Seven
How infuriating that Nicholas should not allow the matter to rest but should challenge her further still! She rolled up the remainder of her makeshift bandages and refused to be drawn. But when he asked again, his voice provocative and infuriatingly low, she answered him.
“Quits? Indeed. Quite quits. And kisses, my lord, are not for ladies. They are for tavern wenches.”
“How instructive. I might never have known, else. Direct me immediately, if you please, to a tavern wench with hair as black as tar.”
“There are any number of them, I believe.”
“What a broad education you have, most curious. Do these wenches also have lips as ripe as berries?”
“My lord!”
“I shock you? Good God, you blush!”
“Only because you are—”
“A sadly rag-mannered rogue. Yes. You repeat yourself. Did I mention limbs? Do those tavern wenches have long, long legs that seem to go on forever. . . ?”
Tessie felt guilty again. Other young ladies, no matter how desperate, did not scramble down trees in nightgowns, then proceed to rip even those inadequate coverings to shreds. If she had shown a smidgen of sense, she would have stripped the revolting Grange of his neckerchief, for it was still neatly bound about his throat in a passable imitation of Brummell’s famous “waterfall.”
Still, she would not admit as much to Nick, who seemed bent on shamelessly regarding those tantalizing glimpses of forbidden knees.
“Stop staring, if you please. If I can’t rely on your natural decorum, then think on this. If the moon changes, you will go squint.”
“Ah, but in such a cause!”
Tessie severely admonished herself not to smile at the rogue. Instead, she smoothed down what little skirts, if she could call them such, she had, and frowned.
“Unfair! Ripping the length of my nightgown was a severe sacrifice to my dignity. You should not tease me about it. A gentleman wouldn’t.”
“But I am talking of tavern wenches. You seem such an expert upon the subject.”
“Oh! You are the most odious, exasperating . . .”
“Children, children . . .”
The prisoner—or so Tessie thought of him—ap—proached. Apparently, Joseph had released him after she’d run off toward the dim light of the barn. He now towered over Nicholas, who, despite coming around some moments before, was still lying upon the cold—and I daresay pungent—barn floor.
“I believe I owe a lump the size of a crow’s egg to you, my lord.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“I am talking about my good Joseph here, who coshed me over the head and very kindly gagged and bound me. Strictly your instructions, I am told.”
“You are not Murray Higgins.”
“No, and I rather think you are not either.”
“My head hurts, I have lost blood. I rather think my heart too—” Here a swift look at Tessie, but she was gathering a horse blanket from one of the stalls.
“My sympathies.” The prisoner grinned. “I assume you are telling me you cannot make head or tail of the night’s events.”
“A most distressing confession. My usual omnipotence deserts me.”
“It always does when there is a female involved.”
“How sage. And you are . . . ?”
“Christopher Lambert.”
“The name rings a bell. . . .”
“Oh, possibly. My illustrious bloodlines, I suppose. I am Atwater’s third.”
“Ah, yes. A hell-raiser, I recall.”
“Not in your league, my lord.”
Nicholas rose to his feet, grimaced a little in pain, then effected a mock bow. “Shall we remove to the inn? I rather think our little adventures are over for one night. Joseph!”
“Me lord?” However disrespectful Joseph might be in private, he was always perfectly subservient in public.
“Take my horse and ride off to Stipend, will you? I shall scribble you a note to the local magistrate. I fear, after my injury, the ride will be too taxing. Unless you can procure me a glass of blue ruin, of course.”
“Which you won’t, for nothing can be more injurious to my lord’s health than scrambling his brains with alcohol.” Miss Hampstead had returned with the blanket, which was now draped decorously—and voluminously—about her person.
“Revenge, Miss Nobody?” Nicholas smiled sweetly.
“No, common sense. Though if it goes hard with you not to drink, I daresay you deserve it.”
“When I am well, you shall get what you deserve.”
“I quake with fear.”
Miss Tessie felt rather courageous as she said this, for in truth, the meaning behind his steadily emphasized words had not escaped her. Or, rather, the intent behind them, for she was maidenly enough not to know anything precisely of Nick’s proposed methods.
Retrospectively, she blushed, glad of the concealing dark. Nicholas’s eyes were too observant—and damnably overbearing—by far. Now, however, he concerned himself with the work of the moment, his velvety tones becoming crisp and starkly efficient.
