Patrica Rice Read online

  Blanche almost forgot her vow a moment later when, dressed in the black clothes of full mourning, Michael appeared out of nowhere. He just appeared and disappeared without sound, a quite annoying trait. Yet his presence was so welcome that she nearly cried with the relief of it.

  “I thought you’d left,” she said, grabbing his hands before she realized the impropriety of her action. The shock of his ungloved palms against hers was enough to remind her, yet she didn’t want to let go. The emerald glow of his gaze dissolved her grief and turned it to warmth.

  “I told you I’d help. I thought it best if we kept the funeral private. The carriage is waiting. Are you ready?”

  Once they’d seen the infant buried and left a generous donation with the vicar who managed the orphanage near the gravesite, Blanche concentrated on the view outside the carriage window rather than on the man seated across from her. He’d called her his love. He’d held her in his arms and touched her with more tenderness than she’d ever experienced. Her cheeks warmed with just the thought.

  Yet this morning he seemed as distant as always. Incapable of sitting still, he now played with a length of string threaded between his fingers, looping it around and around and pulling at it until it came out straight. She wanted to see how he did it. At the same time, she wanted to smack his hands and make him talk to her. But of course, he could not, not while the maid listened.

  Frustrated, Blanche clenched her gloved fingers. She had the feeling that Michael could converse upon the most fascinating subjects had he the inclination, but it took a brickbat over the head to persuade him to anything beyond what needed saying.

  When they reached the house, she groaned inwardly at the sight of two men descending the front stairs, returning their tall beaver hats to their heads. Allendale and Benington were fools who occupied her parlor like bookends, but she had always relied on their loyal discretion. Michael obviously did not see them that way.

  Blanche considered telling the driver to move on, but Michael had already seen the pair. His jaw set and a vengeful gleam lit his eyes at sight of the men waiting upon the carriage’s arrival.

  Michael climbed down first, turning his back on the waiting visitors as he extended his hand to help her down. She squeezed his fingers and whispered, “Behave,” but Michael had never obeyed a direct order in his life unless so inclined. She bit her lip in resignation when he turned that belligerent look on the two gentlemen.

  Lord Benington’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took in Michael’s hostile stance. He glanced at Blanche in her black gown, and showed relief when her maid descended from the carriage. “We came to see if you arrived home safely, my lady.” He returned his glance to Michael. “I say, you look familiar. Have we met?”

  “Are these the two muttonbrains who allowed you in Elton Alley last night?” Michael asked in a dangerously polite tone.

  “I say, that’s unfair! We were there to protect the lady,” the taller gentleman protested.

  “They will say nothing of it,” Blanche insisted, closing her fingers over Michael’s elbow and steering him toward the stairs. She may as well have tried moving mountains. “Lords Allendale and Benington are friends of Neville’s who understand loyalty and discretion. Let us go inside. It is chilly out here.”

  Michael politely took her arm and guided her up the stairs, but she distrusted his solicitous smile. Allendale and Benington followed them up. She wished she could send the pair away. Michael had ridiculous ideas of protecting her, and he was spoiling for a fight. Although with Michael, one could expect anything.

  While the butler helped Blanche with her bonnet and cloak, Michael generously offered their visitors help with their accouterments.

  When Michael took Allendale’s hat, an extremely large feather appeared behind the gentleman’s ear. Blanche choked back a cry and covered her laugh as a drooping nosegay of half dead roses peered out of the young lord’s vest pocket after he handed over his cane. Somehow, Allendale’s coat pockets became lining side out and his cravat fell unfastened. His elaborately ornate pocket watch disappeared from the chain across his vest and came to rest—Blanche blinked in astonishment as she discovered the watch dangling from the belt on the back of Benington’s coat.

