The Nightingale Legacy (7 page)

“A good point. Come now, let’s go downstairs and have luncheon. Owen has Miss Clorinda to attend him. I venture to say he’ll soon be feverish for quite another reason.”

“What would that be? Oh no, she’s not feeding him wine or beef or heavy things like that, is she?”

“No, Miss Smith, she is giving him gruel with a dollop of honey on top.”

“Excellent, don’t worry me like that again. Oh dear, my hair.”

He handed her a comb with a dark hair in it and pointed to the small mirror atop the bed table. He stood by the door, his arms folded over his chest, watching her while she smoothed out the tangles, then splashed water on her face from the pitcher beside the mirror. He watched her lightly pat her cheeks with a soft towel.

He’d watched only one other lady perform her toilette. He’d been so very young, a babe, really, but the picture of her in his mind for just a brief instant made pain slice through him even though her face was an indistinct shadow
in his mind. He remembered humming, a smile, a very lovely smile, and it was given to him, from her. He turned away, opened the door, and walked into the narrow dusty hallway.

“Come along, Miss Smith.”

It was midnight. Three days they’d been here at the Black Hair Inn. Strangely enough, Lord Chilton had remained as well, saying only when she commented on it, “I am being amused for the moment.” Nothing more, just that, and she’d wanted to hit him, for it sounded like she and Owen were oddities for his entertainment. Still, she was very grateful for his presence. Without him, she just knew that Mr. Tewksberry would have tossed her and Owen out on their respective ears.

She knew Mr. Ffalkes was coming, she just knew it, so when there was a knock on the bedroom door at midnight, she didn’t rise, didn’t say a single word. The door flew open, crashed against the wall, and Mr. Ffalkes strode into Lord Chilton’s former bedchamber, given over two days ago to Owen.

“Ah!”

“Good evening, Mr. Ffalkes. How did you find us?”

“Find you, damn your eyes, you stupid—”

“I pray you to keep your voice down, sir. Your son is still ill and is now sleeping.”

Mr. Ffalkes grunted at that, but did look at his son curled up beneath a mountain of blankets. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We were riding an entire night in the rain. He came down with a cold. He is improving and should be quite recovered by the end of the week.”

“You take my son hostage and then you try to kill him?”

“Hostage? A lady take a gentleman
hostage
?”

Mr. Ffalkes whirled about at the intruder’s voice. He saw a nobleman, no doubt about it in his mind. He could spot a nobleman from two miles away, damn their arrogance, their supercilious attitudes, their drawling voices that made resentment boil in him, for surely he should have been born on a richer blanket, like his cousin, that damned sod of a knight, who was, at least, now long dead.

“Yes,” Caroline said. “I’m surprised Owen hasn’t told you, but I suppose he wanted to protect me. I did take him as my hostage, and he must have seen himself honor-bound to keep quiet in that role. This is his father, Mr. Roland Ffalkes. Sir, this is Lord Chilton.”

“So, you’re her father.”

“What?”

“Well, if Owen is her brother, then a paternal conclusion rather jumps to the fore, does it not?”

Mr. Ffalkes drew himself up. He looked rather formidable in his dark cloak and his boots. “I am her betrothed,” he said, “not that it is any of your business, Lord Chilton.”

“Oh no, it’s none of my business at all, though you do seem a trifle old for the young lady. May I inquire why your son is her hostage?”

“He is not her hostage, that is nonsense. He is a man. No, you may not inquire about anything. You are intruding. You may leave now, sir.”

“You are not my betrothed,” Caroline said, rising. “Just stop this nonsense, Mr. Ffalkes. Lord Chilton, this man was my guardian until I became nineteen last week. He tried to force me to marry Owen, but that was ridiculous, then he was going to rape me and force me to marry himself instead. I got away and took Owen with me as a hostage. Then,” she added, looking over at Owen, who was awake now, the covers pulled nearly to his eyes, staring at his father like a
boy who has just been caught stealing his father’s money, “Owen got ill.”

“I see,” Chilton said.

“Leave now, sir,” Mr. Ffalkes said.

“How did you find us?”

Mr. Ffalkes looked at his son as he said, “It rained a lot. Every inn you stopped at remembered you. Also, I had five men out searching for the direction you took.”

“I’ll just wager you paid them with my money, didn’t you, you bloody thief?”

