The original plan to leave the day before had not worked out for Rebecca. Neither had the nice weather, she thought with disgust. Good weather was as fleeting as a two-time winning horse at Newmarket. A misting drizzle saturated the air, Rebecca’s pelisse and gloves, and her hatless head.
She was exhausted after being up half the night, tossing and turning and worrying over a very quiet Owen. But for a few shrill cries, he had yet to utter a coherent word to her, though she suspected he whispered things to his brother.
Both boys were tromping in the woods with her no-nonsense maid, Serena, and were as energetic as ever. It was a good sign. They all needed the exercise and fresh air after being cooped up in the carriage the last hour, and she supposed there wasn’t too much trouble they could get into in the with no one nor anything about as far as the eye could see.
Unfortunately, she had a more pressing matter at the moment. She stood outside the carriage with her hands planted on her hips, staring at the carriage’s cracked wheel. Only an hour outside of London and disaster had already struck. Such was her dastardly luck. “Someone should invent a way to carry an extra wheel for this exact inconvenience,” she told Barrett. “Now what?”
The ground vibrated with the pounding of horses’ hooves. More than one.
“Ah, a timely rescue, it seems,” Barrett said. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, my.”
“What?” Rebecca put her hand up, shielding her eyes from the light rain. She’d long sense abandoned her limp bonnet. It was sitting on the bench inside her carriage.
“I do believe that is the Duke of Ryleigh’s rig.”
“Ryleigh?” Rebecca groaned, then cringed thinking of the last time they’d had the misfortune to meet—in the dark gardens of hers and Gabby’s joint come-out ball. He’d only been a marquis at the time. Heavens, just what she didn’t need.
Even before that horrid evening, she and Gabby had been flung into mischief after mischief at Miss Greensley’s School of Comportment for Young Ladies of Quality. Gabby’s brother, who was a stickler for propriety, had been called out on each and every occasion until he’d finally yanked Gabby out of school, likely blaming Rebecca for every unfortunate incident. She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to her friend. Papa had whisked her away, all the while suffering a debilitating fever and almost losing a limb in the process.
In any event, Rebecca thought, blowing out a pursed breath, she was not above accepting her due of his accusation—she’d been half responsible.
She pushed the wet locks from her forehead and blinked the rain from her eyes. “I suppose we’ve no choice in the matter,” she muttered as the duke’s carriage heralded toward them. But she wasn’t quite up to facing him at the moment. “I’m going to find the boys. See what you can do to secure his assistance to the next posting inn. We’ll hire another rig there.” She slipped away, hoping Ryleigh didn’t spot her as she made her escape.
Down a slight incline, she found Serena standing next to a tree watching Oliver and Owen on the banks of the Thames seeing who could throw pebbles the farthest. Thankfully, neither one had taken a dip. While the river wasn’t nearly so repulsive in the rurality as it was in London, she still didn’t trust that the water wasn’t riddled with disease.
“Are they behaving?” she asked her maid.
“Perfect little gentlemen, they are,” Serena said. “Why’d you suppose the one doesn’t speak?”
“I suspect he speaks to his brother, though I can’t imagine why he won’t address me. They are well-mannered, aren’t they.” Rebecca kept her voice low. “By the way, the Duke of Ryleigh is coming down the road. There’s no way to keep him from recognizing me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. I have a feeling it’s directly related to Gabriella inviting me to Dorchester,” she said grimly. “Unfortunately, there’s no way to keep my identity from him.” Of course, Serena knew all about that horrendous night seven years ago. No one else did, however.
“’Tis a problem, I s’pose? What are you going to do?” Serena asked.
“Improvise. Boys,” Rebecca called out.
They responded immediately, standing in front of her, but only Oliver spoke. “Yes, Lady Rebecca, we’re here.”
“It appears we are to be rescued. By a duke. The Duke of Ryleigh.”
“Blimey!” Oliver said. It sounded more like a curse than of shock then awe. The most proper duke would be disappointed in such a reaction. From Rebecca’s memory and Gabriella’s complaints, Ryleigh had grown even more somber and controlling since their father’s death when he took over the dukedom. Apparently, he’d always walked the straight line. No room for human error. Rebecca’s foot tapped the ground nervously. She caught herself and forced her foot to still.
There was a glint in Oliver’s eye that Rebecca would swear was fear. It quickly shifted to calculating. Owen, of course, stood by watching with his unnerving, and too observant, gaze.
She narrowed her eyes on Oliver. “Do you know the duke?” she asked.
That flicker of fear, so minute, flashed again. “No.” He spoke sharply. Too sharply for one so young.
She considered him for a time, then said, “What do you think of playing a game?”
Oliver’s small frame stiffened. “What sort of game are you talking about?”
