Candice Hern (4 page)

Perhaps he would address his pen to those images rather than the delectable upper lip.

The question at hand, however, was trust. He must, absolutely must, trust her to keep his secret. And Belinda as well. There was too much at stake. “Are you confident, Mrs. Tenant, that we can convince your niece to keep my identity as the Busybody secret?”

“I believe so. She will be very disappointed, of course, to discover the Busybody is not the wise old woman she believes her to be. But I cannot think she would feel the need to proclaim the news all over town. She is an intelligent girl. She will understand your desire to keep it secret.”

Simon hoped she was right. He had begun to compose what he would say to the girl when the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a modest town house on Charlotte Street. He helped Mrs. Tennant down from the carriage, and almost before they’d taken two steps the front door opened. An older woman—the housekeeper?—stood in the doorway frantically wringing her hands.

Mrs. Tennant stopped in her tracks. “Mrs. Davies? What is it? Has something happened?”

“You best come right in, Miz Tennant,” the woman said and cast a skeptical look in Simon’s direction. “I’m sure I don’t know what to do.”

Clearly they had arrived in the midst of some domestic crisis. It could not be the best of times to play out his contrite little charade. “Perhaps I should go,” he said. “I could come back another time.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Mrs. Tennant said. “We
have a bargain.” She astonished him by placing her hand at his back and practically shoving him up the steps and through the door.

“What is it, Mrs. Davies?” she said when she had followed him inside. “What has happened?”

The housekeeper glanced again at Simon and seemed reluctant to say anything.

“This is Mr. Westover. You mustn’t worry about him. Tell me what has happened.” Mrs. Tennant’s calm demeanor suggested that her housekeeper might have indulged in melodrama a time or two in the past.

“She’s gone, Miz Tennant. Miss Belinda’s gone.”

Mrs. Tennant stood stiff and unmoving though her face went quite pale. It began to seem very crowded in the narrow entry hall, and Simon felt awkwardly
de trop
. He had a very bad feeling about this.

“What do you mean,
gone
?” Mrs. Tennant asked. “Has she gone out with friends? Or out with…with Mr. Barkwith?”

“I don’t know where she’s gone,” the housekeeper said, “but when I went up to tidy her bedchamber, I could tell something weren’t right. Drawers were open and looked like they been rummaged. I checked her wardrobe and lots of dresses are missing. And her new bonnet.”

“Dear God.” Mrs. Tennant reached a hand behind her to grip the edge of a hall table.

“And then I found this, addressed to you,
propped up on the inkwell on her writing desk.” Mrs. Davies held out a folded sheet of parchment sealed with red wax. “It’s from Miss Belinda. I recognize her writing.”

Mrs. Tennant took the note and quickly broke the seal, heedless of the circle of wax sent bouncing along the hall floor. She scanned the note in an instant and looked up. Directly at Simon. There was no mistaking the rage in those eyes.

A bolt of pure cowardice shot through him—how mortifying!—and he had a sudden urge to turn and run. But she pinned him to the spot with her gaze.

“You!” she said. “It’s all your fault. Read this.”

Simon glared at the parchment in her outstretched hand as though it were something slimy and noxious. He had no desire to touch it.

“Read it.”

She thrust it toward him so that he was forced to take it. He did not need to read it. He could predict what it would say. But her fierce glare compelled him to do as she asked. He read the note.

Simon stifled a groan and wondered if the day could get any worse. He did not look up. He could not bear to look at her.

“Do you see?” Mrs. Tennant said, her voice rising in anger. “Do you see what you’ve done?”

Simon steeled himself for another blow, but it did not come. He would have welcomed it. He might actually deserve it.

“Follow her heart, indeed,” she said in a tone of utter disgust. “Well, I suppose that is what I’m going to have to do.”

He looked up at that and met her furious gaze. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to follow her foolish heart, of course. I’m going after her. And you’re coming with me.”

E
leanor turned on her heel and headed up the stairs. She stepped into the drawing room and stood before the window, pretending to watch something on the street below. She heard Mr. Westover follow her, but kept her back to him. Her hands shook and she had no idea how long she could keep her tears at bay.

