Patrica Rice Page 6

  “The one this morn did. T’other took a coach away.”

  Michael produced a coin from his pocket with his free hand and held it out to the fellow. “Thank you, sir, you’ve been a tremendous help. Where does the outbound London coach go from here?”

  “Berkshire next. Don’t know where it goes from there.”

  It didn’t matter. There were other inns, other coaches, other directions. A man leaving London for Ireland could take many different roads. Michael couldn’t possibly follow all of them, although if the other man who looked like him was Seamus, he’d liked to have followed.

  Michael gently steered Blanche toward the inn. “This is as far as you go, my lady. She’s on the coach. I’ll check at the White Horse when I reach London, but it’s a busy place. It’s doubtful if anyone will have noticed her. We can just hope she arrived in Elton Alley safely. I’ll find her there if that’s the case.”

  “You may take your hand off me and go where you wish, Mr. O’Toole,” she replied haughtily. “I shall have a sip of tea and go on to London.” She turned a triumphant smile on him. “There isn’t a blessed thing you can do about it.”

  He could cheerfully have wrung her neck. Or kissed her. It was a toss-up between the two. Michael released her arm. “You haven’t disguised yourself. Every person on this road knows who you are, knows your direction, and knows who you look for. If the carriage fire was a warning, the ones who set it know you didn’t heed it. You are a walking target, my lady. Do you expect your groom to shield you?”

  Her glare died, replaced by uncertainty. He took advantage of her momentary silence to continue. “We can do nothing now. We’ll hire a post chaise and go on to London. If they’re following you, we won’t lose them easily. We’d best pretend you have nothing to hide, go directly to a friend’s house, and disappear from there.”

  The look of blatant admiration flaring in Blanche’s eyes shook him. She swiftly covered it with suspicion.

  “Why can’t we go directly to my town house? I could find a disguise much easier there, and I wouldn’t have to explain myself.”

  “If you are being followed, and I see no reason as yet to believe you are, they will expect you to go directly to your own home. They will have men stationed there, and escape will be exceedingly difficult. However, if we stop elsewhere, it will confuse them. If we stop at a modest home, say Cousin Marian’s, that will confuse them more. They may fear you’re not who they think you are, or that the real Lady Blanche has traded places with her companion, or some such.”

  He held up his hand to forestall her argument. “Illusions are created simply by doing the unexpected. Cousin Marian can send all her servants out on a lark and go out herself. With people going in all different directions, who will they follow?”

  Michael saw the excitement in her eyes, even though she fought to hide it. A good confidence man would see her every thought. He needed to get her somewhere safe and leave her there. He rather thought he might have to tie her to a chair to do so. His self-proclaimed brother Gavin might be capable of tying his ladies to chairs, but Michael couldn’t harm a hair of Blanche’s head.

  “But then where will I go?” she inquired. “I could disguise myself as a kitchen maid, I suppose, and meet you at Elton Alley. But even if we find Fiona, it may not be safe to take her home with us.”

  “I can just see you as a kitchen maid,” Michael said dryly, looking down at the lovely soft skin of the hand she’d removed from her glove. “We might tart you out as an expensive ladybird, but we’d have some difficulty explaining that to Marian.”

  This conversation had taken too suggestive a turn. Lifting his hand in signal, he ordered the groom to find the lady some tea while he hired the post chaise.

  Michael rode beside the carriage rather than join Blanche in the interior. His craving to sit beside her meant that his brain wouldn’t work clearly. Just the faint fragrance of her herbal sachet had his pulse beating too fast.

  A thick fog rolled in off the sea as they approached the city. The uncertain March light faded early, and Michael frowned at the implications. Even if it was only early afternoon, he couldn’t allow Blanche anywhere near Half Moon Street in the fog. He itched with frustration at the responsibility of looking out for someone other than himself.

  Michael guided the carriage down the street near Mayfair where Gavin’s cousin Marian and her husband lived. They considered him a cousin, too, and he accepted the relationship with gratitude. He’d treated them abominably upon occasion, but family made excuses for family.

