Larcenous Lady (3 page)

The duchess had left word to be awakened at eight. At eight-thirty she was in the dining room, spooning a very inferior and overpriced gruel into her mouth and discussing how they were to proceed on their journey. “The public diligence is the cheap—quickest way to continue,” she outlined. “Only a hundred and eighty-three miles. The guide book says it makes the trip to Paris in fifty-four hours. The time will fly by with so much to see.”

“There will be twenty or thirty other people in the coach, and half of them will be French,” Deirdre pointed out. Foreigners, she knew, were anathema to her aunt.

“An excellent opportunity for you to practice the language. That’s why I brought you along.”

“A post chaise would only cost two and a half guineas,” Deirdre mentioned hopefully.

“Aye, but you have to pay extra to have the heavy luggage sent by stagecoach.”

Deirdre knew a stone was easy squeezing compared to her aunt’s purse. The duchess was reputed to be worth a large fortune, but her joy in life was to hold on to it, not squander it on mere necessities. Her bonnet was older than the century, and the sable-lined pelisse could give the bonnet a decade.

Deirdre glanced at the tattered copy of the
Liste Générale des Pastes de France
and smiled. “Oh, look, Auntie. The public diligence leaves at six in the morning. We’ll have to spend another day here—and the rates so high,” she added slyly.

The duchess grabbed the book from her hands and examined it with her falcon’s gaze. “Nuisance! Why did the clerk not tell us? They’re all in it together, fleecing travelers. There’s nothing else for it. We must find some English ladies to share a chaise with. Those Suttons we met at dinner last night—they spoke of hiring a post chaise, did they not?”

“Yes,” Deirdre said reluctantly. She rather wanted some privacy in which to nurture her wounded heart. On the other hand, company might be the very thing to help her. The older daughter had seemed friendly. The younger though—Lucy—she had been less forthcoming.

When the Sutton party entered the dining room a little later, the duchess lifted her arm and beckoned them to her table. “So comforting to see an English face,” she said, beaming. “Pray join us for breakfast, ladies.”

“How soon do you plan to proceed to Paris?” the duchess asked Mrs. Sutton, as soon as they had settled in.

“This very day. An English gentleman we met here last night is arranging a post chaise for us this morning.”

“I hope he has more luck than we.” The duchess sighed forlornly. “I sent a messenger over to the hiring stable, and there wasn’t a thing to be had. It looks as though my niece and I must loiter here till something turns up.”

She shot a sharp glance at Mrs. Sutton as she composed this piece of fiction. She read the considering expression in her companion’s eye—the careful weighing up of pros and cons. Commoners were aware of the distinction inherent in noble friends. On the other hand, the carriage would be crowded for a longish trip.

Without a second thought, the duchess consigned her own and Mrs. Sutton’s servants to following them in the diligence. “Our last hope of getting out of this wretched place today is joining someone who has had the good fortune to obtain a post chaise. Of course we would have to do without our servants for a few days while they follow behind. I wonder if there is anyone in the hotel willing to go snacks with me.”

While Mrs. Sutton looked doubtfully at her daughters, Miss Sutton spoke up. “Mama,” she said, “if we leave our servant behind, we could travel with the duchess and Miss Gower.”

“Good gracious!” the duchess objected loudly, “I hope you don’t think I was hinting! Crowding you good ladies was the last thing in my mind. Of course a poor cadaver like myself wouldn’t take up an inch, and Miss Gower is slender as a reed.”

“Let us do it, Mama,” Miss Sutton encouraged. “The duchess will be company for you, and Lucy and I will have an opportunity to know Miss Gower better.”

Before the duchess and Deirdre left the table, the matter was resolved, right down to the details of financing. The duchess was swift to point out that there were only two in her party, whereas the Suttons would occupy three-fifths of the rig. It worked out very neatly: a guinea for her share, a guinea and a half for the Suttons. They rushed upstairs to tend to their packing while the Suttons had a hasty breakfast.

“Truth to tell, I didn’t think Mrs. Sutton was the sort to insist on our paying when the sum in question was so small—only a guinea,” Charney said to Deirdre. “Incredible how some people squeeze every penny.” But on the whole she was pleased with her bargain and Deirdre was not unhappy.