  Benington fared little better. With his back toward the others so Blanche’s maid could divest him of his great coat, he hadn’t yet noticed Allendale’s newly rearranged attire. Aside from the pocket watch dangling from his back and the knob of a walking stick protruding from his coat neck, he didn’t appear seriously harmed until he turned around. This time, Blanche couldn’t bite back a gasp of laughter at the lady’s red sash replacing his usually pristine white cravat. How in the world had Michael come across that sash? She’d thought it safely in her wardrobe with the gown to which it belonged.

  She didn’t have much time to muffle her giggles before Allendale and Benington came face to face and stared at one another in incredulity.

  “What the devil are you wearing on your neck, Bennie?” Allendale asked peevishly.

  Benington snatched at the back of his neck, seeking the object prodding him between his shoulder blades. Grabbing the knob and pulling, he gave Allendale a stare of disbelief. “My neck! What is that dangling from your collar? An ostrich feather? And what do you mean coming into a lady’s presence with your cravat like that? I swear...”

  Blanche’s peal of laughter swiveled both men in her direction. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes watered, and she nearly bent double in her attempt to contain her chortles. If Michael had hoped to assuage her grief while telling her suitors they were unwanted, he’d succeeded.

  The ostrich feather swayed over Allendale’s eye, and the ostentatious pocket watch chose that moment to play its merry chimes. Even Blanche’s maid bit back a grin, and the butler covered his mouth, hiding his mirth. Allendale and Benington looked at each other again as if questioning the sanity of the house’s inhabitants.

  “Ummm, that nosegay looks a little wilted, Allendale,” Benington observed a trifle doubtfully.

  “What nosegay? I...” Glancing down, his lordship pulled the wilted roses from his pocket, then frantically searched for the watch that he could hear but which didn’t rest in its place of honor. “My watch! Where’s my watch?” When the giggling maid pointed at Benington’s back, he swung the other man around and cried out loud. “My watch! What the devil...?”

  Both men caught on at once, swinging around to glare at Michael. Blanche erupted in another gale of giggles when she realized Michael, naturally, was nowhere in the vicinity.

  “Oh, please. Oh, please...” She couldn’t get the words out through her laughter. “There’s a mirror in the parlor, so you may straighten yourselves out. Please forgive him. He thought I needed a jester today.” She pointed at the room on her left, covering her mouth again as a soft tenor singing an Irish ballad drifted from the hallways above. Michael hadn’t left then, just conveniently misplaced himself.

  She was going to kill him, if she didn’t die laughing first.

  Eleven

  By the time Blanche had Benington and Allendale straightened out and laughing with her, Michael had divested himself of his black mourning coat and breeches. After her old friends had departed, he strolled in wearing an immaculate gray scissor-tailed coat and neatly pressed trousers. He’d tamed his hair into some semblance of order and wore a frilled cravat rivaling any the Beau might have worn in his day.

  Blanche eyed the emerald stickpin with suspicion, but since Neville seldom wore jewelry, and she suspected Michael never owned jewelry of any kind, she couldn’t be certain of its origins.

  The fleeting illusions with which he disguised himself and distracted others reminded her of the time after the fire, a time when she thought herself lost and alone, with Michael the only certainty in her world. She didn’t like being reminded of her helplessness. She was much stronger now. She could resist Michael’s wiles this time. If she felt like it.

  He leaned against the closed door,
crossing his arms and inadvertently revealing more muscles than most gentlemen. Awareness of his physical proximity unsettled her.

  “You had no reason to treat Benington and Allendale like idiots,” she admonished.

  “One must treat idiots like sane men?” Michael asked without rancor. “They should have told Neville at once that you aimed for Elton Alley. Do you dangle them on your puppet strings that easily?”

  Blanche had known she wouldn’t like the path of this conversation. Glaring, she rang the bell for tea. “That is none of your concern. I refuse to hide in the country, if that is your plan. I have already hired a Runner. I expect a report from him shortly.”

  “He will report that our suspects are fled. If you had not appeared when you did last night, I might have questioned the boy who carried a message from Fiona. As it is, he escaped before I could find out more.”

  Blanche stared at him. “You didn’t tell me this.”

