St. Raven (31 page)

This, she decided, was a very useful exercise. If she ever deluded herself that she and the Duke of St. Raven could blend their lives, here was evidence that it could not be.

She took a seat on a bench beside a weary-looking couple also waiting for transport. She knew Tris was hovering to see her on her way, and that he would be in Hatfield, equally watchful, when she arrived.

From such a hazardous journey.

Soon this watchful protection would be over. It would all be as it had been before, with her going about her life in Matlock with no one fretting about her safety. And better so.

“Sad journey, love?” asked the countrywoman to her right.

Cressida said, “No,” too brightly before she thought. “I’m just tired.”

“Aye.” With that universal endorsement, the woman lapsed into silence again.

“And you?” Cressida asked.

“Sad enough.”

Cressida couldn’t ignore the weight of grief she heard in those two words. “What’s happened?”

She saw then that the man and woman were holding gloveless hands. Two rough, work-worn hands twined together probably unconsciously.

As her hand had twined with Tris’s now and then. But they had been forced to pull apart, and these two were bound for life. They provided support for one another, even now, when life was hard.

“Not long ago we had a smallholding on Lord Sunderland’s estate,” the woman said, “and four fine sons to come after us. Those were happy days, happy days. But three of our lads were ‘ticed away by the recruitment men and died, and then our eldest—he took a scythe in the leg last harvest, and it festered.”

All four sons dead? “I’m so sorry.”

The woman shrugged. “Now Lord Sunderland’s steward says we can’t do the work, and I suppose he’s right. My man’s heart isn’t as good as it was. So we’ve had to leave our cottage.”

Cressida knew that a farm laborer’s home was tied to the land. “Where will you go?” Her instinct to help was stirring, but what could she do here and now?

“Don’t you worry, miss. We’re off to my sister near Birmingham.” But then she added, “Though what’s to become of us there, I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry for your trouble.”

Cressida hated feeling so helpless. She knew how to tell the conniving storyteller from the truly tragic, and this woman’s story was true. Three of their sons had served to fight Napoleon, and for reward, these folks had been thrown out of their home. It was unjust. Something should be done.

She didn’t blame their landlord, who doubtless needed the place to house a new family of farmworkers, but she blamed the government, which had made no provision for its soldiers and their families. If she were in Matlock, she would know many resources to turn to, but now she was struggling to survive herself.

If only she had a magic wand…

How much time did she have? She asked the woman to keep an eye on her hatbox and hurried into the inn. She peeped into a number of rooms, wondering where Tris was. Had he hired a private parlor for such a short stay?

Then she saw him in the lowly tap, drinking beer from a pottery flagon and chatting with a bunch of local men. They all looked, of course, dazzled as if a faery prince had landed among them.

She wasted a moment simply loving him, then snapped her wits together. How to get his attention without walking in and demanding it? She hovered, willing him to look her way.

He did. His brows twitched, but then he drained his flagon, took farewell of his fellows, and sauntered out into the corridor. “I thought I was hardly aware of your existence.”

“There’s a problem with the ticket,” Cressida said in case anyone was listening, but she pulled a face at him.

All the time she listened for the coach. She knew it wouldn’t wait for her.

“What?”

She looked around, but no one seemed to be nearby. “There’s a couple outside with such a sad story. Three sons lost in the war, and the last dead of a wound at home. The husband is sick and the wife worn out. They’ve been thrown off their land…”

He rolled his eyes. “There are a thousand such. What am I supposed to do?” Then he added, “Stop looking at me as if I can turn water into wine!”

“That would be little use,” she said tartly, then wondered if it was blasphemy. “You could let them go to Nun’s Chase until I think of something. Once I’m back in Matlock, I’ll be able to arrange help. Light work or an almshouse. If not, they’ll end in the workhouse, I’m sure of it. And they’re holding hands, Tris! It would kill them to be parted, and you know they separate couples in the workhouse…”

He put fingers on her quivering lips. “Lord above, Cressida. How are you to survive with such a tender heart?”

She blinked at him. “By making things better, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, rather faintly.

