An Unlikely Duchess (9 page)

“Oh yes, he would,” she said. “He has any number of women for his pleasure, you see. All he would need me for is respectability. And to breed his heirs,”

The duke flushed and gave up that particular line of conversation.

A couple of hours later he spotted a large inn ahead on the road. He must stop there and change horses, however reluctant he might be to do so. So far he had traveled by slow stages from home so that he might keep his own horses with him for the whole distance.

“I am going to stop at that inn,” he told Josephine Middleton. “I need to change horses. And I will make inquiries there. I will make inquiries, do you understand? It would be advisable for you to stay as quiet as possible, ma’am. It is really not the thing for you to be traveling alone with me in an open curricle, you know. It would be better that no one we pass remembers your face.”

“You are kind to worry about me,” she said. “But it would not be improper if you were my husband, would it? I shall borrow the title of Mrs. Villiers for the rest of our journey, if I may, and then no one will think my being with you strange at all.”

The Duke of Mitford would have rocked on his heels if he had been standing up.

“Is there a real Mrs. Villiers, by the way?” she asked. “She is going to be very cross with me for keeping you from her if there is.”

“No,” he said hastily, “there is no Mrs. Villiers. Don’t,” he added on an afterthought while he lifted her to the ground at the inn and led her inside to request a private parlor for his wife, “mention your jewels. It would not be wise to turn this into a treasure hunt for all and sundry.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “Yes, that is a good idea, sir.”

“I shall order tea for you,” he said. “It will take about ten minutes to change the horses.”

“Will it?” She said, removing her gloves and bonnet and looking about the small parlor with interest. “Please will you make them a short ten minutes, sir?”

The duke raised his eyebrows and shook his head slightly as he left the room.

Mr. Porterhouse had left an almost insolently blazing trail. Not only had he stopped at the inn to change horses, but he had also put up there for a few hours. He had stopped at all the most predictable places along the highway throughout the day. It seemed that by the time it was almost too dark to see the horses’ heads ahead of them and a convenient inn loomed in sight, they were only four hours behind their man.

“It is almost as if he thinks I was glad to relinquish my jewels to him in exchange for my virtue,” Josephine Middleton said indignantly. “As if he thinks I would not pursue him, or could not. He would not have realized, of course, that you are a kind gentleman and would have agreed to put yourself and your conveyance at my disposal. I am sure he did not see you as a kind man.” She giggled a little. “Where did you learn to punch like that, sir?”

“To be fair,” he said modestly, “I did take the gentleman by surprise. And you lent a hand.”

“Oh, yes,” she said admiringly, “but I think you would have done quite splendidly well without me, sir.”

“It would not be wise to continue on our way,” the duke said, turning his horses into the yard of the inn. “We will have to put up here for the night.”

“Oh, but I trust your driving,” she said, “and I am no longer afraid of being perched up here. I would far prefer to continue and catch up with the villain.”

He might have caught a touch of insanity, Mitford reflected as he drew his horses to a halt and vaulted down from his high seat, but he was not reckless. He never had been.

“We will stay here,” he said, reaching up his arms to lift her to the ground.

And she might be basically a brainless female, but she had had one sensible idea in the course of the day. It would be far less embarrassing and conspicuous to register at the inn as husband and wife than as Mr. Villiers or the Duke of Mitford and Miss Middleton. The only trouble was, of course, that although it was a perfectly clean and decent inn, it was not a large one. There was no such thing as a suite of rooms within its walls. And it would have been very peculiar for Mr. and Mrs. Villiers to rent two rooms.

After an almost sleepless night and a long day on the road, the very last place he felt like sleeping was on the floor again. But that was where he seemed destined to sleep, nonetheless.

The next time his grandfather took it into his head to go taking the waters in Bath, perhaps he should suggest a brief holiday in America or Brazil. Or China. Perhaps they had hot springs there.

“It is as I thought,” Bartholomew said, slamming one fist into the other palm. “The villain headed north instead of toward Aunt Winifred’s. He is eloping with Jo. Just wait till I get my hands on him. He must have had her tied up or she would have given him what for.”

