neckline. Ah well, it wasn’t as if she intended to go out in public.

She wandered to the window to contemplate the very ordinary world, wishing she belonged in it. Perhaps she should escape while she had the chance. Poor people sometimes went barefoot. It might not be so bad. She’d given her word, but she’d warned St. Raven that she might not keep it if she saw a chance of escape…

The door opened, and she whirled, but it was only Mrs. Bark way again with—heaven be praised!—her shoes in her hand.

Cressida hurried over. “Oh, where did you find them?”

“Mr. Lyne had them, miss. But no sign of your stockings, I’m afraid. I can get you some from the village, but they’ll be simple stuff.”

Cressida was supping her feet into the green silk slippers. “Anything would be wonderful. I had a shawl, as well, but I think that must have been lost far from here. Is there any chance of a fichu?”