Chapter Seven

 

Miss Pamela Neville slunk out the door and raced to the stable, intent on not letting her mother see her in her disreputable riding clothes, a remnant of her childhood days. They were old—very old—breeches of her brother’s. Not a soul in the household even knew she still had them, secreted in her hidden stash in a trunk in the attic along with reminders of her father and a precious gift of cherry-colored ribbons Colin Varens had given her when she was just eight. She saddled her mare with a groom’s saddle instead of her hated sidesaddle and flew out of the stable yard before the groom had a chance to even see her.

Free. She was free for at least the afternoon.

Haven Court, always the site of petty squabbles, quarrels and disagreements, had become even more unwelcoming of late with the addition of Lady Mortimer, whom Pamela detested, and the disappearance of the silly wench her brother was pledged to marry.

Quickening her mount—a bay mare named Tassie—to a gallop, Pamela flew over the familiar ground, and instead of opening the gate and walking her mount out, she urged Tassie to jump one of the stone fences, the last barrier between her and the freedom of the high, barren moors. They soared together over the obstruction, the mare as eager as her rider to flee to freedom. The high moors beckoned and the gloomy gray of the sky could not dampen Pamela’s delight.

Marriage. Haven was finally seriously considering it. She knew he was and she hated the thought of the changes that would bring to the easy relationship she and her brother enjoyed. She spurred Tassie, trying to outrun, over the high fells, the awful knowledge of change coming, change chasing her, years going by and the inevitable alteration of people and places.

Even her own wretched body. She was different now and she felt it, could see it in the mirror. Grand said she ought to be married by now and have babies. But even though she was easily old enough—she was all of nineteen, and some of her friends had been married for a couple of years now—she was just not sure whether she even wanted a husband. After all, it would mean an end to these glorious rides. She trotted to a prominence and stopped, looking out over the brilliant green landscape, shadowed by the darkening, thickening clouds. As always she felt a thrill of joy at the sensation of Tassie heaving and huffing beneath her, and the brisk wind that swept up the moor.

It was all so different from London.

She had been to London the previous year for the Season and a sillier waste of time she could not imagine. She didn’t mind so much the dresses. A lot of the clothes were so pretty and sometimes she had even felt like a princess, adorned in white and wearing Grand’s lovely old pearls. She got impatient standing while clothes were fitted to her, but she would just lose herself for that hour that she stood being poked and prodded by her mother and the seamstresses in thoughts of the moor and riding Tassie. She started her mare down the descent into one of the valleys that snaked through the moorlands, going from a walk to a trot as she thought back to her London Season the previous spring.

In the brief months she had been in London she had constantly been in hot water, for any free time she had was spent in the stable of their London house and she had picked up the colorful language she still peppered her talk with, to her mother’s mortification. She had slipped out of the house alone on one memorable occasion, and had been seen once galloping in Hyde Park—oh, horrors!

And that was all before the official Season had begun. Their London Season had been cut short by the death of their father’s sister, an elderly tyrant whom nobody liked, but whose death could not be ignored. Rachel had sulked for at least one full month out of the three required for mourning an aunt, but Pamela had been rather glad. Not glad that old Aunt Viola was dead, just glad to escape London before having to attend too many of the stultifying balls, routs, card parties and Venetian breakfasts that were the meat of the London social Season.

Not that she had not been enjoying herself; she had, but in all the wrong ways, according to her mother. She had met some jolly lads and had slipped away with them once to see a prizefight. She had caught no end of breeze about that particular escapade! Even Grand, when she heard about it, had told her she had gone too far.

This year, to Rachel’s chagrin, it had been decided that the needs of the master of Haven Court must supersede his sisters’ Seasons, so they would welcome his supposed bride to his home for a protracted visit rather than making the arduous journey to London. There had been no end of dustup over that, and Rachel was still not back to any kind of equable state.

Pamela trotted up to another rise, the loftiest hilltop immediately near Haven Court, and gazed across the land, letting her beast walk for a moment and finally halt so they could both catch their breath. London was all well and good and there had been any number of opportunities to kick up a lark or two or three, but really, when all was said and done, this was where she belonged. She gave a happy sigh. Yorkshire, where the air was clean and free and where a girl such as she was not looked at as if she was a caper-witted little gapeseed.

