The Book Of Scandal (7 page)

She reached the corner of George Street, which led straight into the park, and paused there to allow some traffic to pass. When it cleared, she struck out. She’d not taken more than a step or two when someone put a hand on her arm. Evelyn pulled away. “I beg your—” But her words were lost the moment she saw Nathan staring down at her. “W-what are you doing here?” she stammered.

He pointed to the big, ornate coach bearing the Lindsey crest she had not noticed until that very moment. He slipped his hand to the small of her back and said, “We are going home, Evelyn,” in a tone that would have shaken her years ago, and began to usher her toward the coach.

As she realized what he meant to do, panic swelled in her breast. She instinctively tried to move away from his hand. “You cannot order me home!”

“I most certainly can, love, and I am.”

“Oh no you won’t,” she said, and turned away.

Nathan caught her arm, twirled her around, and easily yanked her into an unbreakable embrace. They were so close that she could see the glitter of determination in his blue eyes, the little lines that feathered his skin as he squinted down at her. “Do not fight me, Evelyn. I am quite determined and you will only tire yourself.”

She brought the heel of her boot down as hard as she could on the top of his boot.

Nathan grunted in pain and his grip loosened slightly—enough for her to spin around and jerk away from him. But two men she did not know blocked her exit. She swung her arm, and her reticule connected with one man’s nose. He cried out and covered his nose with his hand.

The second man looked quite startled and stared at her wide-eyed. “I will scream,” she threatened him. “I will scream to high heaven and everyone will hear it and come running!”

Just behind the two men, she saw a pair of gentlemen who were watching the scene unfold with avid curiosity. “Help me!” she cried, trying to push past Nathan’s minions. “I am being abducted against my will!”

The two gentlemen looked at one another.

“Pay her no heed, sirs!” Nathan said cheerfully. “My wife is often loath to leave Bond Street and my money in my pocket.”

One of the men laughed; both of them turned away.

Evelyn gasped with outrage. Fury—consuming, white-hot, suffocating, indignant fury—filled her.

Nathan had his hand on her waist again, his fingers digging into her side. “Cause a scene if you like,” he said calmly. “It will not deter me. You surely must understand that no one will come to your rescue, because you are my wife.”

The truth of that statement sunk into her consciousness. Evelyn tried to struggle, but Nathan gripped her easily. She was powerless against him.

“Open the door,” he ordered one of the men.

“Wait, wait!” Evelyn cried, trying to buy time so she could think. “I…I’ll make a bargain with you,” she said.

“You are in no position to bargain—”

“Nathan, Nathan! Hear me out!” she pleaded with him. “I will agree to leave the queen’s house and…and go home to my parents.”

“No. That will still be perceived as a continued rift between us, and, in fact, will look to all as if I believe the things being said about you.”

“Then I’ll go to Scotland. I can go to my father’s hunting lodge, and you can go to Lambourne, wherever it is he lives, and no one will be the wiser!”

“Lambourne is at Eastchurch. Get in the coach.”

“No!” she cried.

With one arm around her waist, Nathan lifted her off the ground and put her in head first, following her inside. She quickly came up and tried to throw herself over him and out the door, but he clamped an arm around her shoulders and yanked her back so hard that she collided with his chest. She could feel the shadow of his beard on her temple and his breath warm on her face. He held her so tightly she could not breathe.

“Nathan! Nathan, don’t do this, please don’t do this!”

“I would not if I did not think it necessary,” he said a little breathlessly, and pulled her back on top of him at the same time he put a booted foot against the latch. “I am hardly excited about the prospect of having you mope about the abbey again.”

“I swear by all that is holy I will never forgive you!” she cried, struggling against him.

“Yes, so you have said on more than one occasion.”

“What of my things? Of Kathleen? Of Harriet?”

“Har—” he started, but Evelyn kicked like a mule, managing to make contact with his shin. “Bloody hell,” he hissed. “Stop that!” He flipped her over, so that she was beneath him on the bench. Just then, she felt the weight of people stepping onto the coach; it lurched forward.

“No!” she cried, struggling to free her hands as tears began to stream down her face. “How can you do this? How can you treat me so abominably? The king will hear of this!” she shouted at him. “He will hear of it and you will be held responsible!”

