Marguerite sank down on to her bed. What had she done? Her instincts had warned her that the Brechins were insincere, yet she had gone ahead and done as they asked. The truth was that she’d been too scared not to do as they demanded. Although their request had been cloaked in civility, it had still been an unmistakable demand. What a pathetic fool she was. Why had she not checked with John first, before she handed the scales over?
She rose and stood in front of the mirror. “You have committed theft, my girl,” she told her reflection.
Well, in that case she would have to retrieve the scales somehow.
Perhaps one of the stableboys might be able to tell her how to trace the Brechins. Since she’d begun riding lessons she had hobnobbed with the grooms and stableboys and found them to be a helpful bunch. They took her love of animals in their stride and let her pet the more placid horses. Dear Diabolo had been so careful not to bite her as he lipped at the apples she took him.
She discarded her slippers and pulled on her half-boots. Slipping out a side door, she made for the stables.
“Tobias?” she called.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“How can I get to Newbury?” she asked him. He was the youngest stableboy and was the least likely to ask questions.
“Oh, that’s easy, Miss.” Tobias was all helpfulness. “Just take one of the carriages. It’s not far.” He glanced at the carriage clock in the corner. “If you be wishful to go now, then you’d be there before dinner time, miss.”
Drat it. A day wasted. She could not possibly arrive at a stranger’s house at dinnertime. She hoped the wretched Brechins were staying at Newbury for several days.
It seemed strange to use her host’s carriage to rectify a mistake she had made, but she decided it was her only alternative.
In the event, there was no difficulty about it.
The next morning after an early breakfast, the Trewbridge family farewelled the last of their guests.
The marchioness turned to Marguerite. “I shan’t be needing you this morning, Marguerite.” She smiled and suggested, “You could ask Morecombe to take you into Devizes if you wish, or perhaps Tobias might give you another riding lesson.”
Then the family filed into the library, and for the first time since she’d worked for them, Marguerite was excluded. She sucked in her breath. She knew what they were going to discuss. Were they also planning to dismiss her?
She hurried to the stables. Nobody would miss her for some time. By then, with luck, she would be on her way back with the scales.
Her first setback came on her arrival at Newbury. She had not the slightest idea where the Brechins were staying, because although she had planned to ask the marchioness at dinner the evening before, she had been unable to face the family. So she had sent down her excuses and nobody had bothered to persuade her otherwise. Miserable, she had spent the evening staring out into the darkness.
Fortunately the coachman had had lots of experience at finding unknown addresses. He left the horses in the care of a stableboy while he went into the Hare and Hounds and made inquiries. A few minutes later he came out of the hostelry wiping his hand across his mouth. “Found them,” he announced, taking up the reins again.
They passed right through Newbury and took a side-road that headed back west again. When Morecombe finally halted the carriage, it had begun to snow. Marguerite found herself in the courtyard of a big manor house with rather unkempt grounds. She hopped down unassisted and said to the coachman, “You’d best keep the horses walking, Morecombe.”
“Was going to anyways, ma’am,” he answered. In other words, his horses were a lot more valuable than some fool woman who had set out on a journey when a snowstorm was imminent.
She trod through the snow up to the front door which opened before she could tug at the bell-rope.
“Miss?” asked a butler who was so casually attired that she could have sworn she’d got him out of bed. But the morning was well advanced so she did not think it likely.
“I am looking for Lord and Lady Brechin.” She indicated the carriage behind her. “I’ve come from Trewbridge.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, miss. They left this morning when we realized it was coming on to snow. They—”
“Who’s there, Cummings?” demanded an irritable voice. “Shut that door! It’s freezing.”
It certainly was, Marguerite thought, standing shivering on the doorstep.
The butler gestured for her to enter, and without thinking, she walked right in.
Into the gloomiest, dirtiest house she had ever seen. A handsome young man in a robe lounged in front of a fire in a drawing room that opened off the foyer. He gestured to her, but she stayed where she was. Rather late for prudence at this stage, Marguerite, she told herself. But at least Morecombe was outside waiting for her, poor man. She longed to rush up and warm her hands at the fire, but she knew she had already been silly enough, entering a stranger’s house in the first place.
She curtsied. “Sir, your butler tells me that Lord and Lady Brechin have left for their London house.”
The young man’s glazed eyes stared at her for a moment. “Yes, snow was threatening, and we’d come to the end of our fun and games, if you understand my meaning. Well, of course you’ll understand if you’re a friend of theirs.” He gave a careless half-laugh. Then he shoved a slippered foot out in front of him and she could see the long, dark hairs on his legs. The man had nothing on beneath his robe! His head lolled against the chair-back, and one hand languidly toyed with the tassel on a cushion beside him. “And it certainly was fun this time, wasn’t it, Cummings?” he added.