“Joseph, hop on that horse and go! Those bonds will not hold for long.”
“Fortunately, you seem to have incapacitated both quite admirably, Miss . . . Good God, I cannot keep calling you Miss Nobody, and Charity Evans sticks in my gullet! You must have a name?”
“Yes, but I need not reveal it.”
“Beggin’ pardon, miss . . .”
“Yes, Joseph?” Tessie smiled upon the valet with utter sweetness. Nick was fascinated as he watched her pink lips part, revealing perfectly straight little white teeth that sent his grizzled old servant into a spin.
“Must I go now? Oi’d raver stay, yer ken. The fun is just begginin’ like. Those nobs might bleedin’ ransack yer chamber ’gin.”
“I fancy they will not, however. Go, Joseph!”
“Aye, miss.” Without a word to his master he began to turn on his heel.
Lord Nicholas Cathgar, with a faint hint of amusement playing around his mouth, drew him back. When he spoke, it was with that slight drawl that Tessie detested.
“Since when, my good man, did you start taking orders from anyone other than my illustrious self?”
Joseph blushed to the tips of his ears. “Since wot the little mistress got a rare bleedin’ ’ead on ‘er shoulders she ’as, gov.”
“Elegantly put. You are dismissed, Joseph.”
“Aye, me lord.” Joseph grinned a little ruefully, doffed his cap, and scampered out into the mists. The last Tessie heard was the piebald horse neighing a little before settling into a simply spanking great pace.
“You have forgotten the note to the magistrate.”
“So I have. It shall have to be the blue ruin, then, and the innkeeper’s best stallion.”
“I believe I may offer assistance here, having no small interest in the outcome of tonight’s endeavors.”
“Ah, Christopher. Almost I had forgotten you.” Nicholas’s tone was dry.
“How flattering! But I collect your wits are wondering.”
“Indeed.”
“Then may I offer you my compliments and my assurance to see to the matter myself. The fat one is of no consequence, but Grange we must have. And the skinny one. Margate, I think he is called. But Grange is the ringleader. He has his bony fingers in too many pies by half.”
“Fortunately, judging by the crunch I was gratified to hear, they are now really rather mangled fingers. I believe you speak, chiefly, of the French pies, or should I say soufflés?”
Lambert smiled. “Chiefly. With rumors of Napoleon such as they are . . .”
“Indeed. Am I to understand that you, too, were sent by the Foreign Office?”
Christopher Lambert grinned. “Circuitously, yes. I am an envoy direct from the great man himself. Lord Castlereigh is my second cousin once removed, or some such thing. But apparently, lines were crossed somewhere. Two impostors are really rather overkill. Classic.”
“So it seems. Convey my compliments to the minister.”
“I shall. And now, good people, I must fly. Dawn must not be far, and I must needs find that valiant little valet of yours. Does he shine one’s hessians, one wonders, as well as he delivers a flush hit? The mind boggles.”
Lord Cathgar nodded.
“He does. And you can eat your heart out, Lambert, the man is mine. Apart from his impertinence, he is perfection itself.”
Then, without further words, and certainly without a glance at the prisoners, who were sullying the air with language unfit for the gutter, he tucked Miss Hampstead’s hand—the one not holding the pistol—into the sleeve of his greatcoat and strode, at last, from the barn.
 
“I shall sleep in your chamber tonight.”
“Over my dead body, little Miss Nobody.”
“Well, it just might be if I do not, Lord Cathgar.”
“Nick.”
“Lord Cathgar.”
Tessie regarded his lordship quellingly. Her scrape was quite bad enough not to commit the further social solecism of calling him by his given name. In the light of the events of the evening, she knew her scruples were ridiculous, but old habits died hard, and she was, after all, still a lady.
“I shall not die tonight, Miss Nobody. I am like a cat. I have nine lives.”
“And you’ve probably used up eight! You are still bleeding.”
“It is a trifle. I loathe women who fuss.”
“Then you shall loathe me at your leisure. You may need to be leeched.”
“You minx! You want me to suffer!”
Tessie suppressed a bloodthirsty grin.
“Not at all. I am merely informing you of your options.”
“Wait till I start informing you of your options.”
“You will need to be fully recovered to do that, so I rest my case. I shall spend the night in your chamber.”
“Joseph . . .”
“Joseph is at Stipend. He may relieve me when he returns.”
“I am not an invalid!”