“It would seem to me, sir,” Chilton said, seeing that Miss Smith was now alarmingly red in the face and holding a fire poker in her left hand snuggled in her skirts, “that since Miss Smith here—”

“Smith? What is this idiocy? Smith? Her name is Derwent-Jones and I am her betrothed. I believe we will be wed before we leave here.”

“—that Miss Derwent-Jones is of age, thus if she doesn’t want to marry you, she doesn’t have to.”

“Naturally she does. Her reputation is in shreds. She has no reputation unless I marry her and repair it.”

“I would rather marry Owen!”

There was whimpering from the bed.

“Hush, my boy, I won’t saddle you with her. I’ll saddle myself and regret it doubtless, but it will be done.”

North Nightingale, Lord Chilton, looked from Mr. Ffalkes, who didn’t look to be all that bad a man, but did look to be stubborn as a stoat and perfectly ready to do anything to gain what he wanted, to Miss Derwent-Jones, who was ready to raise that poker and strike Mr. Ffalkes on the head, to the whimpering Owen, whose eyes were now tightly closed above the line of blankets, and said, “Do you know, Mr. Ffalkes, that Miss Derwent-Jones has been sleeping in my bed for the past three nights? Did you also know
that I invariably awaken her in the morning, my fingertips smoothing over her eyebrows? Do you know how much I enjoy watching her comb her hair and bathe?”

Mr. Ffalkes just stared at him.

Caroline could only stare at him. He’d told the exact truth. It sounded like she was a strumpet. She understood that he was trying to save her from Mr. Ffalkes.

“I want my inheritance, Mr. Ffalkes. I want you to sign over the papers to me right this minute. I want what is mine by right.”

“Nothing is really yours, my girl. You’re naught but a female and thus are incapable of dealing with your own affairs. Your father was a fool to leave things thusly. No, you will have a husband—I—and I will deal with everything, including you and my son. I will even accept you though you’ve consorted with this man whilst your poor cousin Owen was here suffering by himself.”

“Surely this is a melodrama,” North said to the fireplace. “A very bad melodrama, much like the one in London last March where this young man was convinced his love had betrayed him and thus went on a rampage and killed a goat by mistake and—”

“That is enough, sir!”

“Actually,” North said gently, “it’s ‘my lord.’ Contrive not to forget your manners, else I will have to challenge you to a duel and wound you and then both you and Owen would be laid up side by side, complaining.”

“Arrogant young puppy.”

“Now, that is just fine, so long as you identify me after your string of descriptive words.”

Caroline stared at the two men, drew herself up, and said, “Mr. Ffalkes, now that you’re here, you will take over Owen’s care. I’m leaving. Lord Chilton, thank you for your assistance. I very much appreciate it.”

“You’re not going anywhere, my girl!” Mr. Ffalkes grabbed her arm as she walked past him and jerked her about. North watched transfixed as she raised the poker and struck Mr. Ffalkes hard on his shoulder.

He yowled, releasing her. “You damned bitch, I’ll—”

She hit him again on his other shoulder, then threw the poker to the floor. She dusted her hands, picked up her valise, and began to pile her clothes into it.

“You’ve killed me.”

“No,” she said, not looking at him, “but I wish I had. Leave me alone, Mr. Ffalkes. I will have my solicitor contact you.”

She picked up her cloak and strode from the bedchamber. Mr. Ffalkes made to go after her, but Owen, emerging from beneath his fortress of blankets, said, “No, Father, do let her go. She won’t wed me and she won’t wed you. She doesn’t care about her reputation. Please, Father, give her her money. End it now and let’s go home.”

“I won’t give her a bloody sou, and you, you faithless sniveling hound, I will see that you suffer for the muddle you’ve made of everything.”

“Muddle? Father, I became ill. If I hadn’t become ill, then you would never have found us.”

“Don’t be a fool, Owen. I know where she’s going. To her aunt Ellie in Cornwall, in a godforsaken place called Trevellas. If I hadn’t found the two of you here, I would have continued on there. It’s better I found you here, though, for that blasted woman would have tried to protect her.”

North felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Trevellas? Aunt Ellie? For an instant he felt light-headed, then a searing pain went through him, a pain that would be her pain very soon.

“It has been quite an experience,” North said to Mr. Ffalkes. He nodded to Owen, who said unexpectedly and
with a good deal of liking, “Thank you, North, for taking care of me. I hope I will see you again. Perhaps you can teach me more strategy at piquet.”

“Humph,” said his father.

“Perhaps,” North said. “Good-bye, Owen, Mr. Ffalkes.”