“Good Lord, Evelyn! The king knows of it! The prince knows of it! I personally told them of my decision! When will you accept that as your husband, I can take you home if I so choose?”

Anger and raging frustration filled her. She suddenly stopped struggling and sagged against the squabs, her face turned away from him.

“Evelyn.”

Nathan straightened up and loosened his hold as the coach rocked along the streets of London.

It was no use. It was done, and she was lost. Evelyn slowly pushed herself upright…and noticed the boy sitting across from her, wide-eyed, his legs drawn up beneath his chin and his arms wrapped tightly around them. He was gaping at her as if he’d just seen a dragon fly through the coach.

Evelyn jerked her gaze to Nathan.

“Ah,” he said, in response to her unspoken question. “Allow me to introduce Master Frances Brady, the gamekeeper’s son.”

O n the outskirts of London, on the road to Gloucestershire, Nathan left the coach in favor of a horse. The trip was a full day’s journey—they would not arrive at the abbey until well after midnight.

That was just as well with Evelyn. She was very cross, what with her abduction and all the bouncing and jostling of the coach. Her ill humor was made even worse by the fact that a boy, no more than eight or nine years old, had witnessed it all. And just who was Frances Brady and why was he in the coach? She would have asked, but she had far more pressing matters on her mind.

Kathleen would be frantic. And Evelyn had promised Harriet they might practice the minuet on the morrow. The poor girl would think Evelyn had abandoned her like her mother so often did, and that distressed Evelyn to no end.

And Pierce! She’d been on her way to meet him—what must he have thought when she didn’t come? Surely he believed she’d been detained by Mary, but how long would it be before he sought her out? What would he think when he heard she’d been taken away by her husband? Oh, she had no doubt he’d hear of it—it would be all over London in a matter of hours, spread about like a winter plague.

She’d write him, that’s what she’d do, and explain everything, tell him that as soon as she could escape her deranged husband, she would return to London. Looking out at the countryside, she ignored the niggling thought that returning to London seemed impossible.

She sighed and glanced at the boy, who was watching her warily from the corner of the coach. Evelyn smiled, trying to put him at ease. “Frances Brady, is it?”

He nodded uncertainly.

Her smile brightened. “I’m not as bad as all that, Master Brady. Lord Lindsey and I had a small disagreement, that’s all.”

He nodded again, but one leg started to swing, nervously kicking a box beneath the bench on which he sat.

“Sometimes adults disagree.”

“I’ve never seen his lordship disagree with other ladies,” he said.

Evelyn’s smile faltered. “Haven’t you, indeed?” she said. “Well.” She forced another smile. “Perhaps other ladies don’t know his lordship quite as well as I do.” Honestly, even the boy knew of Nathan’s predilections? She reached for her reticule, hoping to find a handkerchief within. But when she pulled the strings to open it, she found something else.

A letter from Pierce.

The sight of his familiar handwriting confused her until she remembered she had put it in the reticule for safekeeping.

Ode to Evelyn Grey, it read, the beauty of Buckingham, the angel of England, the lark to my soul. How I dream of you, think of you, wait anxiously for a mere glimpse of you…

She lowered the letter and stared out the window a moment. Pierce had a way of making her feel wanted and admired. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that.

It occurred to her that Nathan might see the letter—or Frances would tell him of it—so she folded the letter, returned it to the reticule, and drew the reticule shut.

She wondered what time it was. The realization that she’d likely lost Pierce saddened her as much as it exhausted her, but she couldn’t sleep in this infernal contraption of a coach, at least not more than a bit. The constant jostling didn’t seem to bother Frances, she was pleased to see after a time. He was slumped in the corner of the squabs, his mouth slightly open.

Evelyn was at last able to drift off, but was awakened by a rude jolt that bounced her head against the wall.

“Ouch,” she muttered, pushing herself up and pressing a hand to the side of her head. The coach had come to a dead stop. She leaned toward the window to look out, and saw nothing but barren trees and gathering clouds. Her feet were cold, too. The coals in the warmer beneath the seat had gone out. She folded her arms around her for warmth and looked at Frances.