  Michael swung down from his mount to help Blanche from the carriage. Once she placed her hand in his, he held her hand possessively to help her up the steps, following the groom who knocked at the door. Briefly, her fingers squeezed his and then the door opened and she freed herself.

  The footman led them upstairs into Marian’s parlor. Michael watched the skirt of Blanche’s riding habit sway temptingly as he followed her up the stairs. He tried banishing the image of the legs beneath those heavy skirts, but he’d glimpsed their lovely curves when she’d jumped from the window to escape the fire.

  “Michael! Blanche! What a delightful surprise.” Marian rose from her seat to greet them. Like all other Lawrences, she possessed a darkly handsome complexion, thick chestnut hair, and sparkling brown eyes. Daughter of a marquess, married to the younger son of an earl, she could have moved in the highest society, but she chose to live in this modest townhouse, on the income her husband earned. Personally, Michael admired them all the more for their ambition.

  It also made Marian and her husband, Reginald Montague, the ideal people to help them.

  Marian sent him a swift look that said the lack of a chaperone didn’t go unnoticed, but she didn’t speak the words aloud. She merely hugged Blanche, sent for tea, and took her seat.

  “I know perfectly well you didn’t come all this way to visit for the mere pleasure of it. Michael has never once entered these portals without some request in mind,” Marian said. “But you shall both keep me company and take some tea and talk no more of it until afterward, as advance payment for my cooperation.”

  Keeping an eye on the street outside, Michael paced the length of the room behind the sofa where the ladies sat. He recognized his cousin’s perfume with indifference, but the more subtle temptation of Blanche’s sachet drove him to stand as far away as he dared.

  Frustrated, Michael jammed his hands into his pockets and wished himself to Hades. Blanche would make a queen look slovenly. Why didn’t she just marry the duke and get it over with? They obviously belonged together: the slim, elegant duke with his cool indifference and the graceful, lovely Blanche with her passion for family. She would drag out Neville’s better qualities, and Neville could give her the family she craved.

  The idea of it drove a stake through Michael’s heart. He couldn’t eat the sandwiches offered him. The patter of small feet in the hallway outside filled him with immense relief.

  “Cousin Michael!´ The cheerful, small cry buoyed his hopes, and he grinned as he caught the bundle of energy hurtling toward him.

  “Edwina!” Marian cried, scandalized by her daughter’s behavior. “We have guests.”

  Lifting the toddler from the floor, Michael whispered in her ear, “The fairy princess, Lady Blanche, has come to visit, scamp. Make your curtsies, and I will take you for a horsie ride.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, the toddler planted a wet kiss on his cheek, scrambled from his arms, and ran to stand in front of their guest. Bobbing a wobbly curtsy, she lisped obediently, “Good day to you, Printheth Lady Blanche. Thank you for coming.”

  Then with a mischievous glint over her shoulder to Michael, she asked, “Is that good? Ride now?”

  Even this toddler possessed the Lawrence dark good looks, and Michael felt his heart turn over in his chest at her winsome smile. He wanted a daughter just like her someday. He glanced back at Blanche, then wished he hadn’t.

  She looked at the child with such lo
nging.

  Insane, he muttered to himself. She would forget all about the child as soon as he took Edwina out of the room.

  Out of the room.

  Laughter once more dancing in his eyes, Michael held out his arms for the toddler. “Come on, scamp, I’ll give you a horsie ride back to the nursery where you belong.”

  Squealing with delight, the child leapt at the offer. Swinging her up in his arms, Michael propped her on his shoulder, neighed at her command, and trotted out of the room in the direction of the nursery and escape.

  Eight

  Tears formed in Blanche’s eyes as she watched Michael cradle the beautiful little girl in his arms. His whole face lit with pleasure as the toddler patted his cheeks and kissed his nose. She had seen many expressions on his face before. Michael didn’t always hide his emotions as so many men did, but she’d never seen such love and devotion in his countenance as she saw now.

