Candice Hern (10 page)

“What a sad pronoucement. I suspect your own unfortunate experience, an arranged match apparently without love, has colored your attitude. Have you never known a happy marriage? Your parents, perhaps?”

“My parents had nothing but contempt for each
other. Once my mother had done her duty and presented a son, she felt free to engage in a string of love affairs matched in numbers only by those of my father. I am told I was the result of a moment of madness never again repeated.”

“Good Lord, no wonder you are cynical. But surely you have known other happy marriages? What about your cousin, Mrs. Poole?”

“Constance is a dewy-eyed romantic. Rather like you, in fact. Against all odds, she is still madly in love with Mr. Poole after eight years and four children. Her period of marital bliss has lasted somewhat longer than most, I admit. But she will find the love faded and the passion spent in due time.”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “I have known many marriages that retain love, and even passion, for decades. My mother, for example, still lights up whenever my father enters a room. They adore each other. I would not be surprised if your cousin is still dewy-eyed and content in twenty or thirty years. It can happen, Eleanor.”

She wanted to object, but at that moment the door opened to admit two waiters and Mrs. Pettigrove.

“Here you are, dearies,” the landlady said. “Straight from the kitchen, all nice and hot.”

She took away the wine decanter and flung a white tablecloth over the table. One of the waiters put down his burden on the sideboard and quickly set out the plates and utensils for their meal.

“It’s good food you’ll get here at the Swan.
Nothin’ fancy, but good, hearty country cookin’. Sticks to your ribs and all. Which is a good thing for you, sir, if you don’t mind my sayin’. You could use a bit of plumpin’ up. Look like you been pulled through a keyhole and back again, all stretched out, like. Here’s a nice leg of mutton, fresh, and a joint of ham. Sam, put it down just there. And Ned here has a nice little roast game hen. Here’s a dish of potatoes, a plate of spring peas, and a bit of stewed cucumber. Just the thing, eh? I’ll send one of the boys up in a while with the cheese and one of my gooseberry tarts. Is there anything else you’ll be wantin’, sir?”

“Not at the moment,” Simon said. “It all looks delicious. And I look forward to that gooseberry tart.”

“Well, I ain’t one to boast, but folks do seem to love my tarts. I been makin’ ’em ever since I first come to the Swan thirty-four years ago.”

“Thirty-four years? That’s quite a long time.”

Eleanor willed Simon not to start a conversation with the woman, who would no doubt chatter on and on for hours. He had no idea what he was getting into.

“I came to the Swan when I married Mr. Pettigrove,” she said. “Been workin’ here ever since. I used to—”

“You’ve been married to Mr. Pettigrove for thirty-four years?” His eyes flickered briefly in Eleanor’s direction.

“That I have, sir. We been—”

“Happy years, may I ask?”

Eleanor groaned. She knew exactly what he was up to. Would he never give up?

The landlady was actually silenced by the question. It seemed to catch her quite off guard. “Happy years?” She shrugged. “Mostly. There was some rough times early on, but since the inn passed to Mr. P from his Pa, we been quite comfortable. We got—”

“But what about you and Mr. Pettigrove? Aside from struggling to make ends meet, has your marriage been a happy one? Are you still…fond of one another?”

The woman’s plump face split into a grin. “Here now, are you flirtin’ with me, Mr. Westover? Tryin’ to find out if I’d be up for a bit of the dillydally?” Her hand reached up to fluff the lace at the edge of her cap, and she thrust her ample bosom forward. “Cheeky devil, ain’t you? Well, you best not let Mr. P catch you shakin’ my tree, cuz he won’t have none of that.”

Simon’s blue eyes twinkled. “The jealous type, is he?”

She laughed, and her plump body shook with it. “I should say so! The man’s an animal, I’m tellin’ you. A tiger.”

The sweet-faced, soft-spoken innkeeper, a tiger? Eleanor bit back a smile.

“He don’t like other men showin’ an interest, so to speak. Makes him mad as fire.” She fluttered her eyelashes like a pert ingenue. “Of course, I never
encourage such a thing, do I? So if you’ve a mind in that direction, sir, I’m tellin’ you it won’t do. Mr. P will have your hide. Besides”—she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“it ain’t right to sweet talk me in front of the lady.”

“He’s still in love with you, then? Mr. Pettigrove?”