Irritated, she glanced up the hill. She would have to level with them… to a degree. “Yes, well, the, er, duke and I go way back.” Way back to when he was merely a marquis, and she’d fallen into his arms in a dark garden, utterly humiliating herself. Frankly, he couldn’t think much worse of her than he had that night, which should work to her advantage. “I need to be a completely different person.”
Identical frowns covered the boys’ faces. But only Oliver addressed the issue. “How are you going to do that? You have the same face, don’t you?”
Rebecca caught Serena’s slight grin from the corner of her eye and couldn’t resist her own. “True. I have the same face, however, he believes me a hoyden from my earlier days and I would encourage the same—”
His mouth fell open. “You mean you want him to think bad of you?”
“It will make things easier. For all of us.” She couldn’t very well explain the ridiculous yearning she’d felt toward him since she was a girl. The very thought was unbearable.
“What happened?” the nosy Oliver asked.
“Just a little incident during my come-out season. I have no intention of sharing such a story with a child. All you need know is that there is no cause for reminding anyone of the unfortunate incident.” She shook her head.
“He ruined you, didn’t he?”
“What the devil do you know about—” Exasperation threatened her mild temperament. “Of course not. Never you mind. But I would like for you to call me “Miss” Thatcher rather than “Lady” Rebecca.”
“You mean like a governess or a tutor or something?”
She beamed. “What an excellent idea. Miss Thatcher, your governess. Do you think you can do that? It would benefit me, er, us greatly.”
“It’ll cost you,” Oliver said.
She narrowed her eyes on him. This was one moment in which she was glad Owen did not speak. She bent down to Oliver’s eye level. “And, exactly, what will it cost me?”
He never even blinked. “Not telling his lordship there are two of us.”
She rose to her full height and folded her arms over her chest. “How am I to manage that, pray tell? In every instance I’ve met the man, not once have I been able to discern him as blind.”
Oliver straightened away from her and paced to the edge of the water and back. “I don’t know. But he can’t know there are two of us.”
Rebecca looked at Serena who shrugged. “Go up and tell Barrett we’ll be right there. Don’t say anything to the duke.”
Serena nodded and hurried up the hill.
Rebecca glanced back at the boys. “All right, all right. Let me think a minute.”
“You could be our mother,” Oliver said slyly.
“I’m only five and twenty! Hardly old enough to have ten-year-old children.”
He poked his lips out in a stubborn pout. “We’re only seven.”
He bartered like a seasoned peddler. Rebecca clasped her hands at her lower back and did her own pacing, studying the ground, more questions than answers pelting her. She finally stopped and looked at the boys. “Are you sure that reprobate isn’t following us?”
What little color in Owen’s face fled and his hands visibly shook. Oliver was at his side in an instant.
Her heart went out to them, but she hadn’t lost all of her rational senses.
“We can’t know for certain that he’s not,” Oliver hedged.
That didn’t bode well. If the man was following them, the duke’s timely arrival would go far in keeping the villain at bay. It certainly shed new light on the situation. She let out a pursed breath. “I see. I suppose we could pretend I’m your mother.” She gave them her most diabolical smile. “It shall make things easier in administering any needed punishment. And, keep you from accidentally revealing my status.” She looked over the ill-fitting garments Lars had located from a trunk in the attic since Barrett hadn’t had luck in finding anything ready-made the day before. There would be raised eyebrows from the all-too-proper duke. “He’s going to believe the absolute worst of me,” she muttered under her breath. As if he didn’t already. “Come along then. But we shall have to pretend you are six. He saw me seven years ago.” She turned and started up the hill pleased, and relieved, to hear the two of them following.
Sebastian stepped out of his barouche and sauntered over to the carriage blocking the road. “I recognize this conveyance. It belongs to the Earl of Rivers.” That could only mean one thing—Lady Rebecca Thatcher was in the vicinity and already on her way to Dorchester.
The driver nodded and his Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow.
Sebastian glanced at the woman standing next to him. “Where is your mistress?”
Neither answered. His gaze flicked to a strand of trees that lined the road. Raindrops dripped from the leaves. They parted, spewing moisture in all directions, revealing a grown-up Lady Rebecca Thatcher. He caught his breath. She wasn’t tall but her confidence and forthrightness gave her a larger than life presence. She still hadn’t the slightest care for her appearance, he was annoyed to note. Her clothes were soaked through, her hair darker than he remembered due to the fact it was saturated with rain as she wore no hat, yet she wore elbow length gloves. The lady had no sense of fashion.
Still, seeing her after all this time was like being leveled by a cannon ball with a direct hit in his torso. God, had it been seven years since he’d last seen her? When his lips had found hers in the depths of a garden flush with fauna? Sweet and plump and pliant—er, when he’d pried her arms from around his shoulders in her clumsy attempt to force him to marry her.