Oh, Belinda.

“Mrs. Tennant?”

She acknowledged his presence with a lift of her chin, but did not turn around. She would not break down in front of this troublemaking ninnyhammer.

“Mrs. Tennant, I am so very sorry about what has happened. I understand that you feel it necessary to follow your niece, and I will do anything in my power to help you find her. But I do not believe it would be wise for me to accompany you.”

Eleanor sighed. He was surely the most contrary, troublesome man she’d ever met, but she did not have time or energy to fight with him now. All she could think of was poor Belinda, being seduced by Barkwith, facing abandonment and ruin, having her heart smashed to bits by that cad.

No. She could not, would not allow that to happen. Belinda was a foolish, featherbrained girl, to be sure; but Eleanor was inordinately fond of the child and hated to imagine the heartbreak in store for her. Eleanor must find the girl and bring her back home while her reputation, if not her virtue, was still intact.

But she did not have the resources to do it alone.

She took a deep breath and turned away from the window. “I do not care what you may or may not think is wise, Mr. Westover. In fact, you are the very last person whose opinion I would trust just now.”

He had the good sense to blush, but not enough to keep quiet. “That’s as may be, but at least let me help. You must allow me to provide whatever transportation you require, as well as all traveling expenses.”

Good heavens, she had not even thought how she was to pay for such a journey. She would have to hire a carriage, horses, postboys, and, depending on how long it took to track them down, rooms at various inns. And meals. And tolls. And bribes, no doubt, to get information she needed. It would all be quite expensive, much more than she could ever
afford. Perhaps she could prevail on her cousin Constance to help.

“It is the least I can do,” Mr. Westover said.

Eleanor studied him from across the room. As she had already noted, he was beautifully dressed, his bottle-green coat perfectly tailored, precise to a pin. There was the Mayfair mansion, too. Mr. Westover no doubt had a small fortune at his disposal.

“Yes,” she said, making an impulsive decision, “I believe you have the right of it. It is indeed the least you can do. I accept your offer of transportation.”

“Good. Now, I assume there is no time to waste. Do you have any idea how long ago they might have left London?”

“She was here this morning when I left to pay a visit to my cousin, shortly before I came to Westover House. At least I…oh, dear. No, come to think of it, I did not see her. She did not come down for breakfast. I assumed she took a tray in her room.” Eleanor looked beyond him to where Mrs. Davies stood hovering in the doorway, and raised her brows in question.

“Lord bless me, Miz Tennant, but I could swear her bed hadn’t been slept in.” The housekeeper blinked back tears. “And when I asked Tilly if she’d taken in her morning chocolate, she said Miss Belinda told her last night to let her sleep late this morning, and not to disturb her until she rang.”

“Dear God, she must have left during the night,” Eleanor said. “They could be halfway to Scotland by now.”

“Not quite so far as that.” Mr. Westover moved toward the door. “But they have a hell of a head start. I’ll dash back home and round up one of my father’s traveling coaches. Do you suppose they took the stage, or does Barkwith keep his own carriage?”

“I have no idea.” Eleanor suddenly realized how little she did know, and a wave of sheer panic almost overwhelmed her. She grabbed hold of the nearest chair and sank into it. “I have no idea when she left, or what sort of carriage she’s in, or what direction she took.” She could not disguise the despair in her voice. “How on earth am I ever to track her down?”

She looked up at Mr. Westover in a plea for help. He looked just as flummoxed as she felt, and Eleanor realized this romantic fool, this twaddle-spouting, sentimental idiot, was not the stalwart champion she needed right now. If she was going to find Belinda before it was too late, she must rely on her own resources.

Yet surely this vexatious gentleman could be of
some
use.

“Could you possibly discover where Barkwith lives?” she asked. It would be easier for a man, even Mr. Westover, to locate Barkwith’s clubs, his cronies, someone who could tell him where the blackguard lived. “Perhaps someone could give us a clue as to when and how he left Town.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll do that at once. Then I’ll return with a carriage and whatever information I
can find. Oh, and it would help if I had a description of your niece, in case she and Barkwith were seen.”

