Shady Lady (5 page)

“I see,” she said waspishly, “that you don’t dispute that you’re insufferable and arrogant.”

He bit down on a smile. “I’ve been called worse.”

She let out a frustrated breath.

He was fascinated by the way she responded to him—the baiting, the set-downs, the fiery looks from beneath her brows. This was not how most women treated him. If they weren’t fawning over him, they were flirting with him. But most women did not consider him an adversary. This was a new experience for him, matching wits and wills with a sharp-tongued shrew. He was almost tempted to kiss her into silence. Or better yet, paddle her posterior. If he had some say in the ordering of her life, he would keep her on a tight leash. She shouldn’t be wandering around Barnet at night without an escort. The place was teeming with young bucks looking for mischief.

Another thought occurred to him. If he had some say in the ordering of her life, he would insist that she cast off her drab mourning clothes and dress in the current mode. This devotion to her late husband was, in his opinion, unhealthy and not entirely credible.

It made him wonder about John Chesney. . . .

She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain why he’d come after her. He wished he could explain it to himself. The wager hardly mattered. He could easily have paid Ruggles off when they arrived at her door only to learn from the maid that her mistress and her companion had left for London. Instead, he’d set out after her, anticipating, he supposed, the pleasure he would get from crossing swords with this fiery termagant.

It was only a game, something to stave off boredom on the tedious drive from Stratford to London. And she hadn’t disappointed him.

“Well?” she said impatiently, finally breaking the silence. “I’m waiting, Mr. Bowman. Why did you follow me to Barnet? And I want the truth this time, if you please.”

Omitting all mention of the wager, which was irrelevant anyway, he said easily, “I told you, I went to your house on my way through Stratford, hoping to make amends for, shall we say, my manners the other day. Your maid told me you were on your way to London but would stay overnight in Barnet, at the Red Lion. You were not there, so I assumed you had taken the road through Oxford.”

“That’s no answer. Why go to so much trouble?”

He said patiently, “To offer you my escort to London. Finchley Common is not for the faint of heart, and two ladies on their own make an easy target for highwaymen.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “What’s on your mind?”

Her voice dropped a notch. “Where were you last night, Mr. Bowman?”

“You know where. In Warwick, celebrating a friend’s wedding.”

“Can someone vouch for that?”

There was a heartbeat of silence as he studied her. “Dozens of people,” he said easily. “Why?”

“Someone broke into my office last night and stole some notes sent to me by our London correspondent—you know the one I mean, the one whose name you were so eager to obtain.”

He said slowly, “And you think I might have had something to do with it?”

Her voice was flat and cool. “What I’m saying is that I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“You think I’d go that far just to get the name of a woman who is spreading gossip about me?”

“What if it’s more than gossip? What if she’s found out something damning about you, something incriminating that she was going to publish in her column? How far would you go to stop her, mmm?”

It happened so quickly, she didn’t have time to cry out. He moved like lightning. Strong fingers clamped around her arms and she was dragged forward to perch on the edge of the banquette.

His voice was hard with temper. “Now, you listen to me, Jo Chesney. Talk like that can get you killed, and not only you, but your correspondent as well. What if I was the thief? What if I had something to hide? You’re threatening me with exposure. If I was desperate to keep my secret, I’d have to get rid of you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded mutely.

“Are you sure of your facts?
Do
you have incriminating evidence against someone?”

She said quickly, “No. It’s only a theory I’m working on to explain the theft.”

He heaved a sigh and let her go. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, but you went too far. You can’t go around accusing people and expect them to ignore you. There are some bad people in the world, and you can’t tell just by looking at them. Watch your step, and watch what you say.”

She wasn’t exactly feeling contrite, but she was coming to see that he’d given her good advice. Her unguarded tongue had led her into danger. If she’d picked on the wrong man, she could be a corpse right now.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. As I said, it’s only a theory, and not a very good one either.”

Her words did little to mollify him. It was true that he wanted to know the name of her London correspondent, but only because the woman was a nuisance. Jo Chesney had the gall to question his integrity. A thief! That’s what she thought of him. Had she been a man, he would have had her by the throat right now.

She saw something in his eyes that made her wary. The coach was slowing. Before it had stopped, she was out the door. Once again, he surprised her. Lame leg or not, he could move like lightning. His hand cupped her elbow and she was forced to slow her steps.

