The Vanishing Viscountess

He made a formal bow, or a semblance of one there in the bed only half-covered by a blanket. “I am Tannerton. The Marquess of Tannerton. Tanner to my friends, which, I dare say—” he grinned “—I had best include you among.”

The blue of her eyes sparkled in the morning light. “Marquess—” She quickly cast her eyes downward. “My lord.”

“Tanner,” he corrected in a friendly voice. “And you are…?”

He had the feeling her mind was crafting an answer.

“I am Miss Brown, sir.”

It was a common name, and not her real one, he’d wager.

“Miss Brown,” he repeated.

She fussed with the blanket, as if making sure it still covered her. “Do you know of the others from the ship? Did anyone else survive?”

He gave her a steady look. “The Bow Street Runner, do you mean?”

She glanced away and nodded.

He made a derisive sound. “I hope he went to the devil.”

She glanced back at him. “Did any survive?”

“I know nothing of any of them,” he went on, trying not to think of those poor women, those helpless little children, the raging sea. “We were alone on the beach, except for the man who tried to rob me.” The man who had just left this room, he suspected. “We made it to this cottage, and all I could think was to get you warm. I took over the farmer’s bed and must have fallen asleep.”

She was silent for a moment, but Tanner could see her breath quicken. He suspected she remembered the terror of it all.

“I believe I owe you my life, sir,” she whispered.

Her blue eyes met his and seemed to pierce into him, touching off something tender and vulnerable. He glanced away and tugged on the covers, pulling off a faded brown blanket. He wrapped it around his waist and rose from the bed. “Let me see about getting you some clothes. And food.” He turned towards the door.

“A moment, sir,” she said, her voice breathless. “Do—do you know where we are? Who these people are?”

“Only that we are in a farmer’s cottage,” he replied, not entirely truthfully. “There was a lamp in the window. I walked towards its light.”

She nodded, considering this. “What do they know of us?”

His gaze was steady. “I did not tell them you were a prisoner, if that is your concern.”

She released a relieved breath. “Did you tell them who you are?”

He tried to make light of it all. “Last night I only saw the old man. I fear I failed to introduce myself. My manners have gone begging.”

“Good,” she said.

“Good?” His brows rose.

“Do not tell them who you are.”

He cocked his head.

“A marquess is a valuable commodity. They might wish to ransom you.”

She was sharp, he must admit. Her mistrust gave even more credence to his suspicions. He had thought to bully these people with his title, but he now saw the wisdom of withholding who he was—as well as who she might be.

He twisted his signet ring to the inside of his palm and put his hand on the door latch. “I will not say a word.” Her lovely face relaxed. “Let me see about our clothing and some food and a way out of here.”

She smiled and he walked out of the room, still holding the blanket around his waist.

It took Marlena a moment to adjust when he left the room. The marquess’s essence seemed to linger, as well as the image of him naked. She and Eliza had been too naïve to speculate on how the Marquess of Tannerton would look without clothing, but she could now attest that he looked spectacular. Wide shoulders, sculpted chest peppered with dark hair that formed a line directing the eye to his manly parts. She’d only glimpsed them upon first awakening, but now she could not forget the sight. He was like a Greek statue come to life, but warm, friendly and flirtatious.

He might not recognise her as the notorious Vanishing Viscountess, subject of countless Rowlandson prints and sensational newspaper stories, but he did know she’d been a prisoner. He would, of course, have no memory of the very naïve and forgettable Miss Parronley from Almack’s.

She hugged her knees. As long as he did not recognise her, she was free. And she intended to keep it that way.

She had no idea what piece of shore they’d washed up on, but it must be closer to Scotland than she’d ever dared hope to be again. She longed to be in Scotland, to lose herself there and never be discovered. A city, perhaps, with so many people, no one would take note of a newcomer. She would go to Edinburgh, a place of poetry and learning. Who would look for the Vanishing Viscountess in Edinburgh? They would think her dead at the bottom of the sea.

She’d once believed she’d be safe in Ireland, in the ruse she and Eliza devised, governess to Eliza’s children. Not even Eliza’s husband had suspected. Marlena had been safe for three years, until Eliza’s brother came to visit. Debtors nipping at his heels, Geoffrey had come to beg his sister for money.

Marlena would have hidden from him, or fled entirely, but Eliza and the children had been gravely ill from the fever and she could not bear to leave. Geoffrey discovered her tending to them. He’d recognised her instantly and suddenly realised he could raise his needed funds by selling the whereabouts of the Vanishing Viscountess.

Geoffrey had long returned to London the day Marlena stood over Eliza’s newly dug grave in the parish churchyard, the day the magistrate’s men and the Bow Street Runner came to arrest her.

