A Touch of Sin (22 page)

"
I
won't let you," he gruffly said, sitting up to better assert his authority.

She paused, one hand on the door handle, debating whether she dared jump with Chris, whether Phillipe could stop her, whether the other brother was near enough to obstruct her escape.

"Watch the woman," Jerome shouted from the bridge, a sharp edge to his voice.

"Watch her yourself," Phillipe muttered, leaning his head back against the leather seat, shutting his eyes.

Saved by sibling rivalry, Trixi gratefully thought, shoving the door open. Glancing toward the bridge, she gauged her distance from Clouard. He was perhaps fifty yards away, facing the river. Turning back, she lifted Chris into her arms, jumped to the ground, and ran behind the carriage. Dear sweet Archie, she reflected, seeing he'd placed her valise on top. Lifting it out, she whispered, "Will's coming for us." Chris was clinging to her neck and she hugged him close. "Now don't say a word. Pretend we're soldiers on a mission."

"A spy mission?" He spoke in a four-year-old rendition of a whisper, his words part hiss, part murmur.

"A very important one. The king will reward us when we're through."

"I'll be quiet," he promised, tightening his grip around her neck.

Out of sight from those at the river, she opened her valise and took out her loaded pistol.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

She swung around, her heart in her throat. Looking aggrieved and pouty, Phillipe gazed at her. "Stay where you are or I'll shoot," she warned, hoping she sounded threatening.

"No, you won't."

So much for threatening.

"Women don't shoot guns," he said, a reproving inflection to his words.

Damn his stupidity. Anyone with brains would be wary of a gun no matter who held it. But perhaps she couldn't shoot at the moment, not because it was unacceptable to Phillipe's sense of propriety but because if she shot him, his brother would be warned. On the other hand, if she didn't, she and Chris would be captives again.

Merde
. And Will was nowhere in sight.

"I mean it," she asserted, not about to docilely submit, hoping to buy some time. "Come any closer and I swear, I'll shoot."

"You don't even know how to shoot that big, heavy thing." Phillipe took a step forward. "Now be reasonable and put it down."

Recalling Archie's advice, she aimed not to kill but to maim and pulled the trigger. The pistol's percussion was overpowered by the howl Phillipe emitted that echoed down the vale, skyward, and halfway to London. But his shriek faded from Trixi's consciousness, for she was already running for the tree line.

Jerome spun around at the cry, took one look at the carriage, and leaped forward to give chase. Unfortunately, Archie's big booted foot became entangled with his and Jerome fell headlong onto the riverbank.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir," Archie apologized, putting a hand out to help him up, stumbling again in the process, falling heavily atop Jerome Clouard.

"You clumsy oaf!" Jerome screamed, his face so red Archie was sure he'd have an apoplexy right before his eyes. "Get the hell
off
me!"

Glancing up the hill, Archie caught sight of Will riding hard toward the carriage, and he allowed his full weight to rest on Jerome's chest.

"Damn you!" Jerome gasped.

In an apparent effort to rise, Archie dug his elbow into Jerome's sternum and leaned hard.

Jerome's scream of pain pricked the horses' ears, momentarily deafened Archie, and brought a faint smile to the face of the driver, who had borne the brunt of Jerome's spleen since being hired at Dover.

"Thank God," Trixi breathed, standing on the verge of the road watching Will spur the horses with such a feeling of thanksgiving, she considered the concept of miracles now truly revealed. "Hang on, darling," she whispered to Chris. "Will is almost here."

A moment later she lifted the boy to Will as he slowed his mount, and a second after, she swung herself up onto the racer he was leading behind him on a loose rein.

Will had been a championship jockey in his youth, and Trixi had learned everything he could teach her by the time she was ten. They raced away on the prime horseflesh born and bred at Burleigh House stables, putting the Clouards into the distance within minutes and out of their lives by the next crossroad. Pausing to decide which direction to take, Trixi said, "I'd feel more secure in the south, and we'd be closer to home."

"You won't be expected to ride north, though." Will spoke in the same conversational tone as his mistress, careful not to startle the boy in his arms, who viewed their race as simply another excitement in an exciting day.

After discussing their options briefly, they decided to travel north, and several hours later, the small party rode into Ramsgate. They took lodgings at an inn near the shore under assumed names, and while Chris played with a small hand-crafted sailboat left behind by some former occupant, Trixi and Will counted the resources available for Trixi's living expenses. It was a terrifyingly small amount, and the next payment from her father's stipend wouldn't be available for two months.

"The coins might fetch enough to last you til then," Will suggested. "We don't need anything at Burleigh House."

Her small farm was largely self-sufficient, for which she was grateful. But for the immediate future, even with the sale of the coins, she'd have to earn a living until such time as
it
was safe to return home. If that were ever possible with the Grosvenors as neighbors. "I'll have to find work," she resolved.

"Not such a simple task with a child," Will pointed out.

And everything seemed to stop for a second, the beat of her heart, the sound of the waves outside the window, the rhythm of the universe. "Why hadn't I thought of that?" she breathed. Rather blithely, she'd considered a young woman her age, well-educated, of genteel birth, could find employment in any one of the positions open to women of her class—governess, companion, nursemaid, housekeeper. Most of whom, she grimly noted with new, oppressive insight, rarely came into a household with a child in tow.

