They stared down the tree-lined lane, catching a fleeting glimpse of the carriage. But Mr. Portman had spurred the horses, driving far too fast for them to reach. Then he vanished like flaming brandy-soaked currants in a game of snapdragon at a Twelfth Night party.
“Splendid. You’ve scared away your own driver,” Winnifred accused, throwing her hands up in the air. “He’s likely heading back to London to fetch a fine price for my necklace and will soon be gorging himself on tea and toast.”
And oh, what she wouldn’t give for a spot of tea and even a crumb of warm, crusty bread. More than a day had passed since her last morsel, and now the pebbles beneath her feet were starting to look appetizing.
“Say what you will about me, but leave Portman out of it,” Lord Holt said darkly. “He’s an honest man. If it wasn’t for all your accusations about kidnapping, then we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
She turned on him, unwilling to concede one iota. “Pardon me, but I wasn’t the one who kept my identity a secret. You knew precisely who I was. And if I had known who you were, I . . .”
“Yes? You would have done what, exactly?” He arched his infuriatingly smug brows and blinked with false owl-eyed innocence. “Skipped gladly back inside the church to marry your beloved?”
Winnifred hated Asher Holt. She didn’t bother to say it, but believed her feral growl spoke volumes as she stormed off toward a wooden signpost at the end of the lane.
He kept pace beside her. “You and I both know you would’ve chosen to stay with me. There’s a sensible woman lurking somewhere inside you. The same one who talked her friend out of drugging me with laudanum the other night. And I firmly believe that, after you learned about the money they—”
She speared him with a glare.
“—about the money that went missing,” he amended through gritted teeth, “then you would have concluded that I am merely an innocent man caught up in a situation not of my making. At that point, you would have sold your necklace and paid me, before setting off on your merry way.”
“Perhaps I would have stayed in the carriage if you’d told me the truth. We’ll never know, will we?” she spat, firing back his own words. “Your actions—and yours alone—have brought us here, stranded and without another conveyance in sight.”
She marched onward. Ire helped her to ignore the sharp rocks beneath her slippers and the pinch in her side. She only wished it would help the light-headedness that made her head ache and her vision wobble. Her stomach gave another mournful wail. Thankfully, this time she didn’t think he heard it.
“Portman wouldn’t have gone far,” he said with conviction. “Most likely, he’s already turned the horses around and is heading back for us.”
Hmph. “You certainly put high stock in his devotion to you over the needs of his family.”
“And just what do you mean by that?”
Unconcerned by the edge his voice acquired, she lifted her shoulders in an offhand shrug. “Only that I noticed the dilapidated state of your carriage. Not to mention his weather-beaten hat and the mended patches on his coat. I only have to wonder how long it has been since he’s earned a decent wage. After all, he does have a family to consider. A child on the way . . .”
And now, a four-strand pearl necklace in his possession.
As if she’d said her last thought aloud, he leveled her with a dark look. “Contrary to what someone like you would know—you, with pearls on your dress and your father’s fortune to cement your friendships—there is a far more valuable commodity than money, Miss Humphries. It’s loyalty. And Portman has that in abundance.”
He stalked ahead of her, leaving her to stew in his wake.
Of all the nerve! She didn’t have to purchase her friends. Having learned ages ago how people treated her once they discovered who her father was, she knew how to spot those who merely pretended to like her.
As for Jane and Ellie and Prue, they had become her friends before they ever knew about her dowry or her father’s many bank accounts and landholdings. She would do anything for them and, in turn, they would do anything for her. So, contrary to what this presumptive jackanapes thought of her, she knew all about loyalty. Far more than a man like him could ever know.
Squinting furious thoughts at his profile, she stopped beside him at the fork in the road. She didn’t miss the uncertainty tightening the flesh around his eyes when there was no sign of a carriage of any sort.
“As I recall, there’s a tavern not far from here,” he said with a jerk of his chin toward the road to the left. “That’s likely the only place to turn a coach around without getting stuck in a trench.”
Winnifred reserved comment. Her opinion of the man who abandoned them was not nearly as elevated.