“What is it now?” she asked, despising the quaver in her voice.

“My offer still stands. I’d be happy to take you and Mrs. Daventry up in my carriage and convey you to London.”

The thought of being cooped up with him in a carriage for hours on end appalled her. “Thank you, no. We’re fixed here for the night.”

“I don’t mind delaying until tomorrow morning.”

When they came to the inn’s back door, she turned to face him. “Your companions might have something to say about that.”

“My . . . ? Ah.” He gave her a slow smile. “You mean my friend Ruggles and the charming ladies I left back at the Green Man. We shared dinner with them, and that’s all we shared.”

Her voice was thin. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

As though she had not spoken, he went on to elaborate, “Miss Hill and Miss Evans won’t be going with us. They are actresses, you see, and are on their way to Stratford, where they are performing in
The Tempest
.”

She didn’t want to get into a discussion about acting and actresses, she just wanted him to go away. “One of my favorite plays,” she said brightly, then emphatically, “
Good night
, Mr. Bowman.”

He raised his walking cane, effectively barring her from entering the hotel. He said seriously, “You haven’t told me everything. I’d like to help. I know you’re in some kind of trouble. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

For a moment her resolve wavered, then her lips curled in a cynical smile. “Charm, threats, and now kindness. It won’t work, Mr. Bowman. I’m
not
going to tell you who writes the gossip column for my paper.”

He was unsmiling. “That was a game. This break-in is serious. Won’t you let me help, Jo?”

She was too eager to be rid of him to correct him for using her Christian name. She shook her head. “You’re imagining things.”

He knew that he wasn’t, and her reluctance to confide in him came, surprisingly, as a disappointment. He sighed. “Look, if ever you need a friend, you’ll find me at the Albany on Piccadilly. I have rooms there.”

She looked away. “Thank you. Now, will you let me pass?”

He lowered his cane.

“Good night, Mr. Bowman.” And with that, she was gone.

Waldo walked back to his carriage, muttering under his breath. She was one of the most exasperating females he knew. He’d offered her his protection and she’d refused it as though he’d offered her a hot coal. A woman could be too independent for her own good. Independent, stubborn, willful, and fiery—those were the words that came to mind when he thought of Jo Chesney. She was also gallant, or so Henry said, and reckless—a lethal combination, in his experience.

Any fool could see that she was in some kind of trouble. He couldn’t just leave her in the lurch.

She hadn’t mentioned the reason for this sudden trip to London. He’d tried quizzing the maid, but either she had not known or she’d been told to be discreet. He wondered now if it had anything to do with Lady Tellall. Someone, a thief, had discovered her identity. Maybe Jo was posting down to town to warn her. But why not send a letter? Why come in person?

There must be more to it than that.

In spite of the fact that she’d refused his help, his own principles wouldn’t allow him to accept her refusal as final.

There was only one thing to do. He would ignore her objections and call for her and her aunt first thing in the morning and insist that they allow him to escort them to London. With Ruggles and Mrs. Daventry in the carriage to keep the conversation civilized, maybe he could learn what was troubling her.

And if that didn’t work, if she refused his offer of help again, he’d walk away and never look back.

Jo raced up the stairs, entered the chamber she shared with her aunt, and quickly shut the door. Her breath was coming hard and fast. She was trembling.

Waldo Bowman
. Was he deliberately trying to confuse her? He’d looked so sincere when he said he wanted to help her that she’d almost blurted out the whole sorry story about Chloë. She should know better. This was the man who had confronted her in her office and threatened to sue her. He wanted Chloë’s name. He’d followed her to Barnet. She couldn’t trust him, mustn’t trust him.

All the same, he’d seemed genuinely shocked and angry when she’d accused him of breaking into the
Journal
’s offices.

If ever you need a friend, you’ll find me at the Albany.

He couldn’t have known how much those words affected her. If only . . .

She shook her head. She didn’t know what to believe, but until she learned more about Chloë’s disappearance, she would be wise to trust no one but herself.

She took a few steps into the room and halted. No one was there. She was taken aback. All her aunt’s clothes were gone, but she’d left her reticule. Jo picked it up. The pistol weighed heavily in her hand.

It didn’t look as though her aunt would have gone far, not without her reticule. The thought had hardly registered when someone knocked at the door. It was the chambermaid with a note from Mrs. Daventry.