“I’m sure it’s easy from your elevated eminence to ignore all the little people, but down here, my lord duke, I cannot.”

“Stop my lord dukeing me!” He almost snarled it. “All right, I’ll take care of them. But that’s your coach.”

She heard the rumble, then the call.

“Thank you!”

She smiled and touched her fingers to his lips, then hurried out to grab her box and climb into the coach. She only had time to squeeze into her seat before it headed off again, new horses between the shafts.

Tris watched the coach go. Another excellent reason to cut free of Cressida Mandeville and the insanity she had brought to his life. She was a do-gooder. A reformer, probably. She’d sweep the roads of England for waifs and strays for her husband to support…

Husband.

He accepted for the first time how much he wanted that, how much he wanted Cressida as his constant companion. She was an impossible duchess and generations of Tregallows would spin in their graves, but he no longer cared.

But it had been his own rash indulgence in taking her to Stokeley Manor that had made it impossible. It could make a damn Greek tragedy.

He shook his head and looked to see what she’d left for him to deal with.

The couple wore decent but shabby clothing. The man had probably been wiry and strong for most of his life, but now he was just thin and weak. The woman was more substantial, but there was a gray sagginess to her that spoke of bone-deep weariness and threatening disaster.

Grief, too, of course. He knew from losing his own parents how quickly a golden situation could shatter into a lifelong shadow.

Cressida was probably right about their fate. Wherever they were heading now with their two bundles of possessions, they would be in the workhouse soon-housed, fed, and clothed, but in the meanest way, and kept apart, one in the women’s section, one in the men’s. And there they would soon fade away.

Did they really want to go on living? But he’d promised.

He strolled over.

The woman looked up first, startled. She pulled her hand free and pushed to her feet. The man stirred to do the same.

Tris put out a hand. “Please, don’t. I only wanted a word with you.”

The woman stood anyway, but she put a hand on her husband’s shoulder to hold him down. “He’s not well, sir.”

“So I can see. I gather you have lost your home.”

The woman’s eyes skittered around, perhaps seeking the informant, or help, or to see who was watching their shame. Damn, he didn’t know how to do this. How could Cressida throw him into this situation and then abandon him? It was as bad as him putting her on a horse and walking away.

“I mean you no harm. My—” No, he couldn’t say Cressida was a friend. “The lady you spoke with mentioned your situation to me.”

Under the pressure of their blank stares, he soldiered on.

“She thinks she may know of a place for you, but she was in a hurry to catch her coach. She asked me to direct you to my home, where you could wait until she contacts you.”

The man and the woman shared a long look; then both pairs of eyes returned to him. What the devil did they think could happen here to make things worse? They were hardly candidates for the white slave trade.

Then he realized that they needed a name. They were not going to trust him without a name.

“My name is St. Raven,” he said, and left it at that. “My house is called Nun’s Chase, and lies a few miles from Buntingford. I will give you a letter that will take care of you.”

Those guarded, weary eyes just stared at him.

“You will have a room and food,” he continued doggedly, praying there was a spare servant’s room at Nun’s Chase. How the devil should he know? He supposed he could offer them the cottage Bourreau had been using, but it was deserted precisely because it was falling down. Disturbing to think this couple might be grateful for it.

“Miss Mandeville will contact you shortly,” he said bracingly.

The eyes connected again, for long silent seconds, and then the woman looked back at him and dropped a curtsy. “You’re very kind, sir. We thank you. And the lady.”

Tris almost blew out a breath. “Good, good.” He pulled out some money, wondering what simple transport to Buntingford might cost. He’d give them guineas, but he suspected too much largess would have them fleeing.

He offered a crown, watching to see the reaction. She colored, but not with alarm. “We have money, sir.”

“I would prefer to cover the cost of your journey to Nun’s Chase. You may require your money later to continue on your way.”

She took the money, pulled out a knitted purse, and popped it in. There was clearly not a great deal else in there. “You’re very kind, sir.” After a hesitation, she added, “I’m Rachel Minnow, and this is my husband, Matthew.”

He cursed himself for not bothering with their names. He might even be blushing.