To Marguerite’s amazement, he made a swipe at the butler’s backside as the man passed him to place another log on the fire. Before he knelt to tend to the fire, the butler turned to face her. “Go,” was all he said.
She lurched towards the front door, followed by the young man’s voice. “Hi! Come back here.”
Skidding down the wet steps she banged herself against the rear of the carriage that Morecombe had drawn up in readiness.
“Miss! Are you all right?” Conscientious Morecombe didn’t dare let go the horses’ heads, and he showed signs of panicking when he realized that Marguerite was hurt.
“’Tis nothing, Morecombe. Let us return to the Hare and Hounds. I must get on the stage there.” She could hardly commandeer the Trewbridge carriage for the long journey all the way to London.
The coachman leapt up on to the box with alacrity, hunching into his voluminous cloak to protect him from the biting cold.
When they reached the inn, Morecombe took the horses around to the stables and Marguerite inquired where she could book a seat on the next stage. At least she knew where Brechin House was in London. During the course of her work for the marchioness she had addressed several letters there.
But Morecombe was horrified when she suggested he partake of some refreshments and then hurry back to Trewbridge before the snow got worse. “But miss, I cannot leave you alone at a coaching inn!”
Marguerite was not exactly sanguine herself. For the first time in her life she would be alone. All she had with her was a reticule, though fortunately she was wearing a warm lined cloak and a fur muff. But her feet were chilled inside her half-boots, and although she could afford a private room in which to wait, she was so anxious that she might miss the change, which she had been told was very fast, that she did not dare leave the waiting room beside the taproom.
The coachman persisted. “Miss, you cannot do this. The coach might be snowbound afore it reaches London. Let me take you back to Trewbridge. Please.” Morecombe’s last word sounded desperate.
But Marguerite was desperate too. Desperate to set right the mistake she’d made. She shook her head. “Thank you for your concern, Morecombe, but I must get to London. I left a note for the marchioness.” Realizing she might not return until very late in the day, she had left a note explaining her mission. She had not wanted her employer to worry about her. Of course, the note had specified Newbury as her destination.
“I see,” said Morecombe, obviously seeing nothing at all. “Very well. If I can’t make you change your mind, Miss, I’ll be off afore the snow gets too bad.”
He had only just left when the stage thudded and jangled into the inn yard. Suddenly the place was filled with activity. Travellers jumped down from the coach, stamping to restore their circulation and a wave of them rushed into the inn to grab something hot to eat before the stage took off again.
As the new team was backed into the shafts, Marguerite timidly showed her ticket to one of the ostlers. “Hop in quickly,” he advised. “Get a seat inside, else you’ll be up on top. It’s not cold enough to freeze up there yet, but it’s terrible cold just the same.”
And as the coach plunged and rocked along the London road, Marguerite thanked her lucky stars she’d heeded his advice. The inside of the coach was full, and a couple of young men had had to climb up on the roof. As they clambered up over the toehold above the door, she noticed that one man had no fingers on his left hand. She wondered how he was going to hold on. Probably a returned soldier, poor man. Visions of men, injured in the ways John Trewbridge had described, wound through her head. She hoped the soldier would be safe up there.
She was sandwiched between a self-opiniated bore and a maid returning to her job from her mother’s deathbed. Apparently the prosy bore had been appointed as a scribe to a parliamentarian and he seemed to think that was an appointment of some note. The maid kept her head bowed and sniffed as she drooped unhappily in her grief.
They had almost reached the outskirts of London when there was thump and a shout. The coach swerved from side to side and skidded to a stop. The scribe opened the carriage door to peer out. Marguerite saw the poor young man with no fingers lying in the snow beside one of the coach wheels.
“No!” she yelled. She scrambled across the maid to get out. As she landed in the soft snow her ankle turned, but she ignored the pain and limped across to the young man. He was trying to sit up, but he was so stiff with cold that he kept flopping back into the snow. “Here, let me help you,” she said. But she could not lift him to his feet. He was too heavy. He tried hard to help himself, and Marguerite could see the fear in his eyes.
“Can’t feel anything,” he kept muttering. “Can’t feel anything.”
Then a loud voice yelled at them. “Are you two coming? We’ve a timetable to keep to, snow or no snow!”
It was the guard, who had not even clambered down from the box to help them.
Marguerite boiled with fury. “How dare you, you great oaf! Get down here at once and help this man or I shall report you. He is a returned soldier who has seen and done more than you or I shall ever do.”
The young man turned startled eyes on her. “How did you know?” he whispered.
She pointed to his hand. “Sabre?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I have a-a friend who once pointed out what being an injured soldier was like.”
The guard stamped towards them, muttering under his breath. “Help this man into the carriage at once,” she demanded.