She swiped at her eyes. At least we nursed the children back to health, Eliza.

She rose from the bed and wrapped the blanket around her like a toga. The room was tiny and sparse, but clean. There was no mirror, so she tried to look at herself in the window glass, but the sun was too bright. She felt her hair, all tangles and smelling of sea water. It was still damp underneath. She sat back on the bed.

She must look a fright, she thought, working at her tangled locks with her fingers, still vain enough to wish she appeared pretty for the handsome Marquess of Tannerton.

Except for the bruises on his chest, he had looked wonderful after their ordeal—his unshaven face only enhancing his appearance, making him look rakish. She inhaled, her fingers stilling for a moment with the memory of how his naked skin had felt, warm and hard with muscle.

Her whole body filled with heat. It had been a long time since she’d seen a naked man and a long time since a man had held her. She tried to remember if she had ever woken naked in her husband’s arms. Perhaps she never had. He usually had fled her bed when he finished with her.

So long ago.

The door opened and the old woman entered, the scent of boiling oats wafting in behind her.

“Your gentleman says to find you some clothes, ma’am. Yours are ripped and would take too long to mend.” She handed Marlena her stockings, which had somehow remained intact. “I told your gentleman I’ve just the thing for you in here.” The woman rummaged through one of the wooden chests. “I’ve put the kettle on as well, and there is some nice porridge boiling.”

Marlena slipped on her stockings. Porridge sounded as heavenly as ambrosia at the moment. Until she’d smelled it, she’d not known she was ravenous.

“That is very kind,” she said to the woman. “What is your name?”

“I’m Mrs Davies, ma’am.” The woman leaned over the chest, still looking through it.

Marlena made her voice sound friendly. “Thank you, Mrs Davies. Where are we, might I ask?”

“At our farm, ma’am.” The woman looked at her as if she were daft. Her mouth opened, then, and she finally understood the question. “About a mile or so from Llanfairynghornwy.”

Marlena blinked. She had no idea where that was, nor did she think she could repeat its name. “Is there a coaching inn there?”

“There is a coaching inn at Cemaes.”

“How far is that?” Marlena asked.

“About five miles, ma’am.”

Marlena could walk five miles.

The old woman twisted around, leaning on the edge of the chest. “But if I think of it, you’ll want to reach Holyhead, not Cemaes.”

Holyhead was the port where the ship had been bound. “How far is Holyhead?”

“Ten miles or so the opposite way, to reach the ferry, that is. You’ll need a ferry to take you to Holyhead, ma’am.”

Marlena nodded. Holyhead would likely be where other survivors would be bound, making it the last place she’d wish to be.

The woman turned back to her rummaging, finally pulling out a shift and tossing it to Marlena, who quickly slipped it on. Next the woman pulled out a faded blue dress.

“Perhaps this will do.” She handed it to Marlena.

The dress was made of wool in a fine, soft weave that seemed nothing like a farm wife’s dress. Marlena stood up and held it against herself. The dress was long enough for her, although she was taller than most women and certainly a good foot taller than Mrs Davies. The dress would totally engulf the farm woman and would be big on Marlena as well.

Some other woman from some other shipwreck had once worn this dress. Marlena whispered a prayer for that woman’s poor soul.

“It will do very nicely,” she said.

The woman straightened and thrust something else at Marlena. “Here’s a corset for you.”

“Thank you.” Marlena smiled. “I am so very grateful to you.”

The woman started towards the door.

Marlena stopped her with another request. “I would like very much to wash. Would it be too much trouble to bring me some water?”

The woman looked heavenwards, as if she’d been asked for the moon, but she nodded and hurried out of the door.

Marlena inspected the corset. Its laces looked as if they could be tightened to fit her. She lifted the dress to her nose and was grateful that it smelled clean. She was eager to be clean herself, eager to wash the salt from her skin. What she would not give for a nice long soak in warm bathwater, but she would content herself with a quick wash from a basin. She paced the room, thinking, planning. She could easily walk to Cemaes this very day, but what would she do then? She had no money.

She must beg money from Tanner, she decided. It was her only choice. She was uncertain of him, although it was a good sign he’d not betrayed her to this farm family. If he discovered she was the Vanishing Viscountess, however, he would certainly want to turn her over to the local magistrate. It was best to slip away as soon as she could do so.

A knock sounded, and Tanner walked in with her basin of water, a towel over his arm like a valet. She grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around the shift. He was dressed in what looked like his own shirt and trousers. His hair was damp. Marlena touched her still-tangled hair, envious that he had been able to wash out the salt and the memory of the sea.

“Your clothes are dry?” she asked.