“The gent left ’ere alone,” the bald giant at the Crown and Anchor said. “ ’e left with the lady’s jewels. She went after ‘im with that other gent.”

Bartholomew looked blank. “What other gentleman?” he said. And then he brightened. “Oh, my father. Papa caught up with her, did he?”

“No, sir,” Sam said. “That was the gent what went east this morning, according to Walter, what was on dooty then.”

“Oh, Bart, may I sit down?” Susanna asked weakly. She was leaning heavily on his arm.

“Carriage sickness, ma’am?” Sam asked sympathetically. “Wot you needs is a good breakfast so there’s some’at to chuck up when you continues on your way.”

Susanna grimaced.

“Go inside,” Bartholomew said, “and order tea at least.”

Susanna went.

“Now,” he said turning back to the huge groom, “who was this gentleman my sister went north with?”

Sam shrugged. “Little bit of a fellow,” he said. “In a curricle. Not quite the conveyance for the lady, if you was to arsk me, sir. But she was that anxious about ’er jewels.”

“She was fool enough to entrust her jewels to that scoundrel?” Bartholomew asked, his brows drawing together in a frown. “But what was this gentleman’s name?”

Sam shrugged again. “Arsk inside,” he said. “Was you driving careful with that little lady wot is sick, sir?”

“Well, of course I was driving carefully,” Bartholomew said with some indignation. “Can I help it if English roads have more holes than road? If she did not expect to get sick every time she drives farther than two miles, she wouldn’t be.”

“Ah,” Sam said, “but ladies is delicate creatures, sir. And ’o is to tend ’er inside the carriage?”

“No one,” Bartholomew said. “She sticks her head out of the window and yells at me when it is time to stop. Every mortal mile of the way.”

“Wot you need is a skilled coachman,” Sam said. Bartholomew was visibly irritated. “Do you have any idea where I might find such a paragon in this part of the country?” he asked.

“That I do, sir,” Sam said. “I did not like the look of that ’andsome creature last night, not by ’alf, I didn’t. I wouldn’t mind getting my ’ands on ’im, I wouldn’t, sir, and protecting the little ladies. And if there is ’oles in the road, sir, why I drives around them, like. And the little lady would not be so sick and you could tend ’er if she was.”

“You are offering to come?” Bartholomew asked.

“That I am, sir,” Sam said.

“Done,” Bartholomew said. “Can you be ready in ten minutes? And who the devil was that man with Jo?”

“Arsk the innkeeper,” Sam advised.

***

She should not be enjoying herself. Josephine had smoothed out the creases of her only decent dress and washed herself with care and done the best she could with her hair and was sitting in the public room of the Peacock Inn with Mr. Villiers, waiting for dinner to be served.

She should not be enjoying herself. She had shown great want of conduct in leaving home with a strange young gentleman, and had been robbed and almost ravished by him. Papa and Grandpapa would be severely disappointed with her behavior. And goodness only knew how they had explained her absence to the Duke of Mitford, who must have arrived by now. And were they worrying about her? Oh dear, of course they would be worrying about her.

And now she was chasing after the first strange young man with a second and had spent all day on the road with him, in an open curricle. She had been seen by dozens of different people and had waved to some of them in passing until she had recalled that it was not genteel for a twenty-year-old young lady to do so. Indeed, she was obliged to Mr. Villiers for not scolding. Papa and Bart would have scolded. Grandpapa would have explained that the daughter of a viscount and granddaughter of an earl was not expected to comport herself with public vulgarity.

And now she was sharing a room at an inn with the second young man for the second night in a row, and she was traveling incognito, under the name of Mrs. Villiers.

And perhaps they would not catch up to Mr. Porterhouse for several days. She had not thought of that in the morning when she had been so anxious to pursue him and recover her jewels.

She could certainly not be enjoying herself. But she was.

“Did you say your name was Paul?” she asked quietly after looking guardedly about her.

Mr. Villiers looked surprised. He also looked very nice indeed, with his curls all about his face and down over the collar of his coat. He had brushed them upstairs in their room, but really he was wasting his time doing so. His hair, thank goodness, did what it wanted to do. “I did,” he said.