“Once we find him there,” Holt continued tightly, practically daring her to contradict him, “we’ll settle up our account and I’ll see you safely home to London. What you choose to do after I deliver you to your father’s house is none of my concern.”
“Lord Holt, I release you from any sense of obligation that the guilt over deceiving and kidnapping me has incurred. And even when we don’t find your driver waiting”—she had to get one more dig in for good measure, and quite enjoyed the thunderclap of irritation in his dark eyes and the way the muscle pulsed on the side of his arrogantly chiseled jaw—“that is where you and I will part ways. After all, I imagine that one of the pearls on my dress will garner me a delightful meal and transportation far, far away from you.”
Then she turned on her heel and headed down the road, careful to avoid the deep wheel ruts. She didn’t want to twist an ankle, after all.
“And how do you think you’ll fare without me?”
“Trust me. My day will only get better without you in it.”
The instant the words fell from her lips, it started to rain. A veritable monsoon flooded down through the canopy of trees.
He had the nerve to laugh as he walked toward her, shrugging out of his caped greatcoat. “You were saying?”
* * *
From a distance down the road, Asher glimpsed the familiar mottled brick facade of the Spotted Hen through the downpour.
For the past half hour, he and Winn had kept to the tree line, his greatcoat serving as a makeshift umbrella. They’d done their best not to touch each other, maintaining their mutual animosity. The weather, however, conspired against them. With his arms lifted to hold his coat aloft, it forced a more intimate proximity. Therefore, the duty of maintaining the sliver of space between them fell upon her. And she did it well, for the most part.
She walked stiffly by his side, one arm wrapped tightly around her middle, the other gripping a handful of skirts away from wet grasses and mud. But there were occasions when she’d misstep, over a root or a stone, and bump against him.
These errant collisions only lasted a fraction of a second. Yet every touch left a disturbing imprint on him, lingering warmly on his skin long after, like a burn that refused to heal.
“The inn’s just up the way,” he said on a murmur, still feeling the heat of the last impact—the soft crush of breasts, her small hand splayed on his waistcoat, her quiet breath of surprise.
She darted a glance at him, a blush on her cheeks as if she was thinking about it, too. “And soon we’ll be rid of each other.”
Underneath this canopy, the scarlet strands woven through her wild curls seemed darker, turning a ripe, lush red. And in each breath, he caught a temptingly sweet fragrance that rose from her skin, making him think of sun-ripened berries.
In fact, she reminded him of a strawberry, with freckles for seeds and the netting of her dress like the scratchy leaves that needed to be plucked away before a man could sink his teeth into the succulent fruit.
Though, if Winnifred Humphries were any type of berry, she’d likely cost too much and turn out to be poisonous.
Keeping that thought in mind, he paused beneath a brace of evergreens and directed his attention to the Spotted Hen on the other side of the rutted road.
He’d only stopped here once, years ago, before the former owner had died, leaving the place to his brother. And now, the tavern showed signs of neglect. Weathered shingles on either side of a second story window hung at an odd angle. The gabled roof bowed inward like a soldier’s tent. And the black-painted front door flared at the bottom, where it had been warped by age and rain.
So it surprised him to see two well-sprung carriages, fixed with high steppers near the stables. Clearly, this off-the-beaten-path location drew in clientele of means. And yet, as he peered closer, Asher’s keener senses became alert, tightening the bands of muscle across his neck and shoulders.
Something wasn’t quite right with this picture.
The men loitering in the yard, with their uneasy pacing and quick, shifty glances, seemed more like common variety highwaymen than drivers of fine landaus.
Turning to Winn, he leaned closer to position his coat over her head. “Wait here. I’ll return in five minutes.”
A pair of hazel eyes narrowed beneath an arch of rain-darkened leather. “Absolutely not. I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m hungry. And I’m not going to wait here while you find your driver, then flee for London with my necklace.”
Stubborn, spoiled baggage!
He gritted his teeth. “I only want to have a look around to ensure that we don’t step into another ordeal like before.”