“There’s not enough room,” the prosy man objected.
“Then you can get up on the roof. I said this man is going in the coach!” yelled the ladylike Miss Ninian. Was there nobody in England who cared that men like this were losing their lives every day to protect stupid people who would have them ride on the tops of coaches in the snow?
When the guard saw Marguerite’s limp as she followed the soldier into the carriage, he muttered, “The blind leading the blind,” before he slammed the coach door shut behind her.
With a lot of wriggling and exaggerated sighs from the clerk they all fitted in. Marguerite squeezed herself between the maid and the soldier. The clerk shifted to the other bench where he was told in no uncertain terms by a rosy-cheeked countrywoman to “Sit still or sit on the floor.” The woman then leaned across and said to the soldier, “Give me your hands, love. I’ll rub them.”
“Only got one and a half,” said the embarrassed man.
“Well then, I’ll have less work to do, won’t I?” the woman said cheerfully with no hint of embarrassment. “Where are your gloves?”
“Someone stole them this morning,” the soldier whispered, looking embarrassed at all the attention he was receiving. The countrywoman set to work and chafed the man’s hands and then unselfconsciously rubbed his legs and arms too.
Marguerite smiled at her. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“You probably saved his life, love. You did well. These coachmen.” The woman shook her head. “They’re all the same. Got a schedule to keep to, I know, but leaving passengers lying in the snow is committing murder.”
The soldier said quietly to Marguerite, “Thank you very much, ma’am. I’m not sure my life is worth all the trouble you’ve taken, but I thank you anyway.”
“That’s enough o’ that, young man,” the countrywoman admonished him. “In a few weeks you’ll be all right and tight again.”
The young man said nothing. Marguerite understood the look on his face. Hopelessness. He did not expect his life to improve in the next few weeks. She wondered why he was going to London.
Because of the dark, snow-laden sky it was already getting dark, and she began to realize the enormity of what she was doing. In a few minutes the coach would set them down at the Swan With Two Necks and she would have to find a hackney to take her to Bedford Square. She hoped the wretched Brechins were at home this evening and were not out at some rout or ball. On second thoughts, she hoped Serena was home but that Lord Brechin had gone to one of his clubs.
Impulsively she turned to the soldier beside her. “Sir, what are your plans in London?” She tried hard not to sound curious, just polite.
“I have no plans,” he said. “I am hoping to find some old friends who might give me a job.”
He puzzled her. His speech was cultured, yet she was of the opinion that he had not a feather to fly with. His clothes were threadbare.
There was a lull in the conversation at that stage, and the scribe heard the soldier’s words. “You won’t find much work with a hand like that,” he boomed.
Everyone looked at the soldier’s hand and the maid recoiled. The soldier hid his hand inside his cloak. “I write with my other hand,” he muttered.
“And when are you going to join up to help defend England against the Corsican monster, sir?” Marguerite asked the clerk. She knew that John would have put the man in his place far more effectively, but John wasn’t here. She was sure he’d approve of her comment.
“Me? I’m no soldier. I do important work,” the man blustered.
Marguerite raised her eyebrows as far as they would go, in imitation of her mother. “Hardly. There are hundreds of clerks perfectly able to do your job. But we could do with more soldiers. Of course not everyone is cut out to be brave.”
The cheerful woman laughed. “Missy, you give that top-lofty gargoyle what he deserves!”
But the soldier said to her under cover of much laughter, “Hush. You must not get into an argument on my behalf, Miss.”
Marguerite looked at him. “My friend was injured at Corunna, and he, too, bears a scar. I think he has suffered much from ignorant people like that man there.”
The soldier looked down at his boots. “Your friend is very fortunate to have such a champion.”
Marguerite cleared her throat, “Well, as to that I cannot say. Tell me, sir, in what direction does your friend’s house lie?”
When she saw him looking askance at her, she hastened to explain. “I am bound for Bedford Square. I must find a hackney to take me there, and I have never hailed a hackney in my life. I do not know how. Would you help me? Then we could ask the man to drop you off at your friend’s place.”
Instead of answering her, he looked puzzled. “Where is your maid?”
“She is ill,” Marguerite answered glibly. “I am going to a friend’s house and tomorrow I shall return to...to Westbury.”
His eyebrows shot up. “’Tis none of my business, ma’am, but you’ve come a long way for such a short visit.”
“Oh, I have merely come to collect something; that is all. Will you help me?”
She was asking for the company of a perfect stranger who might be dangerous and unreliable. But she could tell the soldier had nowhere to go. He was holding tight to his dignity as best he could, but she had seen the desperate look on his face when the prosy bore had needled him about his hand. She was sure Lord John would say she was doing the right thing. She had certainly not done the right thing about the scales, so she must make amends somehow. This seemed like a good place to start.