Jo read:

Eric Foley is in desperate need of our help, so I’ve gone to the school to rescue him. Hurry, Jo. This is serious. I’ll wait for you there.

With a muffled exclamation, Jo thrust the pistol into her own reticule and quickly left the room.

C
hapter
5

T
here were lights showing in the east wing of the school when Jo arrived. She’d had the good fortune, when she’d left the Red Lion, to come upon a chaise that had just set down its passengers, and she’d hired it on the spot. Now, as one postboy looked after the horses, the other followed in her footsteps as she approached the porter’s lodge. To her great surprise and relief, there was no porter on duty and the gate was unlocked.

She paused for a moment, marshaling her confidence, reminding herself that she was a woman of substance and used to being taken seriously. She didn’t know what was waiting for her, but whatever it was, she was up to handling it.

All the same, she hoped that her fears were groundless and this was all a colossal misunderstanding.

The front door was opened by a maid in a white apron and mobcap, a girl of about fourteen summers or so, whose lips trembled and dark eyes filled with tears when she saw Jo. She seemed to know who Jo was and had been waiting for her to appear.

“You’ve got to help her,” she cried, her tears running over. “They’ve sent the porter to fetch the constable. You see, she wouldn’t leave quietly, not without the boy. And it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have told her, but I didn’t know who else to tell, see?”

“You spoke to my aunt?”

The girl sniffed. “She’s so kind. I was here when you came with the parcel. I heard you talking. You was going back to the Red Lion to get your dinner. So, when no one was looking, I went and fetched her.”

Jo remembered who the maid was now. She had taken the parcel from them to give to Eric.

“What has happened to Eric?” she asked gently.

The soft tones brought on a fresh bout of weeping. “Mr. Harding beat him something awful, then locked him in the closet. The poor mite was moaning and wheezing, and . . . and . . . I didn’t know what to do.”

Jo shook her head, hardly crediting that such things could happen in a place like this. This wasn’t a grim, workhouse school. It was a substantial building, well cared for inside and out. Even the candles were the best quality. Beeswax did not smoke or stink like tallow. Only parents who were well off could have afforded to send their sons to a school like this.

She remembered her aunt saying that Mr. Harding was a fiend for discipline, and wondered if the maid had exaggerated what had happened.

“Why was Mr. Harding so angry with Eric?” she asked.

“Because he ran away from school.”

“Where is Eric now?”

The girl pointed upstairs. “In the closet, next door to the infirmary.”

“And Mrs. Daventry?”

She pointed to a door on Jo’s left. “Through that door to the schoolrooms.”

No sounds came from behind the closed door.

As though reading Jo’s mind, the maid said, “They’ve gagged her and tied her to a chair until Constable Harding gets here.”

Jo’s jaw went slack. “Gagged and tied her to a chair?” she repeated faintly. Something else occurred to her. “Did you say Constable
Harding
?”

The maid nodded. “He’s Mr. Harding’s brother.”

Stricken, Jo looked first at the postboy, then at the maid. This was turning into a nightmare. She’d been counting on the authorities to take charge if things got out of hand. They’d take charge, all right, but they’d probably arrest her aunt and leave Eric in the care of his wicked headmaster.

Jo was outraged.

The postboy said, “You don’t want to tangle with Mr. Harding, miss. He’s a real devil when his temper’s up. And the law is in his pocket, if you sees what I mean.”

This little speech acted like flame to tinder. Hot flags of color appeared in Jo’s cheeks. “We’ll see about that,” she declared. “But first things first.” She glanced upstairs, then looked at the door to the schoolrooms. “Eric,” she said, “then my aunt. Come along. I’ll need both of you to help me.”

On the way up, she learned their names. The postboy, a small, wiry lad of twenty, was called Roy, and the maid was Phoebe. Phoebe was eager to lead the way, but Roy looked as though he would rather be anywhere but there. Jo also learned why there were no boys to be seen. The dormitories were on the other side of the schoolrooms, and only the boys in the infirmary were allowed on this side of the building.

No one hindered their progress, and in no time at all, Jo turned the key in the lock and opened the closet door. “You can come out now, Eric,” she said.

The only response was a dry cough and a wheeze.

It was dark inside the closet, so she sent Roy to get a candle from one of the wall sconces. This done, she bent down with candle in hand and looked inside. All she could see was a bundle of rags.