The dampness on her skin gave it a translucence quality he recalled from the moonlight that had bathed her complexion. It had been a disastrous night for her.
She’d ambushed him in the gardens. No one had seen, thankfully, but the hem of her gown was damp from dew and some of her hair had escaped their coiled braids. Her cheeks had flushed as if she’d been running.
The memories pierced him as if this were the very morning after. Sebastian beat back the recollections with the force of an anvil and inclined his head. “Lady Rebecca.” He utilized his coldest, most ducal tone.
She curtseyed. “Your grace.”
“I hear you are to visit my wayward sister.”
“Er, yes. I received a note from Gabby, er, Lady Huntley just yesterday.” She moved off to the side and two boys ventured into sight.
“Yours?” he asked.
Her hesitation was so slight, he almost missed it. “My… sons.”
“What’s this?” He frowned, surprised at the shaft of disappointment that coiled through him. “I hadn’t heard you’d married.”
Her shoulders squared; she met his gaze head on. “I haven’t.”
A sharp gasp sounded from her maid, or the woman he now believed to be her maid.
Rebecca’s chin lifted and she spoke without an ounce of shame. “This is—”
One of the tow-headed boys stepped forward and bowed properly from his waist. “I’m Peter, Your Grace. This is my brother Percy.” After a nudge from Peter, Percy quickly followed suit, bowing as well.
Surprise flashed across Lady Rebecca’s face but was quickly masked. Their manners were impeccable. She’d taught them well, at least.
Even within the shadow of the trees, the resemblance between the boys was remarkable. They were twins. “It is my greatest pleasure meeting you,” Sebastian said, softening his manner.
Rebecca stepped forward, putting herself between him and her sons. “How fortuitous your coming along as you have, Your Grace.”
He bit back his annoyance at her less than subtle move. He may not approve of a woman having children out of wedlock, but he liked to believe himself a humanitarian. He’d voted in favor of limiting the number of hours a child should work in a day in 1819. Granted, twelve was too long, but he would continue the fight against the harshness of child labor. Still, he kept his expression impassive. Rebecca Thatcher was a wily devil. “You have a broken wheel,” he said.
A wry smile touched her lips. “Do you think so?”
One of the boys snickered.
Tension squeezed the tendons at the back of his neck. Of course it had to be him that happened upon a stranded woman and her two out of wedlock children instead of allowing that rickety cart he’d past on the road to reach her first. Alas, it was too late to leave her to her own devices now. Especially one so prone to trouble—hence the bastard children. Not to mention they were both destined for Dorchester.
His gaze slid to the two boys, but of course, she was blocking his view of them. He suppressed a groan. Clearly, he wouldn’t be able to drive straight through to Dorchester with his new passengers. Stifling a sigh, Sebastian addressed her driver and his own. “Let’s shift the luggage. The Wild Rose is up ahead. We should be able to garner assistance there. Once the wheel is repaired—” he walked over and ran his fingers over the break in the wheel, then looked at her driver— “or in this case, replaced, you can continue on to Dorchester for your mistress.” He turned in time to see a look pass between Rebecca and her children he couldn’t decipher but raised the hair on his neck.
“Help Barrett with the baggage,” she said to the boys.
“That’s not necessary,” Sebastian said. “They will only be in the way.”
“All right,” Rebecca said. “The boys and I will take a short walk then.”
“Don’t go far,” he said sharply. Not only did he oppose unnecessary risk, he usually adhered to a strict schedule. He didn’t expect now to be any different. “I expect we’ll be ready to shove off within ten minutes.”
Rebecca led the boys halfway back down the hill. “What do you propose we do now?” She directed her question to Oliver since he seemed the only one willing to talk. “And what was that business in giving different names?” She lowered her voice. “He’s likely going to head south rather than west. Without even going through Somerset.”
Oliver shifted from one foot to the other, kicking at the dirt and it hit her.
It hit her like custard in the face. She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a pursed stream of air. “You don’t live in Somerset, do you?” She was not normally so gullible.
“Let us off at the next stop—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You, yourself, said you couldn’t be sure that blackguard, Finch Cromwell, wasn’t after you. No. You’ll stay with me until I’m ready to leave Dorchester. In the meantime, you can tell me exactly where you do live.”
Oliver’s lips firmed into a tight line.
Something softened inside her. “Oliver?” she said gently.
“Lady Rebecca. It’s time to leave, we are losing light. Things have a way of turning hazardous after nightfall.” Ryleigh’s rich commanding tones echoed through the valley.
Relief covered both Oliver’s and Owen’s small features.
What the devil weren’t they telling her? “This isn’t over,” she said, urging them back up the hill. “I’ll get the truth out of you yet.” She muttered this under her breath. If there was one thing Rebecca knew about herself, it was that she was a formidable foe, and Oliver had met his match.