  He shrugged. “When had I the opportunity? It makes little difference. I’ve paid spies up and down the alley for information. If she’s there, or if she returns, they will send word. In the meantime, they can tell me little other than the red-haired woman has lived there some time, and the rough-looking men have come recently. The only one who seems to know Fiona is the lad, and he could have been lying.”

  Blanche twisted her fingers in her lap. “That doesn’t leave much for me to do.”

  “On the contrary, if you’re truly interested in finding her, your unlimited funds might have a use. I have a feeling we must trace Fiona’s origins to settle this matter. With your Runner and my spies working in London, we can do naught else on this end. But we can trace her from whence she came.”

  That we grabbed Blanche’s attention. She watched as the grim, straight line of his eyebrows relaxed and his features returned to their usual laughing structure. “Caught your interest, did I? Should the way lead there, would you be after seein’ the old country with me, now?”

  Blanche waited until the maid brought in tea, arranged the table, and departed. She no doubt scandalized the household by entertaining Michael alone. The butler would be at the door shortly, keeping an eye on the proprieties. She could just imagine what the world would say should she depart in Michael’s company for parts unknown.

  “Are you more interested in Fiona, or her family?” she asked, stalling. “The resemblance is admittedly striking, but you cannot persuade me that you are not Gavin’s brother. The two of you are too much alike in too many ways.”

  “We were raised by the same parents. Of course we’re alike in many ways. I made it perfectly clear long ago, my lady, that I am not the grandson of a marquess,” he said firmly. “And as curious as I am to find Fiona’s family for my own sake, it’s for hers that I go. Someone or something sent her fleeing far from home. The answer is back there, not here. Were it not for that explosion yesterday, I would leave you here. As it is, I can see no help for it but that you come with me. For the sake of propriety, I suppose you should bring a maid, but she must be discreet.”

  He actually meant for her to travel with him! She would probably have insisted on it in any case, but she couldn’t believe he’d suggested it first. Despite every opportunity to take advantage of weeks spent hiding together, he’d never made an improper advance, except for the one kiss to restore her confidence. Michael had that kind of honor. Unfortunately, he also possessed a rather peculiar morality that warred with the prevailing beliefs of society. He knew his offer was improper. He simply didn’t care.

  “What will I tell Neville?” she whispered, still disbelieving.

  “I didn’t think you told Neville much of anything,” he replied dryly. “He’ll think you’ve gone back to Anglesey. As we travel, you could send messages to your man of business so no one doubts you are alive and well. You might give some explanation to Dillian and Gavin. I would hate for them to chase after us. Other than that, we must travel incognito so your journey cannot be traced.”

  “It sounds too simple,” Blanche said. “Why all of a sudden are you willing to take me with you?”

  He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “I told you, I cannot be certain of your safety except in my company. I dislike borrowing funds to speed my travel, so your coins are convenient, and people are more likely to respond to my questioning with a lady by my side. I have a feeling time is of the essence.”

  The urgency of his tone convinced her. Blanche rose from the chair and approached the door he blocked with his masculine frame. “I will have a bag packed at once. I suppose we cannot use the town carriage?”

  Michael stepped away from the door. “You will take the town carriage to Dillian’s and send it away. Take only a bag your maid can carry. You will leave Dillian’s through the back gate and catch a hackney by the park. Have the hackney take you to the White Horse. I’ll meet you there. By the time we are finished, it will be impossible for anyone to trace your steps.”

  Blanche shivered with anticipation. Blanche kissed Michael’s cheek. “I don’t care who you are, Michael Lawrence, you’re a gem among men.”

  Twelve

  Garbed in a country gentleman’s careless tweed and knee high leather boots, Michael twitched his riding crop in his gloved fingers and anxiously watched the inn yard. He tried reminding himself that he should peruse the second-hand clothing shops more frequently—this coat had seen better days—but his concentration focused on the arriving coaches and not the disrepair of his disguise.

  He hoped Blanche had understood his instructions. If she arrived in full aristocratic regalia, she would make hiding their trail difficult.

