St. Raven (17 page)

They?

Was the connection perhaps not quite over yet? A flutter of excitement betrayed all reason and common sense.

“How will we get the statue?” she asked as they passed through the gates and stopped by the empty, silent road. “I don’t think I can pay a morning visit to Miss Coop.”

“Hardly, but I can. It might be as simple as that.”

Not
they
after all. She looked down the silvery road, wishing the coach speed. She couldn’t endure much more of this.

Then she realized that it wouldn’t be over when the coach arrived. They had a two-hour drive. Thank heavens Mr. Lyne would be in the coach. But should she, could she, return to St. Raven’s house?

A true shiver shook her, one of weariness and cold. “Can you return me to London?”

“In those clothes?”

She rubbed her bare arms. “I suppose not.”

“Your luggage is at Nun’s Chase, Cressida, and there’s no point in collecting it and then taking you home in the small hours of the morning. You’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep, dress properly, then return to London in decent form.”

He was right, of course, but to her desperate, dismal mind, Nun’s Chase felt almost as intolerable as Stokeley Manor.

“Trust me.”

When she looked, he was watching the road, face cool in the pale light of the moon, but it mattered to him. She knew it. He was careless in many ways, but he had been careful with her.

“Of course,” she said softly. “I do trust you.”

She saw tension leave him and was tearfully glad she could give him that, at least. She was also glad the tears didn’t fall, for he turned to her and held out his arms.

“You look cold. Won’t you share my heat?”

For his sake as much as her own, she went into his arms and snuggled to his side. It was warmer. It was better as well in other, more dangerous ways.

“I never asked what story you told in order to leave with Crofton, or how you intended to return. I hope we can still use that plan.”

She rested her cheek against his silk jacket. “I’m visiting a married friend who lives near Lincoln. I was taken to Cecilia’s house by a friend who happened to be traveling there from London.”

“But in fact you traveled with Crofton. Did no one question this?”

“My mother is too distracted by my father’s state to notice or question much, and we’ve let most of the servants go. And Cecilia really does exist.”

“Does your friend know of this pretense?”

She looked up. “Of course not. She would hardly condone something like this.”

Cressida immediately wished that unsaid. It was true, but it was a sweeping denunciation of his tastes and lifestyle.

But then, in her saner moments, she did condemn his tastes and lifestyle.

The jangle of iron and thump of hoofbeats brought relief. The coach was coming, and she wanted this over, the event, the intimacy, everything. She pulled free of him again. From here they would have a chaperone, and in Nun’s Chase she’d lock her door and go straight to bed.

The coach drew to a halt, and Mr. Lyne stepped down to hand her in. Cressida entered the coach and sat. St. Raven spoke to his friend, then ducked to take the place beside her. The door closed with a firm click.

Her stomach dropped. “Is he not traveling with us?”

“He’s staying to check that the story about La Coop was true.”

The coach jerked into movement, and for a moment Cressida actually thought of throwing herself out of it. Alone with him? Alone in this confined space for two hours? After all that had happened? At least there were two candles in here. It was more light than they’d had for most of the evening, and light surely brought sanity.

He stretched out his long legs, long legs covered by satin that draped down to mold to his thighs. Thighs she could reach across a very little distance to stroke…

The speeding coach swung around a bend, and she clutched at the strap.

“My informant was probably honest and correct,” he said, “but I realized that I should have checked. He might have been wrong on any number of details. Cary will find out and follow on.”

“He’s not costumed.”

“By this time, I doubt anyone will care.”

Swaying with the movement, Cressida became aware all over again of their clothing. During the evening she’d grown accustomed to her costume, but now she felt as if she were in her underwear. As if they were both in their underwear.

In the underwear neither of them, apparently, was wearing.

Satin over thighs. Satin over a mound that must be…

Cressida!

It was like Adam and Eve suddenly becoming aware of their nakedness. What apple had she bitten into, back there in hell?…

He opened a flap in the wall of the coach and took out a silver flask and two small silver cups. “Brandy. Would you like some?”