  When they romped out of the room, Blanche couldn’t face Marian immediately. She had to gain some control of herself. Her arms ached to hold Edwina. She should visit Dillian and hold her godchild for a little while to still the need. But she couldn’t.

  If she were to escape Michael’s overprotective restraints and find Fiona on her own, she must disguise herself and slip away without endangering Marian or anyone. Michael had once showed her how to slip away...

  Blanche gave the open doorway a suspicious glance and inquired urgently, “How far is it to the nursery?”

  “Just up the stairs. Why...” Marian’s eyes widened. She knew Michael even better than Blanche. Abruptly, she rose from the chair and led the way from the room.

  Blanche followed, but she had no illusion about what they would find. Or wouldn’t find. The blasted man had done it again.

  In the nursery, Edwina rocked on a wooden horse, chattering excitedly to her nursemaid, with no sign of Michael anywhere.

  “I shall feed him bells,” Blanche declared ominously as she stalked back down the stairway. “I want to hear him clang every time he walks.”

  Marian giggled. “That is one solution, I suppose. It could be quite embarrassing upon several occasions I can think of, but we shan’t mention them.” Her laughter rang out at Blanche’s puzzled expression, and she covered her mouth to stifle it. “Oh, dear. Dillian will have my head. I really shouldn’t say such things in front of an unmarried lady.”

  Cheeks heating, Blanche swept into the parlor and scanned the street outside She didn’t want to imagine Michael in bed with anyone, with or without bells.

  “You might as well tell me what our elusive Michael did not. What kind of trouble are the two of you in this time?”

  Marian’s sensible tone drew Blanche back to the immediate. She wouldn’t sit here like a useless turnip waiting for Michael to return. Or not to return, which was the more likely. The last time he’d disappeared, she hadn’t seen him for two years.

  Turning her back on the fog-shrouded street, Blanche faced her hostess. “A young woman ran away from my home this morning. We believe she is in some danger. Michael has taken it upon himself to go after her, but I believe I have considerably more resources than he does. I want to summon a Runner first. Then I shall call upon my servants for escort. I don’t like involving you or your family any further, so I think it best if I’m seen leaving here. Send for my groom, will you?”

  Marian frowned. “Michael didn’t bring you here so you could go running home as soon as he turned his back. There’s more to the story than that. I may deplore his methods, but I usually approve his intent. Let’s hear the whole.”

  * * *

  Sitting in the foggy shadows of Elton Alley, disguised in beggar’s rags, Michael watched two fashionable fribbles lingering on the corner. The street possessed more than its fair share of actresses, he supposed. These fine fellows could very well be in search of one, but most gentlemen possessed the common sense to know the actress’s direction and go straight there, not linger like cork-brained clunches in full view of every light-fingered rogue and dolly in the district.

  The arrival of a hired hackney on that same corner stirred his suspicion more. He’d seen the Bow Street Runner—no doubt hired by Blanche—working his way down the street earlier. Michael had chosen this doorway to keep an eye on the blighter. He wished Blanche hadn’t been in such a hurry to hire the officer, but from what he’d seen so far, the man knew his job. Michael just hoped he could find Fiona before the inhabitants of the house at the end of the alley noted the Runner’s presence and fled. But the two fribbles and the hackney made him suspicious.

  Michael buried his head against his arms and silently practiced widening his vocabulary of curses as an outlandishly garbed female descended from the carriage. he had no one but himself to blame. In the days after the fire he’d amused himself and Blanche by teaching her to disguise herself from Neville and society. She’d just carried his lessons a little too far this time.

  Hoping he’d imagined the scene, Michael squeezed his eyes closed and opened them again. Even through the thickening fog he could see the scandalously low cut bodice sagging ridiculously over slender curves. A remnant of a different century, the purple satin skirt dragged in the mud, resembling a dressing gown more than any other female garment he recognized. He supposed she’d found it in Cousin Marian’s attic, and he cursed Reginald’s penchant for collecting antiquities.