“Well, I never! Persistent devil, ain’t you? But I always say you big, tall, redheaded men are nothin’ but trouble.” She winked at Eleanor and gave Simon what she must have thought a provocative smile. “Yes, if you must know, Mr. P still fancies me, after all these years. We married in a fever, we was so crazy in love we couldn’t wait. Couldn’t keep our hands off each other. And I’m here to tell you that man still can’t keep his hands off me.”

She covered her mouth and giggled like a naughty child. Eleanor was hard pressed not to do the same.

“I shouldn’t be sayin’ such things,” the landlady continued, “but ’tis true. He can be as contrary and stubborn as a mule sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade my Mr. P for any man on earth. Not even for a handsome young devil like you. So just you mind yourself around him, Mr. Westover, and don’t let him know you had a fancy for me.”

With that she turned and left the parlor, broad hips swinging, chuckling merrily to herself. Simon looked at Eleanor, grinned, and raised his brows in question. “Well? What do you say to that?”

“I say you had better not let the innkeeper catch you flirting with his wife.”

Simon threw back his head in a roar of laughter.

Despite a late start the next morning, they made good time to Derby. It was an old town, with well-paved and spacious streets and many fine houses and public buildings, including a handsome guildhall.

They stopped at the King’s Head near the market square, where the Runners had left word that Barkwith, traveling with “his wife,” had been seen in Ashbourne. They ordered cakes and a pot of tea before going on, and Eleanor’s mouth was set in a grim line as she poured.

“At least there is a pretense of respectability,” Simon said. “It is what you had hoped, is it not?”

“Yes, of course. Better that she should be treated as his wife than his…his mistress. It is just very sobering to know now with absolute certainty that they have become…intimate.” The expression in her eyes told how distasteful the notion was to her. “She is so very young.”

He touched her hand briefly where the ends of the red ribbon hung from her wrist. He was pleased that she had continued to wear it. “If she is traveling as Mrs. Barkwith,” he said, “at least Miss Chadwick will not be associated with this journey.”

“Perhaps. But she has those distinctive looks that everyone remembers. I can only hope no one who knows us in London hears of the beautiful
young brunette with the aquamarine eyes traveling with that rogue. They will know at once who it is. Oh, damn the man! Why did he have to spirit her away like this? Why couldn’t he have courted her properly, like any normal gentleman?”

“Would you have approved his suit?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then surely that is why he chose flight instead.”

She gave a sound like a growl, and he was not certain if she was angry over Barkwith, or angry with Simon for believing this whole business to be an elopement and not something more sinister. “Oh, why could Belinda not have fallen madly in love with someone like Charles Pendleton?”

“He was perhaps not as dashing as Barkwith?”

She gave a weak smile. “Not in the least.”

“Well, you can hardly blame her, then. We dashing, handsome, charming fellows are forever having women fall in love with us. Those other dull chaps don’t stand a chance.”

Her smile widened. “We agree at last. You dashing fellows make it difficult for an impressionable young woman to make a sensible decision. They see you as knights in shining armor, and the ordinary Mr. Pendletons of the world as crushing bores.”

Did she think
him
a knight in shining armor? No, of course not. What a stupid idea. She was only following upon his silly joke. But to actually
be
her white knight…now, that would be something.

They finished their tea quickly and returned to
the carriage. With clear roads and fast, efficient changes of horses and postillions along the way, they made good time to Ashbourne. But the news that met them at the Golden Lion was disheartening.

The Runners had lost the trail.

Hackett’s message told them to wait at the inn while he and Mumby checked the various routes. Ashbourne was a way point at the meeting of at least six major coaching roads. The fugitives could have taken any one of them.

Simon shared Eleanor’s frustration. “Damn. I would have expected them to take the road to Leek, but Hackett says they did not. I suppose there is nothing for it but to wait for word. I’ll get us a parlor where we can be comfortable. And I’ll order something for us to eat.”

He made all the arrangements while Eleanor remained cross and silent at his side. He bustled her into the hired parlor and led her into a chair by the fire. She removed her bonnet and fluffed her hair. The fire was cozy but a tad too warm, and it put a charming touch of pink in her cheeks. He was not surprised when she rose to take off her pelisse. The dark green kerseymere fastened at the waist with a fetching little gold buckle, and once she had it unbuckled, Simon helped her out of the garment. The printed muslin dress beneath was simple and unfortunately modest, with its high neck and long sleeves. No tempting expanses of bare skin.