“I owe you my life, ma’am. Of course I shall hail you a hackney. But there is no need for me to accompany you.”
Marguerite looked at him. He was shivering and starving. More than once she had heard his stomach growl. Pride would not feed him.
“I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but I’ve not eaten all day and I was hoping to order a meal at the Swan. Without my maid, I do not wish to eat alone in such an establishment. I was hoping I might persuade you to sit with me.” She did her best to look apprehensive, which was not hard at all.
“Oh! Then in that case—” He broke off. “Look, ma’am, I had best explain,” he whispered. “I have no money with which to buy a dinner. I could not possibly accompany you.” His face flushed with embarrassment and Marguerite’s heart ached for him.
“Good heavens, sir! I am under an obligation to you. I would of course purchase our meals. Excuse me for sounding as if I wished you to...” She let her words trail off.
He succumbed. “No, no, I did not infer...of course I shall accompany you into the Swan.”
Half an hour later they sat down to hearty plates of beef stew in one of the private parlours. Marguerite was no longer as plump in the pocket as when she’d started the day, but she still had a couple of guineas in her reticule.
Her soldier friend had introduced himself as ‘Kenelm Paxton at your service, ma’am.’ He had wiped clean two plates of stew and now sat back in his seat and regarded her from under his dark eyebrows.
“Now, Miss Ninian. Where is it you wish to go?”
“To Brechin House on Bedford Square.”
“Brechin? Spencer Trewbridge? I couldn’t do it. Take my advice and keep right away from a man like that, Miss Ninian.”
Marguerite remembered the Brechins as she had last seen them, laughing uproariously because she had tripped and fallen over the threshold of their room. And she remembered too, Lord Brechin’s rough hand on her breast, squeezing...squeezing.
“He’s married now,” she commented.
Mr. Paxton grunted. “I don’t imagine that will make any difference to his behaviour. Who did he marry?”
“Serena Blyth.”
“Blyth? Wasn’t that—? Never mind.”
“Yes, it was,” Marguerite said.
“I see. I knew Lord John a little on the Peninsula.”
She brightened. “Oh? What regiment were you in?”
“The 72nd. We fought alongside the 71st several times.”
“Why, that is famous! When I return to Westbury I shall tell Lord John that I met you.”
“Best not, Miss Ninian. I don’t want my old acquaintances to know the depths I’ve sunk to.”
She shook her head. “What rank, Mr. Paxton?”
“Lieutenant.”
“There should be work available for an educated ex-lieutenant.”
“There should be, ma’am, but there isn’t. None of us plan to be injured so we cannot work. Before a battle a soldier’s mind thinks of death or life. But things are rarely so clear-cut.” Then he reverted to his warning about Lord Brechin. “So he married the woman his brother wanted to marry.”
“Yes.”
“Then she cannot be much better.”
“They are well suited,” Marguerite replied.
After a short silence Mr. Paxton inquired, “May I ask why you must collect something from them?” He flushed and hastened to add, “I know it is none of my business but it seems so odd...”
“I am secretary to the Marchioness of Trewbridge,” Marguerite explained.
“Oh, I see.” Another short silence. Then, as if the words were wrung from him he said, “I shall accompany you to Brechin House, Miss Ninian. I think Lord John would wish me to do so.”
He looked troubled, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown, and she surmised there was a history between Mr. Paxton and Lord Brechin. “I shall deal only with Lady Serena,” she explained.
In the event there was nothing to worry about. They arrived at the Brechin residence in time to see Spencer and Serena descending the front steps dressed for an evening on the Town. Their carriage waited for them. It was an elegant equipage, painted a sombre black.
“Oh, Miss Ninian, you’ve come after all. Lovely!” trilled Serena. “We shan’t be above a couple of hours. Make yourselves comfortable. I say—who is this charming young man?” Serena was in fine form.
Lord Brechin lifted Marguerite’s hand to his lips and she felt that all-too-familiar shrivelling of the skin. “We shall see you soon, Miss Ninian.” He turned to Mr. Paxton.
“This is Lieutenant Paxton. He kindly accompanied me here.”
There was a short silence while the Brechins digested that information. “Any relation to Anthea Paxton?” Spencer finally asked.
“Her son,” Mr. Paxton answered, for some reason standing right in front of Spencer Trewbridge and looking him in the eye.
Marguerite was puzzled at Lieutenant Paxton’s incivility. There was always tension in the air around the Brechins, but the lieutenant seemed to have generated a whole new dimension of nervous strain.
After a moment Lord Brechin said with false cheer, “Well then, go along in with Marguerite. Farrell will look after you. You are most welcome.”
Paxton, grim-faced, followed Marguerite over the threshold to where the butler waited.