Marriage to one of those London dandies her mother had been pushing at her would mean leaving Yorkshire, likely, and she couldn’t imagine never riding these hills again. Of course, she wouldn’t have to leave if she married someone local, someone like—

She sighed once more, only this time it was a sigh of utter defeat. Tassie danced impatiently, sidling and throwing a glance over her shoulder at her rider, so Pamela raised her to a walk again and started down the hill. She would not have to leave Yorkshire if only she could marry someone like Sir Colin, who was desperately in love with Rachel, who didn’t give a fig about the poor sot. Rash, wild plots pelted recklessly through Pamela’s brain, audacious schemes to entrap the hapless Sir Colin into marriage with her, only to collide headlong with reality. If she succeeded, she would be married to a man who didn’t care for her. At least now he treated her with a careless, brotherly affection. If she trapped him into marriage, he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of her. That would kill her, she was sure. He was her friend as well as her perfect fantasy husband.

Pamela urged Tassie on to a canter, and then a gallop. She rode neck-or-nothing down the long slope into the valley hoping to work out the fidgets both of them were experiencing. When girl and beast were both thoroughly exhausted, Mary’s cottage was in view, so Pamela trotted up to the small barn, threw herself off the horse and tied her up, letting the poor animal rest and crop grass around the base of the ancient building that housed Esther and the chickens, and Lally, the very pregnant barn cat.

“Mary!” she called, striding toward the cottage, then realizing she really shouldn’t shout so. The baby might be asleep.

The baby! Skeptical about children in all their grubby glory, Pamela had nonetheless been enchanted by Molly, by small pink fists and soft dark hair, by wide eyes and a tiny perfect mouth. She would likely never have children of her own—she could not see herself birthing and then caring for one of the little humans—but she hoped Rachel had lots and lots so she could spoil them completely, teach them to ride, and give them treats ’til they were sick! She strode to the cottage just as the door opened, but it was not Mary who stepped out. Pamela stopped and frowned. “Who’re you?” she grunted, surprised into discourtesy.

The young woman’s eyes widened, and she stuttered, “I’m M-Mary’s cousin.”

“Who is it, Jenny? Is it . . . oh, Pammy!” Mary came out from behind the younger woman. She looked Pamela up and down and glanced over at Tassie, heaving and snorting still, and laughed. “Escapin’ the confines o’ home, are you?” She cast one worried glance at Jenny and bit her lip. “Well, come on in. I’ve just finished feedin’ Molly and she is nigh asleep, lookin’ like a wee angel.”

Gladly, Pamela followed the two women back into the cottage. “I can only stay a moment,” she said awkwardly. “Tassie’s lathered and I mustn’t let her stand too long.” She moved toward the cradle and cooed over the baby. There was nothing so beautiful, she was now convinced, as a child, at least before they got to that grubby age where they could not stay clean and insisted on mucking about in mud puddles as she had as a child. She reached out one finger and touched the soft cheek, falling in love all over again as Molly gurgled and blew a bubble.

“Angel face,” Pamela whispered. “You are going to be quite the belle of Yorkshire, I’ll warrant.” She straightened and turned. Mary seemed agitated and Pamela, frowning, wondered what was wrong that the normally placid Mary should be so edgy. She said, indicating Jenny, who stood near the table wringing her hands in a white apron, “So this is your cousin? M’brother said you had a cousin, but I don’t think she’s ever visited before.” Pamela moved toward the woman and stuck out her hand. “I am Lord Haven’s sister. Mary kindly lets me come here when things get too crazed at the Court.”

Jenny’s lovely gray eyes widened and she curtseyed, then extended her hand. The two young women shook. “Pleased to meet you, Miss—”

“Miss Pamela—P-Pammy,” Mary stuttered into speech. “We are old friends and call each other by our first names.”

Again Pamela frowned as she released the other woman’s cool, soft hand. She hadn’t missed that it was trembling in her grasp. What was the woman afraid of? And why was Mary so uneasy? It was as if she was uncomfortable with Pamela there, when normally she treated her with a sisterly affection and openness. Did she think that Pamela would make her cousin nervous? Perhaps that was it, for Jenny, too, was alarmed, as restless as a vixen in a pen of hunters. Glumly, she thought that even here she could not find the peace she sought. “I won’t take up too much of your time,” she said slowly, hoping Mary would demand that she sit down to tea, at least. But she could not mistake the look of relief on her friend’s face and sadly turned to the door. Was there no place left where she was not a nuisance?