She felt herself flushing. “Will you mind if I call you that in public?” she asked. “I know that some wives call their husbands Mr. So-and-so, but I always think it silly. It will be more convincing, don’t you think, if I call you Paul?”

It was true too. She really believed her own words. But mainly she wanted to hear herself call him Paul.

“I suppose so,” he said, looking up as a maid brought their soup.

“It is oxtail soup, Paul,” she said, smiling at him and at the maid with delight. “My favorite.”

“Then I am happy for you, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh." She leaned forward toward him as the maid withdrew, and lowered her voice. “You must do it too, you know. You must call me Jo. Just in public, you understand. I would not presume to be so familiar in private.”

He leveled at her a look that she took to be one of assent.

She had learned a few things about him in the course of the day. He had a mother and two sisters, two nephews, and a niece. His younger sister was in expectation of a happy event. His maternal grandfather was still alive. He had attended Eton School and Oxford University. He had been to Scotland and Wales, but not to the Continent because of the wars. He spent part of each year in London and most in the country. He liked vigorous outdoor activities, and he liked reading. He liked music, though he was not himself an accomplished performer. She felt she knew him very well indeed even after one day. There was only one important thing about him that she did not know. And it worried her.

“I told you this morning,” she said, plucking up her courage, “that my purse is quite, quite empty, sir.”

“Yes,” he said, “you did.”

It had not been easy to get all that information out of him during the day. Only persistent questioning had drawn it all out.

She flushed. “I do not have even a single farthing.”

“Perhaps it is just as well,” he said. “There is less for someone else to steal.”

She swallowed. “I will have to repay you at some future date,” she said.

He looked at her in some surprise and put down his spoon in his empty soup bowl. “There is no need, I do assure you, ma’am,” he said.

“Do you have enough with you?” she asked, and could feel the blush heating her neck. “I mean...”

“Oh.” He covered her hand on the table with his for a brief moment. “You are not to worry, ma’am. I have quite sufficient to cover all our needs for some time to come. It is to be hoped that we will recover your jewels tomorrow. Then I shall be returning you to Rutland Park.”

Her mouth formed an O, though she did not say it. Yes, it would have to be that way, of course. There would be no going to Aunt Winifred’s now. There would be too many explanations to make. Yes, she would have to go home and face the music as soon as she had her jewels safely back in her possession. But her silence was caused not so much by that realization as by the fact that Mr. Villiers had stated it as a quite immutable fact.

She wondered what he would do the next day if she argued with him and insisted on being taken somewhere else. She looked at the slim, fairly ordinary young man across the table from her—except that the curls made him extraordinary—and had a strange feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, she would not get her own way.

It was an interesting idea. She almost always got her own way. She would wager that she would even have had her way over the Duke of Mitford if she had only had the courage to face Papa’s and Grandpapa’s disappointment.

That was the moment when the unthinkable happened. There was a great to-do and hustle and bustle as four other guests took their places in the dining room, and Josephine, staring with idle curiosity across the room at them, suddenly found herself gazing into the brightening and smiling face of another young lady.

“Jo!” she exclaimed, and almost tipped over her chair in her rush to cross the room. “Jo Middleton! I have not seen you forever. Whatever are you doing here?”

Chapter 6

“Caroline!” Josephine cried, smiling brightly at the bosom friend of her school days. And, looking beyond her friend to the other occupants of the table, who were all getting to their feet and smiling at her, “Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy. Warren.”

She had spent two months of one summer at the Hennessy home.

“My dear, Jo,” Mrs. Hennessy said, taking both her hands and kissing her on the cheek, “you have quite grown up. What a pleasant surprise, my dear.”

Mr. Hennessy pumped her hand and Warren Hennessy made his bow. He was growing past the awkward, pimply boy stage, Josephine was interested to note.

Mr. Villiers was standing.

“Oh,” she said, feeling her blush return in full force. “May I present Mr. Paul Villiers?” She swallowed awkwardly and wondered if any more words would find their way past her throat. But two did. “My husband.”