They left Haskins, their female servant, in charge of the trunks and quickly stuffed their essentials into a pair of bandboxes to go on the post chaise. They hastened downstairs to join the Suttons. Within a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Sutton glanced up from her coffee and said, “Ah, there is Lord Belami now, come to tell me about my carriage.”

Now why did that cause the duchess to gag and the young lady to turn white as a sheet? The Suttons looked on with the liveliest interest, observing that Lord Belami had turned into a stone statue, staring as though he wished them all at Jericho. No one spared a glance at Pronto Pilgrim, who stood with his eyes bulging and his lips open. Fat was in the fire now.

“Er, Dick,” he muttered, “the ladies are waiting. Best buck up and get on with it.”

Belami unclenched his fists and willed down the urge to fly at the duchess’s scrawny throat. The public nature of the meeting demanded a show of common decency. He strode stiff-legged to Mrs. Sutton and her companions.

“Good morning, ma’am. Ladies,” he added, with a very small bob of his head to the others, “I’ve arranged for your carriage, Mrs. Sutton. You have only to send a note to the Angleterre when you want it.”

Mrs. Sutton began introductions. “We’ve all met,” Dick said brusquely.

Deirdre instantly turned to crystal. She daren’t look at Dick or she’d betray herself, but a tumult of emotions heaved within her—embarrassment, curiosity, joy, shame, anger, regret. What must he think? He’d think they were following him. She lifted her eyes and smiled uncertainly at her old friend, Pronto. Her eyes, once up from her lap, found courage to turn to Dick. Strange how she could read exactly what was in his mind when he wore that bland mask. He stared with unwonted attention at Mrs. Sutton as he explained the details of the carriage. His voice was unnaturally loud, his speech erratic.

She saw a flicker of his eyes toward her and quickly looked away. Had he looked at her? Her eyes skimmed back, but he was talking to Miss Sutton now.

“I hope you had a good sleep, ladies?”

“Fine, thank you,” Miss Sutton answered coolly.

The duchess, never one to minimize a scene, had recovered her wits and pitched herself into the fray with joyful sourness. “So you are taking your trip after all, Belami. We had no notion you planned to abandon your London dissipations. Our news at Fernvale was quite otherwise,” she said, with awful emphasis on the “dissipations.” “The only reason Miss Gower and myself are here is for my health. My doctor recommended a warm climate for my lungs.”

Belami’s mobile brow lifted, and he directed a scathing glare at her grace. “I’m under no misapprehension that you put yourself to so much trouble on my account, your grace. Europe is large enough to accommodate us all.” His glare flickered left to include Deirdre in this chilly civility. She felt battered to see so much hatred and anger. It was all over then. A lifetime was too short to overcome that much ill will.

“I wish you all a happy trip, ladies,” he said, bowed gallantly, and left.

Pronto jiggled uneasily, said “Heh, heh. Nice to see you again, Deirdre,” and went darting off after Belami.

“Jackanapes!” the duchess growled in a perfectly audible voice.

“Good gracious! That was mighty uncomfortable!” Miss Sutton exclaimed. “I take it you ladies have had some unhappy doings with Lord Belami.”

“My niece gave him his congé last month,” the duchess said. Dirty linen was not washed in front of commoners, though a few pieces of it might beguile the long trip to Italy if she felt in the mood.

“He’s very handsome!” Lucy said. “Why did you jilt him, Miss Gower?”

“This matter is very upsetting to my niece,” the duchess said dampingly.

Lucy could see Miss Gower looked ready to burst into tears. Both Elvira and Lucy developed a strong interest in Miss Gower and looked forward to hearing her story when privacy could be arranged.

“Now, Mrs. Sutton, shall we send that note off to the hotel and be on our way?” the duchess asked in a rather imperious manner. She called for a waiter, demanded a pen and ink, and wrote the note herself.

As they returned to the hotel for their carriage, Belami was silent as an oyster, which was a vast relief to Pronto. He felt steeped to the gills in complicity, as though he had personally arranged that meeting. After a few blocks, however, he was curious to hear his friend’s views and said, “Bit of a shocker, eh? Charney and Deirdre in France.”

The very word “Charney” was like a whiplash to Belami. “What news did the old bint hear at Fernvale, I wonder? Who was writing off to her? She hasn’t a friend in the world. I’d stake my head she wrote to her relatives asking about me.”

“You’ve hit the hammer on the head there—er, nail. Relatives are always glad to rub salt in the wound—Deirdre’s wound, I mean.”