At the last second Mary said, her words a little forced but with a more natural tone, “At least stay to tea, Pammy. You . . . you know you are always welcome here.” Her smile was as kind as ever and her expression sincere.

Pamela glanced back and grinned, but reluctantly, she shook her head. “No, I suppose I must be going. Things are so upset at the house right now. Haven is in such a dither with that girl mi—”

“I will walk out with you, Miss Pamela, if I might!” Jenny swiftly crossed the floor, following Pamela to the door.

“All right,” Pamela said, brightening. Jenny looked like a jolly sort and one could never have too many friends. Maybe she could tell her why Mary seemed so upset and nervy.

Jane breathed a sigh of relief as she threw a smile over her shoulder at Mary and then followed Pamela out the door. It was a wind-tossed day and she drew her shawl around her shoulders as they walked over to Tassie.

“What a lovely girl,” Jane said, moving to the bay mare, who tossed her head as if in appreciation for the compliment.

“Isn’t she though?” Pamela said, scratching Tassie behind the ears. She pulled the reins from around the post as Lally, the heavily gravid gray tabby, wound ponderously around her legs.

They silently contemplated the horse for a moment while Jane tried to order her thoughts. She reached down and scratched the tabby’s ears, and it mewed softly, then headed back to the safety of the barn. Miss Pamela had almost revealed the missing Miss Jane Dresden to Mary, and that would have been an immediate betrayal of Jane’s identity. Again she wondered, should she trust Mary and throw herself on her mercy? But how could she? That would be dragging her newfound friend into the complicated and wretched mess she had made of things. Right now Mary was not implicated in any way because she did not know who Jane was and had been kind enough not to press for an explanation.

But this could not go on forever. In fact, it could not go on much longer. She must leave before things became awkward for Mary.

“You were saying that your home life is not too pleasant lately,” Jane said carefully. Pamela started walking down the path away from the cottage leading Tassie, and Jane walked beside her. “Why is that?”

Pamela shook her head. With an unladylike snort she tossed her curly, cropped head and said, “Haven is in a pother, as are Mama and Rachel and even Grand. And that awful Lady Mortimer!”

Ruefully Jane realized that the fate of an eavesdropper was likely to be hers. This forthright girl would hold back nothing in her evaluation of those she disparaged. “Why are they beside themselves? And who is Lady Mortimer?”

“Haven’t you heard? No, I guess you wouldn’t. Mary is rather isolated up here. My brother, Lord Haven, is as good as betrothed to this girl, Miss Jane Dresden, but on the way here she was abducted.”

“Oh, my!” Jane said, with what surprise she could muster. “Is there any sign of the girl?”

“Not a one! Except there was a ransom note.” Pamela kicked at a tuft of grass and gazed up the moor. Together they watched a hawk climb an air current, circling and wheeling, only to swoop down into the thick grass and dart up again with something squirming in its talons. “Lady Mortimer is Miss Dresden’s aunt. And a more pestilential old beldame I have never in all my life met! She natters and plagues poor Haven and flits about the Court like a bat.”

Jane stifled a chuckle at the apt description of the black-gowned Lady Mortimer. It was odd that she felt no guilt about her aunt’s worry. Perhaps because she didn’t believe it genuine. The woman had never gone out of her way to be a friend to Jane, much less a proper aunt. This mockery of a betrothal was just a way to enhance the family image and to recover from the shame of an aging, unwed niece. “Your brother is upset? He must love this girl very much.”

“Lord, no! He’s never even met the wretched, frosty-faced ninny! She sounds like a perfect fright to me, the way Lady Mortimer speaks of her. Jane this and Jane that,” she fluted in a dreadful imitation of Lady Mortimer’s voice. “Enough to make me want to cast up my accounts.”

Jane glanced over at Pamela, thinking that if she had gone ahead with the visit this might be her sister-to-be, even now. She rather liked Pamela’s plain speaking and vigorous use of cant, but thought that it must be driving her aunt to distraction. “What is your brother like? He sounds rather fearsome.”