He was sleeping in a ball, his coat pulled tightly about him. Evelyn reached carefully to the box below him and withdrew a lap rug, which she proceeded to lay over him, tucking it around his body.

When she’d finished, she held herself as tightly as she could and looked out the window again.

The door was suddenly flung open and cold, gray light streamed inside. The coach dipped to one side with Nathan’s weight as he climbed aboard and settled across from Evelyn, next to the sleeping boy, his long legs touching hers. He brushed his hat from his head, tossed it onto the bench beside Evelyn. She looked at the hat, then at Nathan.

“It’s rather cold in here, is it not?” he said, glancing around at the silk-covered walls and the velvet squabs. He glanced at Frances and smiled warmly as he tucked the lap rug a little tighter about him. When he was satisfied that Frances was properly covered, he looked at Evelyn. “You’re cold.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she lied, and gestured toward the door. “Ride your horse, sir—there is not enough room within for all of us.”

Nathan flashed a roguish grin that had always made her weak in the knees, and rapped on the ceiling, signaling the driver on.

“You cannot think to join us!” she whispered loudly. Her response was the lurch of the coach as it suddenly moved forward. “Lord,” she muttered, sagging against the squabs. “Must you?”

“I must. I’ve not seen you in three years, Evie.”

That small endearment—his pet name for her—had a surprisingly strong effect on her. “Don’t call me that,” she said.

Nathan shrugged, propped one foot against the bench next to her. “Very well, my Lady Lindsey. Your wish is my command.”

“If my wish were your command, I would be in London and not on some country lane hurtling along to my fate.”

He laughed softly.

She yanked her cloak away from his boot and scooted closer to the window.

Nathan’s gaze drifted upward. He cocked his head to one side and peered curiously at her head.

“What?” she asked self-consciously, and put a hand to her head. Her bonnet, she realized, was askew. She yanked it off and tossed it down on top of his hat, then once more folded her arms across her body and looked out the window. She’d forgotten how much the temperature could vary between London and the country. It was downright frigid in the interior of the coach.

“You are cold,” Nathan said again.

“I am fine.”

“I can plainly see you are shivering.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. But from fury. Not the cold.”

“That is quite a case of fury.”

“You have no idea,” she muttered beneath her breath, and glanced out the window again.

Nathan reached across the coach and removed the two hats. In one graceful movement, he switched places with the hats, settling in beside her.

“No!” she whispered loudly, moving away from him. “Go back!” she demanded, pointing to the empty seat beside Frances.

“Sssh,” Nathan said. He put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in close.

“Stop that!” She slapped at his hand and his leg, but it was no use. Had he always been so solid and immovable?

“You may as well enjoy the ride,” Nathan said, and pulled his cloak across her body, tucking her in beneath it and next to his long, firm body. “I’ve no intention of going anywhere.”

It was warmer beneath his heavy cloak. If she hadn’t been so furious with him, she might have actually appreciated the warmth. She was reminded of their first Christmas together. They had traveled four miles to dine at the home of the closest gentry, Mr. and Mrs. DuPaul—the same Alexandra DuPaul who Evelyn had considered a friend and who would later betray Evelyn—but on that particular night, on the drive home it had begun to snow, and Nathan had taken off his cloak, arranged it around them, and held her in his arms. They’d laughed at the plumes of their breath. “It is just as I always suspected. You are all wind, sir,” she’d teased him. “You didn’t think I was all wind last night,” he’d said, nuzzling her neck.

If there was one place where she and Nathan were in perfect harmony, it was his bed. His big, soft, bed…

The memory of it gave her a deeper sort of chill, and Nathan’s arm tightened around her. “Why must you make this so difficult?” she groaned.

“I don’t believe I am the one who is making this so difficult. You are being unduly peevish.”

He said it so congenially that Evelyn wanted to punch him. “Peevish? I have been abducted from my home and hied halfway across the country!”

“Now, now,” he said, as if she were a child. “You were abducted from the street, not your home, which, I might also point out, is Eastchurch Abbey and not the queen’s house, as you seem to believe. And neither are you being hied halfway across England—we are within a day’s drive to London.”