Eleanor groaned. “Good Lord, I hope not. Belinda has a very distinctive beauty, the sort that makes a person look twice. If they are seen together, she will most assuredly be remembered.” She took a deep breath and tried to find words to describe her niece’s unique beauty. “Belinda has very dark hair, almost black but not quite, and it usually falls in soft curls about her face. Her eyes, on the other hand, are very pale-bluish green, a sort of aquamarine. Most noticeable, and most dramatic, are the long, black lashes framing the pale eyes, and the very dark, perfectly arched brows.”

Eleanor recalled quite clearly the beautiful little portrait miniature she had had painted of Belinda earlier in the year. It had been a gift for her father’s birthday. She wished she had it now at hand, so that words, ineffective words, would not be necessary.

“She is slightly below average in height,” Eleanor continued, “and…and”—how to describe the ample bosom that had turned heads all Season—“her figure is well proportioned.”

Mr. Westover’s brows lifted, and the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She does indeed sound remarkably beautiful. Clearly, she takes after her aunt.”

The devil.
Was this horrid man actually flirting with her? At any other time, she might—
might
—have found some pleasure in the notion. But this
was no time for such foolishness. She decided to ignore him. “And you may find it helpful to know that Geoffrey Barkwith is dark-haired and dark-eyed, and about your height.”

“I’m sure both descriptions will be helpful, especially if, as I suspect, they are not traveling under their own names. I will discover what I can and return with a carriage as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Westover. I’ll pack a bag so we can leave as soon as you return.”

He had made to leave but halted at her words. “We?”

“Yes, we.” He began to shake his head, but she did not have time for argument, and held up her hand to stop him. “Mr. Westover, do you imagine I could make any headway on this search, traveling as a woman alone? Questioning innkeepers and ostlers and postboys? No. It will be much easier if a man accompanies me.”

“Surely someone else could go,” he said. “A relative, perhaps? You would not wish to tarnish your own reputation by traveling with a bachelor of no relation to you.”

“Bosh. It is Belinda’s reputation I am concerned about, not my own. There is no one else, Mr. Westover. I rely upon you.”

It was true, as much as it galled her to admit it.

“You are overset,” he said, “and not thinking clearly.”

She lifted her chin toward the tall, lean gentleman and peered at him through narrowed eyes.
“My mind is perfectly clear, I thank you. You
will
accompany me, Mr. Westover. I need a male escort, but I also need you to help persuade Belinda of the error of her ways. She is doing this, you may recall, because she has the Busybody’s blessing. It will take the Busybody to convince her she is making a mistake.”

“I will be happy to speak to the girl once you return with her. But I cannot advise you to go haring after her accompanied only by an unmarried man.”

“And you must know in what high regard I hold any advice from you.”

He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “You would do well to listen in this case. It would be imprudent at best to travel alone with me in a closed carriage without benefit of a chaperone.”

Eleanor arched a brow. “Indeed? Are you so dangerous then, Mr. Westover?”

He colored up again—the man was exceedingly susceptible to blushes—but did not look away. “Not in the way you imply,” he said, “but my presence could pose serious danger to your reputation.”

“I am not a young maiden, sir. As a widow I can take certain liberties with propriety, particularly in an emergency. This is certainly an emergency, so please stop wasting time by arguing with me. And remember, if you will, that we had a bargain.”

“This was not part of the bargain.”

“It is now. If you do not agree to accompany me,
I promise you I will reveal the truth about the Busybody. You may depend upon it. Now please, please go find out where Barkwith lives, and any other information you can discover about his movements during the last day.” She could not disguise the plaintive note in her voice, and feared she might burst into tears. Eleanor had no wish for this stranger to see her in such a state. “Please hurry,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

He gave her a very intense look, then nodded his head and said, “As you wish. But in the meantime, I suggest you consider alternatives, or at least arrange for a maid or companion to come along. I’ll return as quickly as I can.”

He left in such a rush Eleanor could offer no further argument.

