No Choice but Surrender (30 page)

"Please, you misunderstand. I am in need of directions. The Crescent—if you would but tell me where it is?" she said in an overwrought voice.

"The
Royal Crescent
?
The scullery help there is in better shape than you, missy." She gave her a jaundiced eye. "But you're a pretty creature! Would you
be wantin'
a posy for your trip there?" She smiled, showing blackened gums, as the heavy, sickly-sweet odor of rotting violets wafted from her basket.

"No, thank you." Brienne swallowed her nausea.

"Then be off with you! The welfare of the business, you see." The woman was apologetic as she picked up her baskets of violets and multihued tulips and walked away to find a less competitive corner.

Placing a shaking hand over her mouth, Brienne frowned; the cloying scent of violets in the seller's wake made her feel ill. Suddenly she seemed overwhelmed by the problems that had plagued her since she'd left Osterley. Her birthright she felt forced to deny, but it was galling to her that, she, the daughter of a powerful earl, was reduced to an impoverished existence on the streets of Bath with no one civil enough to give her directions. If she weren't accused of witchery, then it was begging. Suddenly she felt as if she'd been an outcast her entire life. Only at Osterley, where she should have felt least welcome, had she ever really belonged.

This irony made her feel almost like giving up. Perhaps, she mused, she could find a meadow where only the black sheep grazed and lie down in the sparse, grassy field and close her eyes, never to reopen them again. She would see her mother again, the only person who had ever loved her. Her lips trembled at the thought of her mother, and quite unbidden, her thoughts grew as dark as a thunderstorm.

"I couldn't help but overhear, pretty maiden. You are looking for The Crescent?"

She was startled out of her morbid thoughts by a kind, masculine voice. Looking up, she saw an appreciative pair of brown eyes, and as she gazed into their soothing depths, she wondered if she might make it after all.

"You seek The Crescent?" the young man asked her again. Though his manner was polite, his gaze was warm and intimate. At first glance he seemed to overlook her dirty, travel- worn state and instead see the woman underneath.

"Yes," Brienne began warily, lowering her eyes from his appraisal. Quickly she pulled up her hood to cover her hair. The man seemed to pay an unusual amount of attention to its strange color, and this unnerved her. She wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible, on the chance that the earl was in town.

She began an assessment of the man. Although not particularly tall and broad, his figure was muscular and well proportioned. He possessed a handsome face. It wasn't dark and fierce, but it was still handsome and could have graced one of the Roman statues in Osterley's hall. His blond hair was neatly bag-tied onto his nape, his eyes were drawn with fine golden brows, and his nose was straight; the slight flare of each nostril gave him an air of unmistakable integrity. Brienne instantly found herself wanting to trust him, but she reminded herself, she had learned hard lessons at Osterley. Finally she answered, "Yes, I am looking for The Royal Crescent."

"Then may I be of some assistance? You're going in the wrong direction. The Crescent is up
Milsom Street
and then through King's Circus and—" The man suddenly frowned, as if noticing her weary state for the first time. "Perhaps I'd best take you. Quite frankly, you do not look as if you could make it there alone." He nodded at the high-sprung, lacquered carriage that waited for him at the bottom of the street. "Allow me." He graciously offered her his arm.

"I'm afraid I cannot." Brienne stepped back; her sudden movement made her dizzy. She didn't know what to make of this stranger's generous offer.

"Please, princess. You look as if you're ready to drop." He grasped her arm and steadied her, and she found his fingers warm and pleasant.

"Princess—what a name to be calling me," she murmured, finding his name for her at odds with her appearance.

"It's not so strange. Not when one considers how you speak. "You speak like nobility, princess." His eyes examined her gently. "And if you didn't have that dirty cloak to hide behind, I daresay, you would look like nobility, too."

"I am going to The Royal Crescent to find employment as a servant," she said quickly. "I'm afraid you are mistaken."

"Mistaken or not, allow me to take you there." He smiled a beckoning, boyish smile.

She hesitated, but when he began steering her toward the carriage, she decided a real servant wouldn't refuse the generous offer of a ride. She would only make herself more conspicuous by refusing it.

Once inside the large black carriage, she began to doubt the wisdom of her decision. She wondered if she should have insisted upon directions and then, after doling out hearty thanks, trooped up the hill on her own.

But the stuffed leather seat of the carriage's comfortable interior compelled her to believe otherwise. As soon as she was seated, she realized how bone tired she was. She was as tired as one could be without dropping in the gutter. She watched the young man take the other seat and knock on the door for the driver to be off, and she returned his smile, praying that he would truly take her to The Royal Crescent and not to his apartments.

As they lurched forward through the streets, the young man peered into Brienne's muddied, delicate face.

"Is The Crescent very far?" she inquired politely.

"No, but I cannot promise a quick ride. Carriages are inconvenient in Bath." He smiled at her, but she only dropped her eyes again, finding his curious stare highly unnerving. She
then noticed the slow pace they were taking to avoid collisions with the numerous chairs being towed in front of them. She finally looked out the window to ease her discomfort.

They had just left King's Circus with its three curved Palladian buildings, encircling a large cobblestoned center. Her delight was tempered with exhaustion, but the buildings were undeniably magnificent with their three orders of capitals— Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian—and with the sandy, acorn- carved finials that alternated above roof level.