“Eric,” she said softly. “I’ve come to take you away.”

The rags moved and a face appeared, a small white face with enormous eyes. “I want my mam,” he cried. “Go away.”

Oh, God, what was she supposed to say to that? She stretched out her hand, but it only made him cringe away.

“Hurry, ma’am,” said Phoebe anxiously. “The constable may be here at any moment.”

Jo felt utterly helpless. Eric wouldn’t come to her, because he thought of her as his enemy. But he might go to Phoebe. She made her voice as gentle and as soothing as she could make it. “You like Phoebe, don’t you, Eric? Well, she’s going to take you away from this awful place, and Roy is going to help her.”

In the end, it was Roy who got the boy out. Eric could hardly stand, and when Roy hoisted him into his arms, he whimpered pitifully. Jo felt his hand. It was ice cold.

She concealed her anger behind a smile. “We’ll soon get you warm,” she said. His eyes watched her warily as she stripped off her coat and wrapped it around him. “Now,” she said, “let’s get him out of here.”

Before they had taken a step, they heard foot treads on the stairs.

“Matron,” whispered Phoebe as a small dark woman with intense eyes rounded the corner. “Now we’re done for.”

“And who might you be?” demanded Matron, staring hard at Jo.

“Thank you,” said Jo, plucking the glass of water that Matron held in one hand. “I presume this is for Eric?” She passed it to Phoebe. “I’m Eric’s aunt,” she went on politely. “Aunt Jo. How do you do.”

Matron’s eyes passed over them and moved to the open closet. “I’ll fetch Mr. Harding,” she said. “He’ll soon deal with you.”

She turned to go, but Jo was quicker. She grabbed the matron by the waist, hustled her into the closet, then quickly closed and locked the door. Matron immediately started banging on the door and crying for help.

Three pairs of eyes looked at Jo in wonder.

Eric said, “Are you really my aunt Jo?”

This was no time for involved explanations. “Of course,” she replied.

She took the glass of water from Phoebe and put it to Eric’s lips. “Drink,” she said briskly. He did not flinch away from her this time. Still keeping his eyes on her, he took a long swallow, then another, before shaking his head, indicating that he’d had enough.

No one else accosted them on their way downstairs, and if they had, Jo would have had no qualms about holding them at bay with her aunt’s pistol. In fact, having seen the sorry state Eric was in, she was angry enough to use it. Though there were no visible bruises and no limbs were broken, he whimpered at every step the postboy took on the way down.

At the bottom of the stairs, she told Roy to take Eric to the chaise and wait for her, then she spoke quietly to Phoebe.

“You can’t stay here now, Phoebe. You know that, don’t you? Matron knows you helped me. Do you have relatives in Barnet, someone you can go to?”

Phoebe smiled. “Don’t you worry about me, miss. I’m going to tell them that you
made
me show you where Eric was, and after what you did to Matron, I think they’ll believe me, don’t you?”

Jo’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, yes, I think they’ll believe you, but just to make sure you’re in the clear, tell them I threatened you with my pistol.”

Phoebe’s eyes flared. “You don’t mean . . . ?”

“Oh, yes, I do. Right here.” Jo removed the pistol from her reticule and held it out for Phoebe’s inspection. “Don’t look so worried. I don’t think it’s loaded. Now, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to announce me, then you’re going to untie my aunt and help me get her out of here. All right?”

Even as she said the words, Jo had her doubts. Nothing could be that simple.

Phoebe nodded, not very convincingly.

Jo hoped that her own fear was not as apparent as the maid’s. Attempting to bolster Phoebe’s confidence, she said, “Mr. Harding is a man who likes to pick on the weak and helpless. Well, he’s in for the shock of his life if he picks on me. Think of Matron if you don’t believe me.”

Her words worked. “She’s such a Tartar! I don’t know how you did it,” exclaimed Phoebe.

“Just watch me!” said Jo, very convincingly for a lady whose knees were beginning to knock together.

She hid the pistol in the folds of her gown. “Lead on, then, Phoebe. I’ll be right behind you.”

As Phoebe announced her, Jo took in the room at a glance. It was typical of other schoolrooms she had known, with desks and chairs bolted to a sloping floor. Her aunt was tied to the master’s chair, mumbling behind her gag. Her bonds didn’t look too formidable, not rope or leather but strips of rags. When she saw Jo, Mrs. Daventry’s eyes lit up.

