Too Dangerous For a Lady (6 page)

She must hope they never met again, but she couldn't bear the thought of him dead.

As the coach rumbled on, she couldn't resist memories. When he'd told her about his mother, she'd wanted to take him into her arms. How horrible that must be, to not exist for a parent. Worse than a death. She'd nursed her dying mother. Her death had come quickly after a carriage
accident. She'd nursed her father, and that had been much harder. He'd been old, for he'd married late, and he'd declined over months, frequently in pain, frightened and angry. He'd been himself, however. Neither had slipped away in life.

She wished she knew his real name. She couldn't keep thinking of him as Lieutenant Thayne when he was no longer in the military, and she was sure his name wasn't Ned.

He'd be Thayne, then. Simply Thayne, and by that name surely she could find him. Against her will her mind slid toward dreams. If Great-uncle Peake was all she hoped he would be, there might be a future for them.

A
t last, they stopped for breakfast. Polly didn't think three miles far enough, but William overruled her. In the common dining room of the Three Bells they were the first ones bringing news of mayhem. Some people were alarmed, but it was clear others felt some sympathy for the Spenceans.

“Time Lunnon paid 'tention t'plight of t'north,” one burly man said in an accent so thick Hermione found it hard to understand.

“But not by public disorder,” said a pinch-faced clerical type.

“Orderly march, that's all.”

“It'll turn into disorder. You mark my words.”

“And why not?” asked a gray-haired man who'd been observing from the fireside, puffing on a pipe. “Think back to the Magna Carta. Where'd we all be if Bad King John hadn't been stopped? Then there's the Glorious Revolution that put Queen Mary and King William on the throne. Without that, we'd all be Papists. Or burning at the stake.”

“Lord have mercy!” exclaimed the clerical man's wife. “When was that?”

“Not a hundred and fifty years ago, ma'am, after Charles the Second died and his brother James became king. Rabid Papist he was, and tried to foist a false son on us all. The warming-pan baby,” he reminded everyone.

“Oh, that,” said a big-breasted matron in a fur-trimmed cloak and a grand bonnet. She'd made no secret of being a wealthy widow who ran her dead husband's saddlery business. “A substitute baby smuggled in by means of a warming pan when the queen's child was stillborn? I've never seen a warming pan big enough.”

The man's face twitched with annoyance. “We'll be thinking you a supporter of the Stuarts, ma'am.”

“Only if you're a fool,” she dismissed. Hermione delighted in her effortless authority. How splendid to be a wealthy widow running her own business.

“A
royal
bedpan,” the man persisted. “Everything they have is bigger than normal.”

Some of the people in the room were nodding, but the widow hadn't finished. “You'll be saying next that they have extra-large royal chamber pots. Those changes you talked of, sir, were brought about by the nobility squabbling among themselves and had nothing to do with folk like you and me. Look at how the first King George came upon us. He didn't even speak English, but we had no say.”

“There you are, then,” said the man with the pipe. “That isn't right.”

“But it preserved law and order from Papists and Scots. That's all that matters to law-abiding folk.”

There was a murmur of agreement and the man fell silent, but Hermione noticed that his waistcoat was made of a fabric striped thinly in black, red, and green. Like Thayne's neckcloth. And the bonnet of the woman in the innyard. Three very different people to be following a fad, but her main concern was stumbling across arguments in favor of unrest in such an unlikely place.

Once in the coach, Hermione wanted to discuss it with William, but it would upset Polly and disturb the boys. The boys were content now their stomachs were satisfied, but her own breakfast sat heavily inside her. Perhaps Polly was right to be fearful. It was as if there were a contagion in the
air. She watched men digging out a drainage ditch, while others mended a nearby fence, and wondered whether their glances at their coach showed resentment or worse. Could they turn their tools as weapons against her family?

Oh, nonsense. This was England, and those were honest workingmen, just like the ones she'd known all her life. In Yorkshire she often passed time with their wives and daughters, talking about the weather and sharing wisdom about how to get the hens to lay, and how to preserve meat longer into the winter.

This journey could benefit everyone on William's estate. With Great-uncle Peake's money William would be able to hire men to do necessary repairs to Selby Hall and other buildings. There'd be improvements to the land and the laborers' cottages. Polly would hire more servants in the house and dairy, and be able to be less frugal all around. What a merry Christmas the next one might be.

And Cousin Porteous would lose any ability to force her into marriage. She might even have a dowry large enough . . .