“No, but your walk is unsteady, and you have fainted once this evening.”
“I shall never live that down.” The words were faintly rueful.
“I, too, am not a tattletale, Lord Cathgar.”
They stopped walking for a moment and turned to face each other in the gentle moonlight. There was no sign of the rabble that had furtively disbanded earlier. Trudging home, one shouldn’t wonder, or drinking ale in the tavern, or warming some wench’s bed . . . neither Tessie nor Lord Cathgar knew or cared. They were staring at each other.
Then, in response to the smallest constriction of Tessie’s throat, Nicholas had her in his arms, and his lips, at last, were crushing down upon her own. When he was done, Tessie had no more to say, a state of affairs Nick apparently found most satisfactory.
“. . . So you see,” he continued in a conversational tone, just as if they had never digressed from their topic, “you shall be safer, Miss . . . Evans . . . in your own bed.”
“Did I tell you my chamber has been ransacked?”
“For your forty-two gold sovereigns?”
“Indeed. And my virtue.”
“But that, I collect, remains intact.”
“Yes, by dint of shinning down an apple tree with a loaded pistol.”
“You are a remarkable woman, Miss . . . will you not trust me with your name?”
“No, I will not.”
“Miss Nobody, then.”
Tessie shrugged. Her lips were still warm from his kiss. She ached to confide to him, yet, perversely, could not do so.
His eyes shuttered once more. “We are at the entrance. I shall be perfectly well.”
“You are pale. I shall attend you. At least till Joseph returns.”
“And then? What then, my little charmer?”
“Then I shall disappear, Lord Cathgar, and I shall not darken your path again.”
“How dramatic! But rest assured, little one, I shall darken your path.”
“Maybe.”
“How noncommittal!”
“Merely prosaic. You should not make promises while you are feverish.”
“I only ever propose marriage when I am feverish.”
“Marriage!”
“What better way to scotch the impending scandal?”
“There must be hundreds. You are nonsensical, my lord.”
“Nicholas. And it is you who are nonsensical. And compromised beyond redemption.”
“Then I am an unsuitable candidate for countess, my lord.”
“Go to your chamber, little one, while I am still being chivalrous.”
“No!”
“Then beware of the consequences.”
“Be certain I shall, my lord.”
Tessie stepped into the warmth of the inn before Nicholas. There was no one in the taproom, but a fire burned in the grate, its embers still glowing a fiery red. Tessie wondered where the innkeeper’s wife was, or who had her keys. She shivered for a moment at the thought, then smiled in relief at Nicholas, who was regarding her closely.
“Come, my lord, you are surely no worse a fate than some unknown thug entering my chamber. That, you must know, is why I was escaping this evening.”
“What, feeling merciful, were you? Not put a bullet through his heart?”
Tessie did not allow her lips to twitch in an answering smile, though she felt a distinct gurgle welling up inside her.
“You are pleased to tease, but it is no funny thing, I assure you, having drunken men attempt one’s chamber.”
“I shall slay them for you.”
“Now you are absurd again.” But Tessie felt that traitorous gurgle of laughter rising up in her throat once more. She felt Nicholas unashamedly regarding her, and when he smiled, she felt a peculiar lightness of being that had little to do with slaying.
For once, they took the stairs in perfect harmony, though Tessie several times noticed Nicholas wince. Though the hallways were shadowed, she noticed strange hollows beneath his eyes that she attributed to pain.
“Is it much farther? You look not at all the thing.”
“How salutary. I set such store by my good looks.”
“They are still good, in a raffish sort of way.” Then Tessie bit her tongue and colored ferociously, for of all the bold, unmaidenly comments she had made that evening, this one must surely have put her beyond the pale. Nicholas, however, merely looked faintly amused, so she was encouraged to continue.
“Not that I know anything of men, my lord, or—”
“Now you disappoint me. You must surely have a vast knowledge of my fellow creatures to draw comparisons?”
“Only Mr. Dobbins, sir, and I do not think I shall be committing any maidenly offense to admit you look better.”
“On the contrary. The offense would have been if you’d admitted the reverse. Ah, here we are. Miss Nobody, you are going to have to draw the key from my person. I am afraid my arm is rather stiff. . . . ”
Tessie regarded him sharply. Clearly, the pain was greater than he was admitting to, for his brows were furrowed and he had momentarily stopped his teasing tone. She nodded, anxious for him.