She suppressed a shudder. “No, thank you, Your Grace.” She used the formal address as protection. That potion must still be fermenting in her blood! With yet more spirits, what might she be weakened into doing?

He put it away untouched. “It would warm you. We should have brought blankets.”

Blankets. Bed…

“I’m not cold, Your Grace.” They seemed to have reached a more level piece of road, so she let go of the supportive strap. “What are we going to do, Your Grace, if Mistress Coop will not give you the statue?”

He turned sharply toward her. “If you call me ‘Your Grace’ again, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

The leashed violence stopped her breath and shuddered her flesh. She stared at him, speechless.

“At least,” he said tightly, “call me St. Raven. But it would be a kindness if you would call me Tris.”

“Tris,” she whispered, feeling as if she pacified a wild animal. Yet she also saw that it mattered to him, that she had hurt him by addressing him so formally. Surely she could give in on such a little matter without disaster?

“Tris,” she said clearly, and to remove a barrier she took off her veils and mask.

It was as if the air changed and she could breathe properly again. He even smiled a little, that slight, teasing smile that had become so dear to her.

“Tristan Hugh Tregallows at your service. You are not to worry about the jewels. They are now my affair, and I will not fail. My pride and honor are at stake.”

Too late, she knew a twitch of her brow had expressed some doubt about his honor.

“Do I detect an edge? ‘Tis not important what honor is, Cressida, only that once settled it is adhered to.”

“A very aristocratic view. I assure you, honor is much more clearly defined in Matlock.”

She winced inside, but what point in denying what she was? She was a provincial nobody from Matlock with beliefs about right and wrong that he disdained.

“You are referring to decency,” he said, “which is another matter entirely.”

“There is nothing wrong with decency.”

“Except that it gets in the way of pleasure. Like underwear…”

She stared at him. “Don’t.”

A sudden bounce of the carriage threw her toward him. He caught her, held her, but then returned her to her side of the seat. She gripped the strap again, vowing to hold on to it all the way to Nun’s Chase.

“Pray tell me what form of honor had you out holding up honest travelers on the King’s Highway?”

“Ah yes.” He stretched his long legs at an angle to find the most space. Cressida inched her slippered feet over so they wouldn’t touch.

“It’s a maudlin tale, but probably better than you assume. I think I told you that I was Le Corbeau only for the night.”

“Yes.”

“When I returned to England in the spring I found there was a notorious highwayman who appeared to be creating a link to me. The name Le Corbeau is generally translated as ‘the Crow,’ but in French it can also mean ‘the Raven.’ In addition, he has only worked the roads in a radius around my house at Nun’s Chase. Even the look he assumed had a point, though not one most people would recognize. At Mount St. Raven, we have a portrait of my great-great-many-greats grandfather who was a Cavalier painted in exactly that costume.”

“My goodness. How could he have known that?”

“One of the interesting questions I wish to ask him. I’ve been investigating the matter for most of the summer and eventually discovered his base—a broken-down cottage within half a mile of Nun’s Chase, damn his impertinent eyes.”

He looked at her. “Are we friends, or should I apologize for that?”

She knew what she should say, but she could surely be a little weak here. It was only for a few more hours. “Friends,” she said. “I can imagine your outrage. So, did you trap him there? Were you responsible for his capture?”

“No, he slipped up and was seized. But I had already discovered something in his possessions that put a different slant on the situation.”

“Well? Don’t tantalize!”

He grinned. “But it’s a tale worthy of a play, and I fancy myself as a raconteur. And we do have hours to pass.”

She inhaled. Was he as aware of the tormenting time ahead of them as she was? Was the rocking of the coach as bothersome to him, the thought of being thrown against one another again as tempting?

“In a chest in the cottage I found a number of letters and objects. I did not immediately read the letters, of course, but the objects showed that there was a connection to my family. One in particular being the missing family betrothal ring.”

“Shouldn’t that have belonged to your aunt?”

“Yes, but apparently she refused to wear it. It is a heavy piece over two hundred years old, containing a large star sapphire. Quite magnificent, but old-fashioned, even barbaric.”