No. Despite magical memories and astonishing kisses, Thayne was a thief. There had to be many decent ways for a man like him to make his living, but he'd chosen to steal, which meant other people lost their hard-earned property to him. Even if he did reform when he could marry a rich woman, did she want a man like that?

Yes, said her weak and wanting part.

“Oh, you idiot.” She'd actually mumbled it and the others looked at her. “Sorry, nothing. Where do we stop next?”

“In Warrington,” William said, consulting a map and a guidebook. “We'll dine there and give the horses a long rest. Our route crosses the main Carlisle-to-London road, so there are any number of inns. We have no need of the hustle and bustle of the center, so we'll stop earlier.” He ran his finger down a page. “The Lamb sounds tranquil.”

In time, the coachman steered under an arch into a small
innyard, but an ostler urged them through another arch into a more spacious area. “For there's plenty of space back there, sir, and a lane back to the street.”

“And the small yard will then look more inviting to another coach,” Polly murmured.

“Nothing wrong with that,” William said as the coach just made it through the second arch. “And look, there's a grassy area and a pond with ducks. After we've eaten, the boys will enjoy playing here.”

Not just ducks but ducklings, so the boys had to be compelled to eat first. As soon as they'd finished, they were fidgeting to be off. William said to Polly, “I'll take them out there. The horses need more rest, so why don't you and Hermione stroll around the town a little?”

Henrietta was asleep, so they soon set off, sharing the task of carrying her.

Hermione knew this jaunt was to help settle Polly's nerves, for she loved to shop. Selby village offered no opportunity for this pleasure, and if they went to nearby Wakefield, Polly was more likely to be upset about all the items she couldn't afford. This was shopping for amusement only, but it was spiced by possibility. Beneath every discussion of a bonnet, a china dish, or a bar of French soap ran,
If we get Great-uncle Peake's money . . .

The amusement was ended by an ominous rumbling sound from the infant, accompanied by a smell. Thank heavens Polly had charge of Henrietta at the moment. “Time to go back,” she said, in the manner of one forced back to grim reality.

“But toward our future,” Hermione said. “What do you say to my stopping at the shop to buy a bar of that soap? It's not a great deal of money and it will remind us of all the other pleasures.”

“Oh, do! But I must hurry back.”

“I'll be perfectly safe on this busy street for five minutes,
and indeed if I were set upon by brigands, I don't see what you could do.”

Polly laughed. “You're always so practical, dearest. Very well, but don't dally. I'm sure we must be off soon.”

She hurried back toward their inn, but Hermione dawdled, enjoying being on her own for a while. She wasn't solitary by nature, for in Hampshire she'd enjoyed many social occasions, but she'd always been able to spend time alone, sketching, reading, playing music, or simply whiling away time. That seemed sinfully indolent now, for at Selby Hall the family worked as hard as the servants. It was probably a sin to want to be able to afford indolence, but she did.

She entered the aromatic shop and lingered over the pleasure of choosing between a plain soap, a rose-scented one, and a lavender. In the end she chose the rose because Polly would prefer it, and the shop assistant wrapped it neatly in silver paper and tied it with a pink ribbon. Delighted by the prettiness of it, and completely satisfied with her purchase, Hermione left the shop—to almost bump into Thayne.

His apology was distracted, but then he truly saw her. And smiled in a most satisfying way. “Lady Hermione.”

“Sir.” She dipped a curtsy, unable to suppress a smile of her own, even though daylight didn't amend his shabbiness. His hair was still too long beneath his unfashionably low-crowned hat, and his jacket had seen many better days, and he was still a thief. But his dark-lashed eyes were as fine as she remembered from the ball and her heart was dancing.

“How do you come to be here, wandering the streets without escort?” he asked.

“How do you come to be here without pursuers? Aren't you supposed to be en route for London?” Suddenly she wondered whether he'd followed her there.

A number of romantic fancies were exploded when he said, “The road to London threatened to seize up because
of the Spencean Crusade, so I traveled west to avoid delay. You've done the same?”

“Our route continues west. To Tranmere, in the Wirral.”

“Thus we cross by happy chance. May I escort you to your inn?”

Good sense commanded that she say no, but she was incapable of it. “So you've escaped pursuit,” she said as they strolled along.

“With your help.”

“Which I'm sure I should repent. Any theft has a victim.”