  He had already decided he’d lost his mind to even contemplate this journey. He should hop the next mail coach and save himself no end of grief, but he wouldn’t. He’d seen the despair in Blanche’s eyes, felt her grasping for some token of human warmth, and knew Neville couldn’t provide what she needed.

  He would take her away to safety, give her an adventure to make her smile and forget the responsibility piled on her frail shoulders, and return her to Anglesey. With any luck, she would adopt an orphanage and find happiness with the children there. Right now, she wasn’t strong enough to accept the death of any more children, and that happened too frequently even in the best of orphanages. First, he must make her strong.

  No, first he must make himself strong. He paced like a nervous bridegroom, aware that he seldom set about a task with less than full assurance of his ability to accomplish it, but Blanche made him second guess everything he did.

  Michael hurried into the inn yard at sight of a small leather-clad boot stepping daintily from a coach.

  She had wrapped herself in a coarse brown cloak and covered her hair with a brown bonnet adorned with brown roses. Brown roses. Michael shuddered at the abomination while admiring her choice. She had made herself as mousy and nondescript as a woman of her beauty could. The elongated bonnet brim successfully disguised the revealing scars as well as her hair. Thick mittens hid delicate fingers. She could be a governess or a squire’s wife.

  Only when he reached her side did Michael realize Blanche arrived alone. Scowling, he caught her mittened hand, paid the coach driver, and hastily led her through the chaos of the inn yard. Arriving mail coach passengers shoved and shouted around them, yelling for their luggage, for post chaises, at each other and the animals. Blanche seemed startled by the confusion as he led her to a quiet corner inside, out of the immediate uproar.

  “Where is your maid?” he whispered heatedly. He didn’t like lingering. Her family would start searching at posting inns once they discovered Blanche missing.

  “I left her at home,” Blanche replied defiantly. “She had no desire to travel. I told her I would borrow one of Dillian’s maids. She could not help but talk, Michael. I have enough wealth to care nothing for gossip, but Neville would see you hung. It seemed safest this way.”

  “And Dillian?” Michael asked with dismay.

  “She thinks I just want to be left a
lone. She thinks I go to my cottage in Dorset. She has too many other things on her mind to worry overmuch. The baby has a cold, and Gavin has the Lords in an uproar over his bill for better working conditions for children. Dillian has angry men stalking through the house all day and night.”

  Michael ran his hand through his hair and bit back a groan. Traveling alone with Blanche was the ultimate foolishness. Desperately, he wondered where he could leave her, but the eager face she turned to him prevented his thinking of it long.

  “I have brought a great deal of cash, Michael. I’ve sewn some in my cloak, and my skirt, and in the lining of my bag. Shall we pretend we’re the children of a rich nabob?”

  He grinned. The innocent, eager young woman he remembered emerged with this plunge into fantasy. “The children of a wealthy nabob would wear silks and satins more outlandish than your court dress. No, we shall be the offspring of a well-to-do Northumberland Methodist squire returning home, quite dismayed at the scandalous activities of the city. I shall insist that you marry the lordling who owns the land adjoining ours.”

  “And I shall protest that he is too bookish and not to my taste.” Blanche’s conspiratorial smile was nearly blinding.

  “Right. I suppose you want the rakehell younger son, blackguard that he is. Women are like that.” Grabbing her arm, Michael led her to his hired carriage. Just touching her through the layers of clothes scorched him. Smoke fogged his brain. He had difficulty even recalling Fiona.

  The ennui he’d been suffering of late vanished. He wanted the lady to himself for a while. He craved it with every inch of his misbegotten soul.

  He hadn’t lost all sense however. He’d reserved the coach in the name of MacDermot, the name of an old family friend Gavin’s father had often mentioned. Gavin would recognize the pseudonym should anything happen that required he find them. Michael would never involve Blanche in anything dangerous. But he knew the ways of the world too well to believe everything would go as planned. He always left a bolt hole.