She sat again for a brief moment, then sprang up
once more like a puppet on a string and began to pace the small room.

“Curse it,” she said, “this is maddening. How can we just sit here and wait? Surely we should be out searching the roads, too.
Someone
must have seen them.”

“It is exasperating, I agree, but if we leave, then the Runners will have to waste time searching for us when they have news. I’m afraid it is best if we wait.”

The arrival of food and drink gave them something to occupy the time. Simon attempted bits of inconsequential conversation while he sliced the cold ham, but Eleanor was unresponsive, all wrapped up in her anger and impatience.

“It cannot be too long a wait,” he said between bites of cucumber salad. “Between the two of them, Hackett and Mumby should be able to search all roads going north fairly quickly.”

“If they went north.”

She was determined to keep to her idiotic notion of Barkwith not marrying Belinda. All signs, despite this minor setback, pointed to Gretna as their destination. Why couldn’t Eleanor accept that her niece was involved in a runaway marriage? Why was she being so stubborn?

“I think we should assume they are still headed north until we hear otherwise,” he said. “It is the only logical direction.”

“There are many large estates in Derbyshire. Barkwith runs with a very upper-crust crowd. One
of them could have an estate here where Barkwith has taken Belinda.”

Simon had been cutting into a cold pigeon pie, but her words caused him to stop and look up. “Eleanor, be reasonable. A man is unlikely to take his mistress to a grand country estate. It just is not done.”

“Sometimes it is.” Her voice had grown quiet, and she gazed into the distance, lost in her thoughts. Gradually, the fire returned to her eyes. “Confound it,” she said at last, “I believe once we do find them I will be sorely tempted to do murder. I’m going to kill that man.”

Obviously, she was not going to change her opinion about Barkwith’s plans, and Simon did not want to aggravate her any further. He recalled the progress of the day before, when she had clearly admired him, and did not want to counteract that good by continuing to challenge her stubbornness. “We shall just have to wait and see. In the meantime, would you like some ham?”

Simon had been hungry and made a good meal of it, but Eleanor ate little. He wasn’t sure if he should shake some sense into her or take her in his arms and let her cry. Of course, he knew which of those options he’d prefer, but he didn’t think she’d cry. She was too stubborn, too angry, too proud.

Most men he knew were attracted to soft, sweet, fragile women who made them feel strong and protective. Simon had never sought that sort of re
assurance. He preferred strong-willed women with minds of their own. Eleanor, splendid and beautiful in her righteous outrage, appealed to him more than any other woman he could remember.

And there was that delectable upper lip.

After they’d eaten there was still no word from the Runners, and Eleanor’s agitation was palpable. She was pacing again. Simon had retreated to a window and perched himself on its broad ledge, hoping to find something outside that might offer distraction. However, there was nothing much within sight to comment on beyond the rows of almshouses and a church with a handsome spire. He was absently reading an old carved inscription on the window ledge when he became aware of more writing. Curious, he bent over to investigate.

“Well, I’m dashed,” he said. “Would you look at this, Eleanor? The window is a veritable chapbook of verses.” He gestured for her to join him. “See all these carvings? It looks like years and years’ worth of visitors leaving their mark. Ha! I remember as boys Malcolm and I used to compete to find the oldest message carved in an old church or whatever place we were touring. Usually some poor fellow’s tomb desecrated by centuries of visitors leaving their mark.”

“I used to look for these, too,” Eleanor said, a smile lighting her eyes for the first time since they’d arrived at Ashbourne. “I have always loved these little messages from the past. I remember go
ing to the Tower as a child and having to be dragged away from reading all the carved inscriptions in one of them. I can’t recall which tower.”

“Beauchamp Tower.”

“Yes, that’s it. I remember I had read a history book in school that mentioned how Guildford Dudley had carved the name of his young wife, Lady Jane Grey, into the stone wall of the tower while he was imprisoned, awaiting execution. I searched and searched until I found the tiny, single word: Jane. Somehow, it was much more compelling than some of the truly elaborate carvings of prisoners who were held for months and years. Poor Guildford was not there long enough for anything more than that simple tribute.”