“And the highwayman had it. Stolen? No,” she answered herself. “Who would be wearing it on the road? Did your uncle not miss it?”

“He must have done. He was almost miserly in his attention to his possessions. They were inventoried every year, and a special inventory was done on my aunt’s death. Before 1790, the ring is listed as being in the locked treasure room at the Mount. After that it is listed as being in the duke’s possession—which of course meant that no one need actually see it.”

“So in 1790 he gave it to someone?” she asked, enthralled by the mystery. “And now this highwayman has it. Who is he?”

“Jean-Marie Bourreau, it would seem. Given the ring, I felt I had to read the letters. They were in French, but I am fluent in French. They revealed that my uncle kept a mistress in Paris—no surprise in that—and had a son there, Jean-Marie, in 1791. I can imagine how infuriating that must have been. A son at last, and yet no chance of him inheriting the dukedom.”

The coach jolted again. She wasn’t thrown about, but one of the candles died. St. Raven—Tris—unhooked the scissors, trimmed the wick, then relit it from the other. Her maudlin mind couldn’t help noting and appreciating the elegant deftness of his long-fingered hands.

She had never known that she was such a susceptible woman.

He settled back. “It must have seemed another malign twist of fate. His wife was fertile and produced six healthy children, but every one of them was a girl. And then—to paraphrase him—the damned woman lived on until he was too feeble to try again.”

“He sounds like a disgusting man.”

“Just a duke,” he said dryly.

Instinctively, she reached out to touch his hand. By the time she realized it was unwise, it was too late.

He turned his hand and took hers. She couldn’t snatch it back, and she didn’t want to. She was offering comfort, but she was also drawing strength from him, from his strong hand. Then he winced.

She relaxed her hold. “Am I hurting you?”

“Not as long as you don’t squeeze.”

She raised his hand a little. “Have you been fighting? Again?”

“I’m not in the habit of it. At least, except for sparring practice.”

“Who did you fight at Stokeley? Crofton?”

“Alas, no. It was Jolly Roger. And don’t ask for details.”

She was tempted, but she had learned something over the night. It could make her weep, however, how he constantly slid into rough, unsuitable behavior.

“As long as you weren’t fighting over a woman…” Then she winced at saying anything so intolerably coquettish.

That smile curled his lips and flickered in his eyes. “Jealous?”

“No!”

His brow rose.

“All right, a little. You were my partner for the night.”

“And still am—” He raised her hand and kissed it. “—Roxelana.”

She licked her lips, realizing that she’d let go of the fortifying strap. How had she ever thought desire dead, danger past? At a touch, at a look, she longed to lean to him, to touch, to taste, to kiss. The pounding hooves felt like the pounding of her blood.

She pulled her hand free. “So you found the ring and the letters,” she prompted.

His brow quirked again, but he responded. “There was only one dated after the birth, and in it he denied any responsibility for the child. It would appear that some money was sent along with it, but it was clearly a parting gift. The rest of the letters in the chest were rough drafts of the desperate ones Jeanine Bourreau wrote to him, begging for assistance, citing his promises. She seems to have thought he would take her to England and set her up in style there. He may have received them and ignored them, or he may not have received them at all. Soon after Jean-Marie’s birth, the revolution ripped the country into chaos.”

‘’Do you know what became of her?“

“No, but we have to assume that she survived by selling her body. She would know no other means of supporting herself and her sons.”

“So Jean-Marie is here and seeking, what? Money? Revenge?”

“I don’t know. He’s never contacted me except through his taunting behavior. I intend to find out, but first I have to get him out of jail. I don’t want my family’s sordid dealings in every broadsheet and on every tongue. That meant that Le Corbeau had to ride again.”

“And you held up Crofton… Oh dear. I don’t suppose he reported it to the magistrates.”

“Nor do I. I tried again. That was why I had to leave you tied up so long. I apologize for it.”

It seemed so long ago, that time lying bound and blindfolded, not knowing her fate.