“I assure you, the victim in this case doesn't deserve your sympathy. No, I'll say no more, but I hope you believe me, for I'd not want you to suffer any qualms.”

“Then I will believe you. I prefer to think myself in the right at all times.”

She meant it as a joke and he chuckled. “Delightful as ever. Or is that too bold?”

Inside she purred, but she kept the tone light. “Any lady is pleased to be told she delights, sir. You should scatter your praise with abandon.”

“A very risky course.”

She raised a brow at him. “Are you claiming to be hunted by ladies with marriage in mind?”

“Some disregard my rags in favor of my charms. Not you, I assume.”

“If only I were a grand heiress, sir, I might be able to afford you.” She said it lightly, but watched his reaction. It was unreadable and they'd arrived at the innyard of the Lamb. There was nothing for it. She offered her gloved hand. “Good-bye, sir.”

He took it, saying, “Good-bye,” but raising it to his lips.

Despite sturdy cotton gloves, she felt a frisson, and his eyes held hers. Surely it spoke of emotions similar to her own.

Thief!
she reminded herself.
At the very least you must go carefully.

She pulled her hand free and hurried into the innyard, not allowing herself a backward glance, but she paused as soon as she was out of sight to gather her composure. Her heart was racing and she was almost in tears. Over a rascally thief.

A completely unrepentant thief. Good riddance—and yet she had to dab her eyes and blow her nose. It would never do for Polly to see signs of distress. She was just putting the handkerchief away when Thayne ran into the innyard.

Coming after her? No, he was surprised to see her still there. He hesitated, then took a letter from a pocket and thrust it into her hand. “Put it out of sight and into the post as soon as possible. It's of crucial importance. Good-bye indeed!” With that, he ran toward the arch into the back area and out of sight.

Hermione gaped after him, then looked at the letter. It was addressed to Sir George Hawkinville, Peel Street, London. That seemed respectable, but the wretch had foisted his stolen goods on her. She was tempted to toss the thick letter on the muddy ground or to find the nearest fire, but he'd seemed so serious. “Crucial importance.” “Out of sight,” she remembered, shoving the letter in a pocket while she tried to make sense of it all.

Another man ran in from the street and paused, looking around. If Thayne seemed poorly dressed for his state, this man was too well dressed for his nature. His fashionable jacket and breeches stretched over bulging muscles and there was something about him that made Hermione think of a hunting dog sniffing for prey.

The turning head stilled to look at her. “Seen a man here?” he growled. “Brown coat. Low hat?”

“No!” She gasped it, for his brutish face terrified her. Her hand was to her throat, the packet of soap still clutched in it, the sweet rose perfume at odds with everything else.

He stepped closer, nose twitching as if he truly could
smell his prey. His head was unnaturally square and that nose was fat, but it was the small, cold eyes that had her backing away, heart pounding.

“Begone, you wretch, or I'll scream for help.”
And this time, I'll do it.

He smiled as if he found her threat amusing, but then turned his head sharply toward the back of the innyard. She looked that way and saw Thayne clearly visible in the archway. Why on earth wasn't he far away by now? This peril was clearly what he'd fled.

He disappeared again, and his pursuer leapt into a run exactly like a hunting dog—all muscle and trained to kill. He raced through the arch and Hermione moved forward as if to run after, to protect and defend . . .

“Are you all right, ma'am?”

She turned to find an aproned servingman had come out of the inn carrying a broom. “Yes. No! A man ran through here and another pursued. I'm afraid there will be violence done.”

The servant shrugged. “Some private brawl, ma'am. Don't you distress yourself. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Sweep away the past twenty-four hours and restore my orderly life.

“Hermione!” Now Polly was waving to her from the very arch where Mark Thayne had shown himself—in order to draw the cur away, she now realized. Polly and the others could have been put in danger by that.

“Come along!” Polly cried. “You've been an age and we're ready to leave.”

Hermione was about to join her, but then remembered the wretched letter. She didn't want to take the dangerous thing into the coach with her family.

“I just need to go into the inn for a moment!” she called, and went inside. Polly would assume she needed a chamber pot and couldn't object to that. She entered the inn and
went down a cramped corridor into the crudely paneled entrance hall, which also served as the taproom and had the beer smell to suit. A coal fire gave off an acrid stench. It would serve Thayne right if she threw the letter there to burn. But that man, that predatory brute, had been vile. If he was a minion of the victim of the crime, she could believe no pity was needed.