“Haven?” Pamela laughed. Tassie tossed her head as if to join in the laughter. “Haven is a perfect lamb most of the time. He seems gruff and bear-like to others, but that is just because they don’t know him. He is the kindest of brothers, and I should know, because he often must go to battle with Mama over me. I send my mother to Bedlam at times.” She gave a rueful sideways glance at Jane and said, “I’m not at all what she would want in a daughter, you see. I leave that up to my prissy, perfect sister Rachel. I like to ride, and scandalously, to gallop. I never watch my tongue and invariably say the wrong thing at the perfect moment when everyone can hear me. I even got bosky on champagne at my first ball in London and started betting with the bloods over who would be the first diamond of the Season to get leg-shackled. If my ancient and detestable aunt Viola had not died, sending us back to Yorkshire for mourning, I think m’mother would have had to gag me and bind me ankle and wrist to find a man willing to marry me.”

Jane could not help it, she laughed out loud at that, picturing all the old cats and dragons at the tonnish balls faced with this brass-faced little country greenhorn. The stiff breeze up the moor lifted the girl’s curls and she tossed them out of her eyes in an appealingly free movement.

“You may laugh, but the lectures I was read!” She rolled her greenish gray eyes, and then fastened them on her companion. “You have no notion of how boring London is . . . I mean, when one is coming out! I must not do this, I must not do that! And prissy white dresses and no one to be friends with, all of them odious, simpering little pudding hearts. Not a lark among them.”

“But your brother did not come down on you for this?” Jane, remembering what her friend had said about Lord Haven, could not imagine the stuffy, grim old sobersides of her description allowing his sister to act in such a reckless, feckless manner.

“Haven? He laughed himself hoarse. Said I was a right proper rip and that I should have been born a boy, for then he could have whipped me for my impudence and bought me a set of colors to march under. I would have liked that,” she said dreamily. “Marching gallantly off to war, wearing those ripping uniforms!” She sighed and came back to reality. “As it is, he says I will likely never marry, but that I may stay with him forever and keep his house, so it doesn’t matter.”

He sounded, Jane thought, improbably kind. But maybe with his sister it was different; after all, her behavior did not really reflect on him in the same way a wife’s would. He would certainly not tolerate that from a prospective wife. He would never stand for a lady of the ton who preferred country walks to city promenades and longed to leave off gloves and bonnet and roam freely in the countryside. He would not be like Gerry, who accepted her as she was and gave her looks that made her heart pound with wonder and secret delight.

“Have you seen anyone strange? I mean, like this missing girl, or a couple of men who might have abducted her?” Pamela asked.

“No, neither Mary nor I have seen anyone,” Jane said firmly, her heart leaping up into her throat. “You may tell your brother that, that Mary has not seen anyone strange.” This was why she had come out with Pamela, to establish that firmly so there was no need to bring up the topic again, should the girl drop in to the cottage another day. Not that that would happen. Jane was realizing again that she must leave, and soon. It was not fair to involve Mary in her deception, especially when Mary clearly depended on the generosity of those at the Court for her cottage.

“I guess that’s that then.” Pamela stopped. An inviting slope lay ahead and she gazed down it with longing in her eyes. She gave Jane a calculating look. “I don’t suppose you could give me a hand up so I can ride from here?”

“Certainly,” Jane said, swishing her skirts out of the way and cupping her hands. Pamela was as light as a cloud and soon sat astride her Tassie.

“It was very nice meeting you,” Pamela said, gazing down at Jane. “I so seldom meet truly jolly people. I hope Mary is not angry with me for dropping in.”

“I’m sure she’s not,” Jane said. “Good-bye, Miss Pamela.”

“Good-bye, Jenny. But not good-bye—more like farewell. Adieu. For I am sure I will be back before you must go home. Where is home anyway?”

“I don’t know. I am between positions right now.”

“Maybe you will be able to stay here forever,” Pamela said. “I hope so. I like you.” With that, she dug her heels in and clicked to Tassie, who responded by leaping forward and cantering down the long smooth slope. “Adieu, Jenny!” was left on the wind, trailing after the fey and unpredictable girl.

 

• • •

 

“Your watch, milord,” Laidlow, Haven’s valet, said, handing him the gold pocket watch and fob.

Haven took it as Laidlow shook out the disreputable jacket his master had been wearing. Something clattered to the floor at the edge of the plush Turkish carpet, and Laidlow picked it up.

“Pearls, milord. What would you have me do with them?”