The last thing he wanted was to alarm her, or to see fear glance across her countenance. But he had to keep her safe. They were in this mess because of his brilliant notion to take her to the jeweler’s instead of directly home.
“I’ll return shortly. Then we’ll make sure you’re dry and warm and fed, hmm?”
And he intended to ensure all of those things once he delivered her to her father and regained the money that was stolen.
Receiving a nod in response, he left her to stand beneath the fragrant pine boughs with a dry cushion of fallen needles underfoot. At least here, he could trust that she was out of sight, protected from the elements and, most importantly, not in any sort of danger.
* * *
Winnifred waited beneath the greatcoat for ages. So long, in fact, that her stomach started mewling a requiem for the dead. She’d never been so hungry in her life. Or cold. Or wet.
If she were still in London, she’d be eating her wedding breakfast. Then again, likely not. Instead, she’d be staring at a plate of sumptuous pastries and other foodstuffs, unable to eat any of it—both from being sickened by the marriage altogether and from wanting to avoid censure. And she’d do this for the rest of her life.
At least now she had the freedom to be hungry and to complain about it. And all it took was severing ties with everyone and everything she’d ever known. Happy thought, indeed.
Poised above her head, her arms started to ache. When would Asher return? She was beginning to wonder what tree bark might taste like.
Across the road, she spotted two elegantly dressed women in ermine-trimmed pelisses and broad-brimmed hats adorned with mountains of ribbons. They were leaving the inn, chatting and laughing together beneath the shelter of actual umbrellas.
The men she’d seen a few moments ago had gone off in a fine carriage. And surely, if the inn hosted clientele such as they, there was nothing to fear.
With her decision made in a snap, she hurried out from under the trees and dashed across the road as fast as her slippers would carry her.
“Pardon me,” she hailed, repeating herself until she drew their attention. Umbrellas tilted and hats turned inquiringly in her direction. “Do you happen to know when the next stagecoach will stop?”
“Sadly, we don’t know a thing about the next stage,” the one in the lovely red pelisse said. Her gaze scrutinized Winnifred’s cobweb-covered meringue. “But I must say that your dress is simply divine. You must tell me the name of your modiste!”
The one in the peacock blue agreed with an eager nod. “So elegant. Quality simply oozes from every stitch.”
Even though she felt a bit worse for wear at the moment, Winnifred thanked them with a gracious smile. “I should much prefer to wear something dry instead. Though I shall persevere until the next coach arrives.”
Inclining her head, she turned toward the inn, prepared to wait inside and see if she could find Asher or perhaps a sympathetic owner with a complimentary tea tray.
The women rushed around to block her path, shielding her with their umbrellas. It was only then that she spied the peculiar silken kerchiefs they wore beneath their collars, like loosely tied cravats. Perhaps it was a country fashion Winnifred knew nothing about.
“Surely you’re not traveling alone.”
“No, I’m with . . .” Winnifred hesitated, not wishing to say anything that would embroil her in scandal. Then again, she was wearing a man’s greatcoat, so it seemed reasonable that she should mention something to explain it. “My driver, of course. Although he . . . stayed behind with the carriage.”
The two women exchanged a look, then turned their attention back to Winnifred.
“Your driver wouldn’t happen to be a man about”—the woman in red stretched out a hand just beyond reach of her hat’s brim and lifted it by varying degree—“this tall?”
Well, since her hand wavered anywhere between an inch and a foot, Winnifred nodded.
“And wearing a pair of muddy boots?” the woman in peacock blue asked.
Again, Winnifred nodded.
“With . . . um . . . breeches? And a dark coat?”
A sense of dread washed over Winnifred, leaving her light-headed. “Actually, yes.”
The women exchanged another look, then clucked their tongues with pity. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we just saw him leave in a carriage that was waiting along the road toward the back of the inn.”
“I believe he was headed to London.”
Asher Holt had abandoned her? Of all the underhanded, lowdown, despicable nerve! First he kidnapped her and then he just simply left her standing in the rain while he jaunted merrily back to London?