"I'll stay and find work," Will determinedly said.

"No, you can't. There's no one else to take charge of our horses." Her fledgling breeding program was the major source of her income. When one of their racers was sold, Burleigh House was in funds for almost six months.

"You could ask Pasha for help," Will quietly suggested.

"I couldn't, Will. I only knew him for so short a time. It would be humiliating."

"He wanted to help you before you left, he said."

"Did he now," she remarked. "And what else did he say?" she asked, recalling all the whispered conferences between Pasha and Will.

"He was concerned, that's all—about the Grosvenors and Clouards. And he was right," Will gruffly muttered. "He told me to send for him if you were ever in trouble. He meant it, Missy."

"He had the best intentions, I'm sure, but I prefer not going hat in hand to Pasha Duras. You wouldn't understand." He had women by the score asking for favors—sexual and otherwise. Her brief visit to the dressmaker had apprised her of that benevolent role. "I can manage by myself."

"The Grosvenors won't go away."

As if she needed reminding. That daunting thought weighed heavily on her mind. Even should the Clouards leave England, even should she somehow manage to eke out a living for herself and Chris away from Burleigh House, the possibility of her peacefully returning to her home was remote. "Why don't we see if we can sell the coins," she abruptly said. "After that, I'll consider the next hurdle." It was suddenly more than she could bear: the overwhelming crisis of her future, the Clouards and Grosvenors, the actual lethal threat to her son, the impossibility of existing without money away from home. "This was a godawful day, Will," she whispered, weariness suddenly washing over her. "I can't deal with anything more right now."

"I'll have supper brought up," he quickly said, "and in the morning, I'll see if I can find a buyer for the coins. Don't you worry none, Missy. We'll find a way out."

In the morning, Will not only found a buyer for the coins, but took it upon himself to send a letter to the address Pasha had left with him, describing the recent events and asking for his help. A captain of one of the vessels in port promised to see that the letter reached Calais the following day.

He convinced Trixi not to look for employment immediately, suggesting she wait at least until tie returned to Burleigh House and reconnoitered the Grosvenors. He was hoping that meantime, Pasha would receive his letter and respond. So with a warning to remain as inconspicuous as possible in the event the Grosvenors or Clouards had mounted a search, he left, promising to return in a week.

The following days were a time of reflection and quiet, Trixi's only necessity that of entertaining Chris in a small lodging room. She bought them each a simple change of clothes, careful with her small reserve of money. She purchased a few toys as well, and several books that appealed to Chris. They took walks along the shore when the confining room drove them outside. Twice they bought apple tarts from the pie man and sat on the quay and ate them while watching the tide come in.

But their tranquility was brief, for when they returned to their lodgings the afternoon of the third day, the innkeeper took Trixi aside and told her a Bow Street runner had been asking for them. He was looking for a woman and four-year-old boy who met their descriptions. "For kidnapping, the runner said," the innkeeper added in an undertone. "You don't look like no kidnapper to me, ma'am," he kindly went on. "Thought you'd like to know." He winked. "The missus and me got a good eye for character after running this place for twenty-some years, and that boy ain't afeared of you. But there's others in town who might be willing to take the reward being offered."

Trixi blanched at the word reward. "How long has the runner been in Ramsgate?" She was already estimating the time remaining before she was identified.

"Not too long. He's inquiring at the lodgings in town first, he said. If you have need, ma'am, of passage to the Continent," he quietly offered, "I know a man who could help you."

She was shocked at first that he would suggest such a thing. Did she look like a criminal who needed to flee England? But saner counsel soon overcame her first reaction and she realized the extent of her danger. Bow Street runners had a reputation for capturing fugitives; either the Grosvenors or Clouards had put them on her trail.

She was surprised at how coolly she was able to appraise her situation, as though she were viewing her circumstances from afar. She ticked off the liabilities with such detachment, she wondered if she was past hysteria and moving toward a catatonic lethargy. Will wouldn't return for days yet, so she had to face this alone. Could she make her way undetected to some other part of England? Or if she did flee to Europe, would the Clouards find her there more easily? "Where is your friend sailing to?" she asked, as if her dilemma would be resolved by his reply.

"Calais, ma'am. In two hours."

That was very close to Paris. To the Clouards as well. And to Pasha, she mused with a quiet need that startled her. She'd thought herself more pragmatic than to have expectations of a man of his repute. What would he say if she suddenly appeared on his doorstep? A vision of his shocked expression deterred her fleeting impulse. Impossible. She couldn't ask him to take care of her as if she were his personal charge. She and Chris would find refuge in England.

"There he is, ma'am," the innkeeper softly cried, pointing out the window at a tall, brawny man making for the inn.

"Tell me where to find your friend." Her decision was made instantly, expediency the ultimate arbiter.

"My wife will show you." He drew her away from the window. "Hurry," he urged, moving toward a door at the back of the parlor.

In a brief conference in the kitchen, it was agreed that the innkeeper would keep the Bow Street runner engaged in conversation while his wife guided Trixi and Chris through the backstreets to the ship. "I'll bring your belongings as soon as I can," the innkeeper vowed.

"Tell my man, Will, when he returns, I went to Pasha."

And moments later, the two women and Chris were running down the narrow alleyway behind the inn.