“Good God, I had forgotten!” Haven took the perfect double strand of creamy pearls that had been found at the inn and tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket for safe keeping. He gazed at them, a hollow pit in his stomach growling. What did they mean? Miss Dresden had had such a string, according to her aunt, and they, as well as some money, had been missing from the inn along with their owner. But the pearls and money were supposed to be in cloth sacks; the potboy claimed to have found the pearls without such a covering. He shoved them in his pocket, saying, “I’ll take care of them, Laidlow. They belong to the missing young woman.”

Clothed suitably in riding breeches and jacket, Haven was just coming down the winding staircase when Varens was shown in by the butler.

“Haven,” Varens said. “I’m glad you’re home. I’m on my way back to Corleigh,” he said, naming his estate. “And I wondered if you wanted to come along to talk to Jones about that girl he saw.”

“I was on my way out to your place, as a matter of fact.”

“Lady Haven requests the presence of the two gentlemen for tea in the parlor,” the butler, a recent addition who had replaced the ancient and venerable Collins, intoned.

Haven sighed. His mother must have seen Varens ride up. She was ever promoting a match between Rachel and the baronet, but it was no good. Rach was blind to Varens’s excellent qualities, seeing only his rough looks and country manners.

“Excellent idea. I would be delighted,” Varens said, avoiding Haven’s eyes. He strode toward the parlor.

Reluctantly Haven followed, to find everyone but his grandmother and sister Pamela present. Even the redoubtable Lady Mortimer was there, sitting stiffly and sipping sherry. Varens, of course, though he did the pretty to all of the ladies, made straight for Rachel, who sat in pale loveliness by the window. She really was a beautiful young woman, much prettier than Pamela, but the disdainful tilt to her head spoiled her looks. Haven was fond of her, but the fondness was mixed with exasperation. He remembered too well the unaffected little girl of the past, and how she and Pamela, happy as grigs, would tumble and play over the grassy slopes of Haven Court. He would like her better if she had kept some of her unaffected good nature. Being beautiful had spoiled her.

“I thought you were going out to look for signs of my niece,” Lady Mortimer said unpleasantly from her position sitting in state on an ugly settee. She wore another of her infinite variety of black dresses and jet jewelry.

“I was just on my way when Varens came in. Since I am going to his estate first to question his stable man and he was invited in for tea, there is no point in leaving without him.”

She humphed, and he took the cup of tea offered him, grimaced at the weakness of the brew—only his grandmother made tea strong enough, in his estimation—but stayed by Lady Mortimer, taking a seat beside her. “My lady, was your niece agitated in any way before she disappeared? Had she said anything about her trip here to indicate it was not welcome?”

The woman looked at him sharply, her beady eyes narrowing. “What are you implying, Haven?”

“Nothing, my lady. I’m just asking.” He put one hand in his pocket and touched the pearls. He did not want to shock the woman and would bring them out only after preparing her.

“She was just as she always is,” Lady Mortimer said, her gaze slipping away to Lady Haven, who stood nearby.

“She was looking forward to the trip?” he persisted. “To arriving here?”

“Of course!” She did not meet his questioning gaze.

“And she had . . . oh, no alarming news or upsetting meeting at any time?”

Lady Mortimer did not answer and Haven felt the beginning of a gnawing worry. There was something she was not telling them. Something about Miss Dresden.

“She may have had . . . or, yes, she did have a letter. From her mother.”

A letter from her mother. Haven frowned. “Have you seen the letter?”

“No,” Lady Mortimer said slowly, still not meeting Haven’s gaze. She drained her sherry glass and handed it to a waiting footman.

Haven discarded his full teacup in the same manner, concentrating all of his energy on the baroness. “Do you know what was in it?”

She looked away but then fastened her gaze on the viscount. “I suppose I may,” she said.

“Do you know what it said or not?” Haven said, exasperated with the woman’s obfuscation.

“I received a letter from my sister, too. Jane’s may have said much the same as mine.”

“And that was? Lady Mortimer, I’m trying to help. Please do not make this any more difficult than it already is!”

“But this has nothing to do with anything!” Lady Mortimer said, wringing her hands together in front of her. Lady Haven, looking on, frowned in confusion. “All right, I will tell you! Miss Dresden’s mother, my sister, foolish old gudgeon that she is, has remarried. She must have done it within a day or two of our leaving Bath. She has married a Mr. Jessup, a ridiculous little ferret of a man. She likely told Jane of it in a letter.”