What a fool she was. All that talk of kidnapping must have alarmed him enough to think she would call upon the authorities. As far as she was concerned, that man deserved to go to gaol, and with his driver!
“Oh, dear. You’ve had quite the shock, haven’t you?” Red pelisse put her arm around Winnifred and began to walk toward their landau. “And we cannot possibly leave you here to suffer because of some dreadful man. No, you must come with us. We’ll take you anywhere you wish to go.”
“After all,” peacock blue added, “a woman in need should always be able to depend upon the kindness of other women.”
“Oh, and be sure to lift your hem a bit higher, dear. Wouldn’t want the mud to climb up on any of those pearls. They’re all real, aren’t they?”
Winnifred absently nodded and stepped up into the carriage, following Red. “My mother prefers embellishments.”
“What a coincidence,” peacock blue said as she closed the carriage door. “So do we.”
Her lips curved in a peculiar smile that made Winnifred wonder if she’d neglected to catch a joke. But the instant her gaze fell on the point of the blade being brandished by the woman in red, she realized that she’d missed a good deal more.
“Hand over the dress, Miss Pearls.”
* * *
What Asher discovered when he crossed the road did not ease his mind. The men standing by the stables were armed. And instead of cravats around their necks, the garments looked more like the kerchiefs worn by highwaymen.
He kept to the side of the Spotted Hen to avoid notice and made his way to the back, where a narrow lane wove in an arc toward London. He was sure he’d find Portman waiting for him, or turning the horses around.
Regrettably, he didn’t. What he saw was much worse.
Asher stopped short, spotting the same henchmen from outside the jewelry shop, having a row inside their curricle.
“What are you doing, idiot? Holt isn’t here,” Mr. Lum railed, trying to take the reins from his wiry cohort, whose long-limbed reach outspanned the barrel-chested man’s. “They could be all the way back to London by now. And Shettlemane won’t be none too happy with us for letting him slip through our fingers either. Especially now that he’s got that heiress.”
Shettlemane? Asher felt a shock jolt through him. So his own father had sent Seabrooke’s henchmen after him? They must be working together. Honestly, he didn’t know why he was surprised by this news. His father would do anything to remain friends of those with money—even throw his own son to the wolves.
“But how do you know Holt’s going back?” the younger man with the pockmarked face asked. “I’d wager he’s taking her all the way to Gretna Green. That’s what I’d do. Make sure I’ve got her fortune, right and proper.”
“Proper.” Lum scoffed. “Jamey, you’d have nicked her maidenhead in the carriage, afeared she’d get away.”
Sneering, Jamey puffed out his sunken chest. “Wouldn’t have needed to, would I? Everyone knows the bloke at the Spotted Hen will turn a blind eye to whatever might happen in the room upstairs. I’ve heard tale of all sorts of doings there.”
“If that’s true, then Holt could have done the deed before taking her back to her rich father to demand a king’s ransom. Mark my words, Holt’s standing in Waldenfield’s study right this moment.”
“You say London, but I still say Gretna Green.”
Lum spat into his palm and held out his hand. “I’ll take that wager.”
Asher felt a chill roll through him as he watched the curricle turn around toward London. Then he headed back to Winn.
He wasn’t sure how he’d tell her, but there wasn’t any way they could go back now. Not with her father’s house being watched.
The Marquess of Shettlemane would have dozens of men on the lookout for any sign of his return. More than likely, he’d tell half the ton about the kidnapping, thereby forcing a wedding between Winn and Asher. And then Shettlemane would have half of Waldenfield’s fortune spent before the ink was dry on the marriage license. Within a year, he’d be in over his head and the wheel of gambling, debt and manipulation would keep turning. For years and years to come.
No, Asher thought. He refused to let that happen. This time he was going to do whatever it took to free himself of this constant burden once and for all.
Both he and Winn would have to forge a careful plan to proceed, of course. He just hoped she wouldn’t prove to be too stubborn.
Yet as he stepped across the road and through the line of trees, he realized her willfulness was the last thing he needed to worry about.
Because she was gone.