“Well, then,” he said, hearing himself sound overly hearty, like the good-natured squire in a play, “I hope to see you at Nun’s Chase when I return there, Mrs. Minnow, Mr. Minnow. Or not, if Miss Mandeville has already arranged something else.” How to end this? “I’ll… er… leave you to it, then.”

He backed away a few steps before feeling he could turn his back on those fixed eyes, now brighter. There might even be tears on the man’s cheeks. God! Perhaps there was good reason for dealing with tenants thirdhand.

He strode toward his curricle, but then realized he had arrangements to make for them. On the other hand, Cressida was rolling on her way to Hatfield, where she could get up to any sort of trouble. He was ready to wring her neck.

He hurried into the inn, commanded writing materials, then dashed off a quick letter to the landlord of the Black Bull at Buntingford requesting that the couple be transported to Nun’s Chase in the gig.

Then he wrote another to Pike, his butler at Nun’s Chase, ordering him to take care of the Minnows. He had to swallow laughter, imagining Pike swallowing the poor Minnows whole, as would happen in any stream. He didn’t try to explain the visitation. He didn’t have time, and he wasn’t sure he had an explanation to offer.

He almost gave the letters to Mrs. Minnow, then realized the poor man must be feeling beaten down, so he gave them to him instead. The gnarled hands took them as if they were precious glass, and the man sat a little straighter to say, “We do thank you, sir.”

“It’s little enough,” Tris replied, with perfect honesty.

He climbed into his rig and sped on his way, aware of the attention of his new dependents.

Once out of Barnet, he gave the horses their head. After the rest they were frisky, and soon the wind was blowing away uneasy thoughts about dependents, about the smothering mass of need and suffering in the world.

He had worries enough of his own, the chief one being that Cressida might make it to Hatfield ahead of him. He whipped past the lumbering coach about halfway, however. He glanced to the side, but could only see the two people in his side’s window seats. She had to be there. She couldn’t have managed to get into some new tangle in the past half hour.

Anyway, Miss Mandeville of Matlock didn’t like him fussing about her safety or her reputation, damn her!

Arriving at Hatfield ahead of her felt like a triumph, though it was an ordinary enough little town. He found the Cockleshell, but it was not a staging inn. That was only two buildings away, so she couldn’t get into trouble between there and here, could she? Damn. They hadn’t taken that into account. He should have known her plan would create problems.

He had to settle in here, before he could deal with that. Once he admitted to his identity and an intention of staying, anything he requested was his, including information.

He inspected the rooms shown him by the groveling innkeeper. “I am here because my cousin has expressed a desire for a pastel portrait by a Frenchman who, I am told, lives here. Is he in?”

“Mr. Bourreau.” The fat innkeeper bowed. “Yes, indeed, Your Grace! I believe he is in, but with a client.”

“He executes his art here rather than in clients’ homes?” Tris asked with surprise, adding a touch of ducal disdain for effect.

“Sometimes, Your Grace. It is as the client wishes, Your Grace.”

Tris shrugged. He ordered food, but when the innkeeper backed his way toward the door with many bowings and Your Gracings, he halted him.

“Where are the artist’s rooms? Are they nearby?”

“Quite close, Your Grace.”

Tris could read the doubtful note. Did the eminent guest want the artist nearby for his convenience? Or would he resent having the rooms of a lowly artist close to his?

“This is a small house, Your Grace…”

Tris let silence turn the screw.

“Sixteen and seventeen, Your Grace. Quite the other end of this corridor, Your Grace, but close enough if necessary.”

Tris couldn’t help a slight smile at the poor man. That answer had been quite brilliantly diplomatic.

“Excellent.” He waved the innkeeper on his way.

He hated being groveled to, but a ducal aura might be useful if things went awry. And the damnable thing was that people enjoyed it. They wallowed in the reflected glory. The innkeeper was doubtless bursting with importance and looking forward to telling everyone about a duke, no less, gracing his house.

Noblesse oblige. The words of another duke, the Duke de Levis, but echoing the more ominous words of Euripides. “Those nobly born must nobly meet their fate.”