  He recognized the fops now—two of the foolish suitors who had been dangling after Blanche’s wealth years ago. Mostly, they lay about quoting poetry and eating her food. Harmless, but stupid. When they joined her, offering their arms, Michael pulled his hair. Only this pair would be idiotic enough to play act with a lady, endangering her without thought. Blanche’s neck was the one needing wringing. The lady was peeved at his escape and thought to teach him a lesson. She had, but it probably wasn’t what she intended. Next time, he’d tie her to a chair.

  Remaining seated, he leaned against the door behind him, draping his bare wrists over the tattered knees of his trousers as he watched the procession stroll down the alley. Even the usual inhabitants stared in disbelief, not knowing what to make of so lovely a lady in such out-dated dishabille. Her fashionable fribbles possessed the pale features and soft hands of aristocrats, not to mention an air of complete confusion at the noisy filth and chaos around them. He considered shooting them both for not having the brains to haul the lady straight back to a hackney.

  Even the Runner blinked as he emerged and saw this marvel drifting up the street. Michael gave the fellow a mark for good sense when he merely continued about his business. Fiona was probably laughing herself silly if she watched from one of the windows above.

  While the entire street watched the procession of Blanche and fribbles, a slight figure darted out of the fog to whisper in Michael’s ear.

  “She says as she’s found her aunt and ye’re not to worry.”

  The urchin made as if to dart back from whence he came, but Michael grabbed his coat and jerked him back. The boy didn’t look frightened, just irritated that he’d been caught.

  “Who said and where?” he demanded.

  “She said as ye’d know,” the lad declared boldly. “And she ain’t there no more.”

  “And I’m to believe you?” Michael asked. “Do you take me for a fool? I want to see for myself she’s all right.”

  Fear widened the boy’s eyes, and he kicked at Michael. “I don’t know no more than that. Let me go.”

  “Take me to where you saw her last.” Keeping a tight hold on the boy’s coat, Michael caught a skinny wrist with the other hand and rose from the street.

  “She’s gone to her brother, she says. I ain’t knowin’ nothin’ more.”

  The boy lashed out with his foot. A cry from the other end of the alley distracted Michael into loosening his hold, and the urchin wriggled free, disappearing into the fog-shrouded dusk.

  The growing fracas at the other end of the street kept him from caring. Michael couldn’t see well enough t
hrough the haze to clearly discern events. He raced to the place where he’d last seen Blanche and her companions. He could find Blanche were he blindfolded and in the dark.

  A wailing doxy holding a bundle of rags in her arms blocked Blanche’s path. The taller fop admonished the beggar loudly, shaking his expensive walking stick in her face, but the woman knew a good mark when she saw one. She determinedly held her place, pouring forth her tale of woe. The shorter, fatter gentleman tugged on Blanche’s elbow, sensibly attempting to turn her around. Blanche behaved as if she didn’t know either man existed.

  “The landlord threw us out, he did! My poor wee one hasn’t eaten in weeks. There’s naught for us but crumbs off the street. Her father died serving his country, he did, and this is what we gets in return! Please, my lady, a coin or two to ease our sufferin’. Just enough for the babe. I’ll go without, but I can’t bear to hear her cries.”

  Michael scowled at this self-serving nonsense. He might harbor a few idealistic tendencies, but he wasn’t blind to reality. He despised the women who fed their filthy habits with the lives of the poor infants they bore. Fed gin from the day they were conceived, the infants had no chance of living long outside the womb. These women knew it and didn’t care. They merely used the little inconveniences as sources of income until the babes died. By then, they could sell their bodies again and repeat the cycle.

  “She’s a thief and a doxy and she hasn’t a notion of who the babe’s father is,” Michael muttered as he sidled up behind Blanche. “Get out of here before she starts a riot, which she will if she doesn’t have her gin soon.”

  Blanche showed no surprise at his appearance. Indeed, she didn’t even look at him. Her attention remained on the oddly limp infant in the woman’s arms. “I can’t leave that child here,” she murmured, stark horror marring her features.