“Where is it?”
“In my pocket.”
Miss Hampstead, quite unused to rifling through gentlemen’s pockets, nodded nonetheless. She felt about his capacious greatcoat, but he shook his head, dark hair just lingering on his shoulders.
“No, not that one, my waistcoat . . .”
Now it was Tessie’s turn to pale, for reaching into his waistcoat was far too intimate for comfort. Nicholas was nothing like Grandfather Hampstead, whom she used to embrace regularly, or even Mr. Dobbins, whom she shrank from. Nicholas was . . . but no! She resolutely put from her mind what he was and searched him for the key, remembering that a male’s anatomy was quite different from her own and blushing like a schoolgirl as her fingers accidentally touched hard muscles through the workaday cambric and patched rags he effected.
“Ah! Here it is!” The relief was tangible in her tones as she extracted the key. Nicholas’s face was perfectly inscrutable as she busied herself with the lock and finally, finally, opened the door. It was well oiled and swung open easily, just as though it were not made from solid oak and trimmed with brass and filigreed lead.
“Come on in as I light the candles.”
Nicholas nodded, and casually slid the greatcoat from his back. What he wished for now, above all else, was a soothing bath and a bottle of brandy, but he was not an unreasonable man, so he made do with the claret sent up on a silver tray and tried to forget about the execrable attire he was wearing.
Tessie turned her back modestly so that he could climb under the covers as she lit all twenty-nine candles of the inn’s second finest candelabrum. The finest, she noted, was almost spent, the flames having eaten most of the wax down to the wicks. Evidently, Nicholas—or the innkeeper—had not expected him to spend most of the evening outside.
Fortunately, fires were burning in both the grates, though the logs needed tending. Tessie was glad of this chore, for it concealed her burning cheeks as she contemplated, again, the enormity of her actions. She had practically forced herself into his chamber, and very likely he had no need of her at all! Worse, in all likelihood she had merely confirmed his opinion that she was a brazen, managing female . . . and as for his offer! She must truly be sunk beyond reproach for him to have deemed such a thing necessary.
Well, she would nurse him until Joseph came back, then disappear on the morning’s stage. He had no direction and no name, so even if he did have the inclination to follow her, he could not. Tessie did not know whether to be glad or to be sorry. She swallowed a great big stupid, unbidden lump in her throat and stoked at a log so fiercely that flames leaped from the grate and scattered in bright sparks over the heavy rug she was kneeling upon.
“Great good gun, do not, I beg you, incinerate us.” This from the shadow in the bed. Despite a definite edge of fatigue, she could also detect laughter. Her mouth twitched as she extinguished the rogue sparks. She might never see him again on the morrow, but tonight—at least till Joseph came back—tonight he was hers.
She wondered how it came to be that she so craved his company. It was, after all, only a few hours since she had first made his acquaintance. Only a few hours since he had disdained her jellies, condemned her dress, and muttered several disparaging remarks about her hoydenish behavior. Only a few moments since he had kissed her.
She avoided looking at the centerpiece of the room, the great bed curtained in faded velvet. Old, but evidently clean, with a hot brick heating in the hearth. She supposed she should tuck it beneath Nicholas’s feet, but her famous courage seemed to have failed her, so she rearranged the tinderboxes, then fussed around the tepid washing water set majestically on a gilded table edged with mythical creatures.
“Leave it, doubtless it is cold.”
“Lukewarm. I could heat it up. . . .”
“Leave it.”
“There is some fruit. . . .” The occasional table was laden with a large china bowl filled with Spanish oranges, mandarins, and some small golden apples.
“I am not hungry.”
“Would you—”
“What I would like, little Miss Nobody, is a sight of something more than your very starched linen. Doubtless backs are all the rage, but I find I prefer your face.”
Tessie set down an apple and was surprised to find her fingers shaking.
“No!”
“No?”
“No. I must go. . . .” She regarded once more the great oak door. She must leave, she knew, before there was no turning back. She had the faintest of suspicions that Lord Nicholas Cathgar was not a man to be trifled with. He would marry her out of hand if she compromised herself utterly. And she did not want that—not for her, and not for him. She wanted to be Miss Theresa Hampstead again, of impeccable name and lineage. She wanted no charades, no marriages of calm convenience, no bittersweet temptations . . . no regrets. Her fingers touched her pistol. She would need it if the thugs below stairs had been patient. . . .