"This ride is an unusual kindness." Her smile wavered. Examining the interior of the massive coach and the man's fine purple embroidered worsted topcoat, she was sure the man had wealth. She wondered if he
were
titled, too, but remembering the absence of a crest on the carriage door, she decided he was not.

"It's of no consequence whatsoever."

"Do you often offer rides to lost beggars?" she asked pointedly.

"No.
Only when they are exquisitely beautiful."

His comment and his dark brown eyes left her dumbstruck until the carriage came to a halt on
Brock Street
.

"Is this The Crescent?"

"My coachman needs the house number." He looked to her, but she was able to hide her consternation.

"The house number?" she echoed in a desultory manner.

"Well, there are at least thirty residences. Which one do you claim, princess?" he prodded gently.

"I cannot recall." She racked her memory for the number. She was taking too many risks already today to show up at the wrong house. "I have heard it spoken of as the first one. Could here be a first one, perhaps?"

"There's Number One. Shall we stop there?"

"Yes. That will be fine." She bit her lower lip as he intruded the coachman through the window. They began to move again.

Suddenly Brienne was plagued by doubt. What if the earl were in residence after all? Could she then make it to Tenby?

What if Avenel had somehow outmaneuvered her and were waiting for her here? What if the
earl were
not in residence but the servants didn't believe she was Oliver Morrow's daughter? What
if . . . ?
Her mind was pelted by questions, but all too soon they stopped at Number One, The Crescent.

"Allow me." The young gentleman jumped from the vehicle and extended his hand to help her down. Nervously she looked up at the house that faced
Brock Street
with its two- story Ionic columns and rusticated ground floor. She couldn't see the rest of the building as it wound around the corner, and so, feeling a bit less intimidated, she turned to thank the young man.

"You have been very kind."

"Not as kind as I could be, princess." He smiled down at her although he was only a few inches taller than she. "Is someone expecting you here? May I call on them for you?"

"No, no," she answered hastily, not at all sure of her reception. "Please, I must not take any more of your time. I am sure you have many pressing obligations, and I have made you late as it is."

"May I see you to the door?" He looked at the stairs that curved below the ground floor and led to the service entrance. She looked at them also but was determined that, if she did enter her father's house, it would be through the main entrance as Lady Brienne.

"No, thank you," she said, eyeing the stairway that led to the pedimented front door. "I've not been here for a very long time," she lied. "And I'm afraid it may take some time for me to reacquaint myself."

"Does your family work here? Will you be here awhile?" he pressed.

"I cannot say," she evaded.

"Well then, at least will you bestow upon me your name?"

"My name is Brienne," she faltered.

"Just Brienne?"
His fine brow lifted.

"Yes, just Brienne."

"A simply beautiful name for a simply beautiful maiden.
When will I see you again, Brienne?"

"I am sorry. Thank you for everything." She shook her head and started ascending the steps, obviously much to his surprise. Her forehead wrinkled with worry as she came closer to the front door, and she knew the young man was staring at her from the street. And she was feeling ill again—there was no doubt about it. She dreaded the next few moments, dreaded them with all her heart. Just thinking of her father made her mouth dry with fear. The possibility that he might be in the house before
her, that
he might even be watching her now from the drawing-room window, made her feel faint. But then, forcing herself to think of Osterley and its dark, demanding master, she raised the beautiful brass door knocker and let it fall.

The door opened immediately. "Yes," a footman answered dourly.

"I—I—" She swallowed and prayed that the wind would shift from the kitchen at the back. Her senses were suddenly overcome by the heavy odors of beef and lamb cooking. The onslaught was too much for her empty stomach and light head.

"Speak up, wench! You've got enough nerve coming to the door like this. You should be downstairs." The footman shook his gold braid on his red topcoat and watched her suspiciously. "Did Mallorey send you here, trying to get me ousted from the one decent bit o' living I've come across?"

"No, no one sent me. I . . ." She held the iron railing alongside the door, trying to keep her balance. "I have come to seek employment. Is the earl in residence?"

"The earl?"
The footman seemed taken aback. But then with a jovial, sly smile, he exclaimed, "Ah, Mallorey did send you! But you tell him I have no taste even for your fair flesh, lass, when I've been as good as gold for nigh a fortnight!
Hrumph!"
The footman snorted and began closing the door.

"Wait! You must tell me!" she gasped through her increasing delirium. "Is the earl in residence?"

"The earl?
Now, what would you be wantin' with him?"
He opened the door again and looked at her curiously.

"I have no business with him, except that I am seeking employment," she whispered. "Is he here?"

"Bligh' me!"
The footman slapped his knee and laughed out loud. "That whoremongering Mallorey has one bit o' humor in his old bones. The earl can't oblige you, lass, so take your sweet fanny back to his'n and tell him it just won't work." He stiffened at a noise coming from the depths of the house. "Look! You've got Mrs. Whitsome a-coming! Be off with you now! And tell Mallorey no more games."

"No, do not! I must know, is the earl in residence?" She watched as the door moved closer to its frame. She reeled suddenly, but whether this was from hunger, from the tantalizing scents wafting from the kitchens, or from the entire agony of the past three days, she didn't know. All she knew was that her eyesight was dimming, and as yet she still had no idea if the earl was in Bath. Gripping the wrought-iron bannister, she tried to back down the stairs. It was better to faint in the street than to pass out on the earl's doorstep.

But she was too late. Her endurance was spent. Stumbling backward, she fell limply into two waiting arms. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she missed seeing the horrified expression on the housekeeper's face as she came to the door.