Mr. Ffalkes gave him a cold bow, saying nothing. He turned to his son and said, “You will remain here, Owen, and keep yourself warm, though how you can bear all those blankets is beyond me. I’m going after Miss Derwent-Jones. She won’t get far. She won’t bring me low this time. I will handle things. I am a man and I am devious and I will see to it.”

And North thought as he walked down the corridor,
Like hell you will.

N
ORTH STARED AT
Tewksberry, feeling a bolt of deep admiration, and tried to keep himself from laughing out loud.

“Aye, my lord, you might just look that disgusted, for that little strum—er, miss, left and without paying her shot, just as I said. What am I to do?”

He should have known, North thought, yes, he should have known. Well, and why should she have to pay for Owen, her hostage?
Hostage.
He fought again to control his laughter. She’d taken a man hostage. He just shrugged and said, “Her father is upstairs right now with her brother. His name is Mr. Roland Ffalkes. Quite naturally he will cover what’s owing.”

“But why did she fly off like a bird out of its cage if her father’s come?”

“It seems,” North said, leaning forward, all confidences, “that Mr. Ffalkes’s wife, Mathilda, eloped with a German footman. The daughter took the mother’s part and ran away too, the brother coming with her. She dislikes the father thoroughly. You’ll see he’s rather a nasty sort.”

“Ah,” said Tewksberry. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. A footman, eh? German, you say? Poor little mite.”

North nodded solemnly, paid his own bill, nodded to Mr. Tewksberry, and left the inn. He walked out into the inn yard, lightly slapping his riding crop against his thigh. The morning was overcast and would prove to be warm.

Rain threatened, but then again, rain always threatened in England, particularly here on the southwest coast. He called to one of the stable lads to bring out Treetop, who was probably so bored with his inactivity he’d race like the wind. He had to catch up with her and he doubted it would take him very long at all. Treetop was a magnificent beast, fleet and strong.

The boy saluted and bobbed, then ran into the large ramshackle stable set off to the side of the inn. He returned in very short order, red in the face, his eyes darting about frantically in search of help, of which there was none.

“Yer ’orse is gone, milord.”

“I beg your pardon? It’s the bay gelding with the two white socks.”

“I know, milord, but Sparkie says the young lady took Treetop and left ’er own ’orse fer ye—a brave old mare, full in the shoulders, but not a goer, milord, iffen ye ken what I mean.”

He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought, this time curses rather than amusement bubbling up. She’d done in Mr. Ffalkes and now she’d done him in as well, and with little effort on her part. She’d doubtless eyed Treetop and known she’d make better time with that superb beast carrying her than her own mare, who looked like she’d been eating her head off since they’d arrived here. She looked sleepy and lazy.

“Well, you old nag, what do you say?”

The old nag gave him a bored look.

“That bad, is it? No choice, sorry. Shall we find your mistress? It seems she’s misplaced herself along with my horse.”

Within minutes he’d found the note scribbled on a small bit of foolscap stuck in one of the leather saddle folds. He read:

Lord Chilton:

 

Do forgive me for taking your horse, but I don’t want Mr. Ffalkes to catch up with me. I would have to shoot him this time. I will return your horse to you, I swear. Wherever I go I will ask about Goonbell.

 

yr. servant

Caroline Derwent-Jones

Within five more minutes he was on his way back to Cornwall. So much for London, his man of business, his charming mistress, Judith, who was also an actress, who wouldn’t remain faithful to him or any other man if memorizing her lines depended on it. He sighed. Well, Judith was a bit slow in her thinking even if she chattered all the time. He remembered one evening he’d just crested in his pleasure when she’d said in a chirpy voice, “How I would love to play Desdemona, my lord. Can’t you just see me in a long blond wig—yellow blond—and Iago would do me in and my handsome Moor would strangle me and then regret it so deeply that he would arrange my lovely self against the covers and the pillow and then kill himself in his anguish and—”

He’d groaned, his fingers itching to go around her damned throat. He realized now that he was perilously close to laughing aloud remembering the ridiculous matter. He’d believed Judith incredibly skilled, which she was, but stupid, which hadn’t mattered. Her incessant chatter had grated, but somehow it paled when she caressed him and kissed him and… Damnation, now he was riding after that damned chit who had stolen his horse. Treetop had never known a sidesaddle before. He hoped he wouldn’t find her in a ditch somewhere with a broken neck.