Two gentlemen turned at her entrance. She had no trouble deciding which one was Mr. Harding. He was the elder of the two, and his pale plump face was marred by a scowl.

His voice matched his expression. “I didn’t give you permission to enter. Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m Mrs. Chesney,” she said, “and I’ve come to see what is keeping my aunt.” She feigned a gasp. “Auntie! What have they done to you?” Then to Phoebe, “Untie her at once.”

When Phoebe hastened to obey, Harding moved to block her. “Oh, no, you don’t! This woman is demented! I’ve sent for the constable and—” His voice faded as Jo brought up the pistol and pointed it straight at his chest.

Her hand shook, but that was all to the good. A nervous woman was a dangerous woman. “I really don’t want any trouble,” she said, and was surprised at how steady her voice was. “Let’s agree that there has been a colossal misunderstanding. I don’t want to shoot anyone. All I want is my aunt.”

The younger man looked gratifyingly terrified. “Mr. Harding,” he said, “perhaps we should do as she says. I don’t—”

Harding made a slashing movement with one hand, silencing his companion. His breathing was quick and harsh. “Have you lost your mind, woman? You must be crazy to come barging in here, threatening me with a gun. I’d advise you to put it away before I take it away from you.”

She spoke in the deadliest voice she could muster. “Try it and see what happens.”

Mrs. Daventry was on her feet and her gag was off. “I’m not leaving here without Eric,” she declared.

Jo’s mind was racing, trying to come up with a ruse that would give them time to get away. She didn’t think she could manhandle Mr. Harding into a closet and, anyway, she didn’t want to get too close to him in case he took her gun away.

“You there!” she said to Phoebe. “Show my aunt where the boy is. Now!”

Mrs. Daventry looked as though she might remonstrate with Jo for addressing Phoebe, whom she regarded as a friend, in such strident tones, but something in her niece’s expression warned her to keep her tongue still. She left quietly with Phoebe.

Harding stood there, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Jo was counting the seconds, trying to calculate how much time her aunt would need to get to the chaise, regretting now that she hadn’t told them to go without her at the first sign of trouble.

After a long, interminable silence, she gave a tiny shrug. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it? I’d advise you not to come after me.”

As she spoke, she backed away from them. The younger man looked vastly relieved to see her go. Mr. Harding, on the other hand, kept pace with her. Her arm was cramping from holding the heavy pistol, but she dared not lower it yet.

In the hallway, she could hear the rumpus upstairs as Matron banged on the door. Harding’s gaze swiveled toward the noise and Jo seized her chance. She was through the front door before he could grab her.

Almost at once, she heard a shout and someone yelling for her to stop. This only had the effect of making her run faster. She was almost at the chaise when a hand clamped around her arm and dragged her back. Acting out of sheer animal instinct, she lashed out with her clenched fist.

Harding let out a howl of pain and covered his nose with his cupped hands. Blood streamed down his shirt- front. “You’ve broken my nose,” he yelled.

“I’ll do worse than that if you try to stop me.” She was shaking so badly, she needed both hands to hold her pistol steady. “Put your hands in the air and back off,” she commanded. “You too, Phoebe.”

They both did as they were told, but Harding was reckless with temper. “You won’t get away with this. Kidnapping is a capital offense. I’ll see you hang for it!”

“Then I’ve nothing to lose if I shoot you, have I?”

Finally convinced that he was dealing with a lunatic, Harding backed up another step.

Jo entered the chaise. “Quick, get us back to the inn,” she shouted to her postboys. She was careful not to give the inn’s name.

The chaise jolted into motion and was soon rattling over cobblestones. Jo edged into the corner to give Eric more room. There was only one banquette, and he took up most of it. Although there wasn’t much to see in the coach’s dark interior, she could feel his eyes on her. She wanted to comfort him but, remembering how he’d reacted to her in the closet, she decided that her best course was to leave him to her aunt.

Mrs. Daventry cooed and made soothing sounds as she fussed over Eric. Satisfied that all was well with him, she said to Jo, “Thank the dear Lord you had the presence of mind to bring my pistol with you. I was in such a panic when I left, I never even thought of it.”

“Yes, it certainly did the trick. I don’t know what I would have done without it.”