She collapsed against the back of the chair, almost crushing the bonnet she had forgotten she was still wearing. It reminded her that she had no time to give in to despair. She stood and untied the ribbons beneath her chin, then removed the bonnet and pressed a hand to her brow. Mrs. Davies said that Belinda had taken her new bonnet, the one she’d insisted on buying because the chocolate-brown ribbons were the exact shade of Geoffrey’s eyes. The poor girl was deep in the throes of first love.

Eleanor wondered how Belinda would withstand the heartache that would surely result from this madcap escapade. Would she at least insist on maintaining her virtue until she was properly mar
ried? More likely she would give in to Barkwith at the first opportunity. And having got what he wanted, there would be no reason for Barkwith to marry her.

Oh, Belinda.

Her heart was breaking for the girl, but she would not resign to defeat just yet. The sooner Belinda was located and brought home, the easier it would be to mend her reputation, if not her heart. Eleanor took a deep, shuddery breath and headed upstairs to prepare for the journey.

Over two hours later, her small portmanteau packed and standing ready in the entry hall, Eleanor paced the perimeter of the drawing room. Where the devil was the wretched man? If not for the fact that she had no money to hire a post chaise on her own, she would not wait another moment for him. But they were losing precious time. What could possibly be taking so long?

She dashed to the window a few moments later when she heard the sounds of a carriage outside. She groaned in frustration to see that it was not Mr. Westover but her cousin Constance.

Damn and blast. How was she to face her elegant cousin with the news of Belinda’s flight? A stab of mortification pierced her heart. What would Constance say, what would she think, to know how miserably Eleanor had failed as a guardian to her brother’s only child?

The drawing room door opened and Constance swept in, a vision in lavender sarsnet. “Hello, my
dear. I just thought I’d pop by and see what happened with Lady Westover. Was it—” She halted in mid-stride and stared at Eleanor. “Good Lord, what is it, Ellie? Something has happened.”

“Oh, Constance.” Eleanor’s mouth trembled so she could barely speak. In the next instant, she was in her cousin’s arms sobbing like a baby.

The big, luxurious traveling coach was with his mother in Richmond, but Simon was more than satisfied to have the newer, sleek, compact little chariot at his disposal. Though it comfortably accommodated only two inside, it would make better time.

Its snug interior was another reason not to agree to Mrs. Tennant’s harebrained notion of dragging him along with her. He could not imagine a greater folly than spending long hours in a small carriage with such a vibrant creature. She might think it amusing to consider him dangerous—and she was probably right—but he had a certain partiality for women of strength and fortitude, especially when they happened to be beautiful as well. The tenacious, emerald-eyed widow was all of that, and very likely more.

Simon had never been able to resist a pretty face. He’d often been a fool where women were concerned, generally dancing to whatever tune they played. He couldn’t help it. Women were enchanting creatures, and he was susceptible to their every lure.

Under no circumstances should he be allowed to accompany Mrs. Tennant on her pursuit of the runaway lovers.

He arranged for four of his own horses to begin the journey, with two Westover grooms to act as postboys. They would bring the team back to Town when new horses and postboys were hired at the first posting stop. He set them to readying the chariot while he set out to learn what he could about Geoffrey Barkwith.

It did not take long. By making discreet inquiries at his own club, he was able to discover that Barkwith was a member of Boodle’s. Though not a member himself, Simon was able to convince the head porter that he had an urgent message for Barkwith and needed to speak with him at once. It took little more than a conspiratorial grin and a five-pound note for the man to abandon his scruples and provide Simon with Barkwith’s direction. Simon thanked heaven Barkwith had not been a member of White’s, where no bribe was big enough for any of the staff to betray the confidence of a member.

Barkwith’s rooms were in a cramped house on Conduit Street. Unable, apparently, to afford the luxury of a gentleman’s gentleman, he made do with the services of the housekeeper and the hall porter. A guinea to the latter bought Simon the information that the young gentleman had left the premises shortly before dawn, leaving word that he would be away for a short time. No information
was known on his destination or mode of transportation. It would be up to Simon to discover that critical information, and he was not entirely certain how he was to do it.