“If Deirdre was wearing any wounds, she hid them well.”

“She would. You went storming in like Attila the Hun.”

“You noticed Charney was quick to let me know their trip has nothing to do with me?”

“It’s true. We decided on the spur of the minute. Deirdre ain’t chasing you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Actually, Pronto feared “afraid” wasn’t quite the right word.

“Talk about salt in the wound!” Belami muttered.

“What we’ve got to do is find out where they’re heading, and go off in the other direction,” Pronto decided. “Like you said, the continent’s big enough for both of us. All of us. If we meet up again, I’ll ask Deirdre their destination, and we’ll know where not to go.”

“I don’t intend to change my plans one iota,” Belami announced. “Deirdre knows my itinerary. If she doesn’t want to see me, she’ll know where to stay away from.”

Pronto hobbled along, trying to keep pace with Dick’s long, angry strides on his own little stumps of legs. “If she stays away from Paris and Venice and Rome and all our itinerary, where the deuce can the poor girl go?”

“She can take a different route—go in a different order. She knows my plans. That’s all I have to say.”

“She won’t have one word to say about anything. Charney rules the roost. She’ll tag along wherever she’s led.”

“She’s good at that,” Dick growled. “If she were as biddable a wife as she is a niece, she’d be a pattern card for some man.”

“That’s right,” Pronto said. He found it expedient to agree when Dick was in this mood. “Charney says ‘Jump,’ and Deirdre says ‘Which way?’ Jumps like a rabbit. No backbone.”

Dick clenched his lips more tightly and increased the length of his stride. No backbone, but such a face! He was ambushed by a host of memories. As long as he didn’t see Deirdre in the flesh, he could go on being furious with her. One glimpse and he was undone by those stormy, speaking gray eyes that went right through his flesh and touched his heart. Such long lashes, fanning her cheeks. Such sweet lips, quivering in emotion. Her face reminded him of a porcelain statue, a clear, translucent white, tinged with pink on the cheeks.

A muscular spasm moved at the back of his jaw as he firmed his resistance. She knew exactly where he had planned to go—with her. It should be Deirdre beside him now, not that chattering idiot, Pronto. Damme if he didn’t feel a tear sting his eyes. He blinked it away and said in a rough voice, “It’s colder than Réal’s Canadian arctic here. I’ll be glad to get to Italy.” Of course it was the cold that made his eyes water.

“Cold?” Pronto complained. “The sweat’s pouring down my spine. Can’t you slow down to a gallop? I’m winded.”

Belami slowed down, but it didn’t stop the wind from stinging his eyes. It didn’t ease the angry hammering of his heart or dim the image of Deirdre Gower that was burned into his mind.

Chapter Three

Belami’s trip to Paris was a virtual dash. His proud “I won’t vary my itinerary one iota” was soon revised to “There’s no point dawdling in little villages.” He stopped at Amiens long enough to peep into the cathedral, but of the ramparts, the wall, and the five gates he had only a glimpse in passing. Pronto didn’t even get to see the head of Saint John the Baptist in the church, which he’d been looking forward to with keen interest.

The whole flat plane of northern France passed in a blur. Belami didn’t know what route Mrs. Sutton meant to take, but he knew she would stop at Paris. Belami’s groom, Pierre Réal, was in alt. Here he was in the home of his fathers, with a better grasp of the language than his master. He was not only permitted but actually urged to set a hot pace. To add to his joy, he was told to keep an eye peeled for Sutton’s carriage. He never did see it, but any time twelve miles an hour became too slow for him, he could whip up the team and let on he had.

They arrived at the city gates in the fading light of day, fatigued and bounced to a jelly from their mad dart. Belami directed the carriage to the Hotel d’Orleans in the Faubourg St. Germain. As he signed the register, he quickly ran an eye up the list of patrons. His quarry had not registered, but they would be spending some time in Paris, and the Orleans was a good central base from which to operate.

Belami continued to profess the greatest aversion to Miss Gower’s company, but Réal had soon weaseled his way into his master’s confidence. “You have the little job for me?” Réal  asked archly. “Tomorrow morning you want I take a run around the hotels and see if
la Mégère
has arrived?”

“If they haven’t, you might just speak to the clerks and cross their palms with silver. Ask them to notify me here as soon as they check in. It will not be one of the finer hotels,” he added, with thorough British understatement.