“Dry enough.” He placed the basin on a small table in the corner of the room. “I thought you might like this.” He pulled a comb from the band of his trousers. “I’ve washed it, although these people seem clean enough.”

She took it from him. “Oh, thank you!” She immediately sat back on the bed and attacked her locks. “Have they told you anything of the shipwreck?”

He shook his head. “These people are a close-mouthed lot. The son left, but I hope it was merely to return to the beach. I gather these people are wreckers.”

Like the man who attacked Tanner. The man she hit on the head. She remembered that suddenly, but it was like a murky dream.

“The mother and son were out there during the storm last night.” He walked towards the door. “Is there anything else you need?”

“My shoes,” she replied. “But do not leave yet.”

He waited.

She took a breath. “I need to ask you—to beg you—to let me go.”

His brows rose.

She went on quickly, “Mrs Davies—the wife—says there is a town five miles from here with a coaching inn. You may go on to Holyhead, but let them all think me dead. Please. I want only to go home. That is all I desire.” Not all she desired. She needed money, but she’d make that request only if he gave his permission to flee.

He leaned against the door. “Where is home?”

“Scotland,” she said truthfully and an image of her Scottish home jumped into her mind. Parronley, home of her ancestors and her carefree childhood.

He peered at her. “You do not sound Scottish.”

“I was sent to school in England.” This was true, as well. At lovely Belvedere House in Bath, where she’d met Eliza. She’d been very keen to rid herself of any traces of a Scottish burr in those days, so eager for the other girls to like her.

He pressed a hand against his ribs. “Tell me why the Bow Street Runner was bringing you back to England.”

Marlena flinched, feeling his pain. Her mind raced to think of a story he would believe. She borrowed one from a Minerva Press novel she and Eliza once read. “I was a lady’s companion to a very nice elderly lady. I was accused of stealing her jewellery.”

His mouth twitched. “And you did not do it.”

“I did not!” She was not guilty of stealing jewellery or any other crime. “I was wrongly accused, but there was no way to prove it. Her son placed the jewels in my room.”

How she wished she had been accused of the theft of jewels. Far better that than standing over the bloody body of her husband and being accused of his murder.

She made herself face him with a steady gaze. “I ran away to Ireland, but they sent the Bow Street Runner after me.”

His eyes probed her. They were still that lovely shade of mossy green she remembered from those giddy assemblies at Almack’s. “They went to a great deal of trouble to capture you.”

She gave a wan smile, but her mind was racing to recall the details of the novel. “Not all the jewellery was recovered. My lady’s son sold the rest. He made it look as if he was trying to recover it all, going so far as having me tracked down in Ireland for it.” She glanced away from Tanner, and her voice came from deep in her throat. “He placed the blame on me.”

In truth, it had been her own cousin who contrived to have her blamed for Corland’s murder, and her cousin Wexin had once been a member of the Marquess of Tannerton’s set. That had been seven years ago, when Marlena and Eliza had had their first Season, but for all Marlena knew Tanner could still count Wexin among his friends.

In that lovely Season, when she and Eliza had been so full of hope, she’d begged Wexin to present them to the handsome marquess. Wexin refused, although she and Eliza had been undaunted.

“Who were these people who employed you?” he asked.

“I cannot tell you,” she replied truthfully again. “For all I know, the son may be one of your close companions.” Like Wexin had been. “You would believe them and not me.” She fixed her gaze on him again. “Let me go, I implore you. Let me disappear. Let them think I am dead.”

He stared back at her, not speaking, not moving. Panic spread inside her like a wild weed.

“You have no money. How will you get on?” he asked.

She took a breath. “I would beg a little money from you.”

He gave her a long look before speaking. “First wash and dress and eat. We shall both leave this place, then we will decide what to do next.” He opened the door and walked out.

Her nerves still jangled. He had not precisely agreed to help her, but he had not sounded as if he would turn her in, either. She had no choice but to wait to see what he would do.

Marlena washed and dressed and managed to get her hair into a plait down her back. When she walked out of the bedchamber in her stockinged feet, the smell of the porridge drove all other thought and emotion away. She sat in a plain wooden chair across from Tanner at a small table. The old woman set a bowl of porridge in front of her. Marlena’s hand shook when she dipped her spoon into the steaming bowl. The first mouthful was too hot. She blew on the next spoonful and the next and ate as quickly as she could. Tanner ate as hungrily as she.

The old farmer and his wife watched their every move.

When they finished, Tanner turned to them. “Bring the rest of my clothing, my boots and the lady’s shoes. The lady also needs a cloak. You will undoubtedly have a cart. I should like you to take us to the nearest town.”

“Holyhead?” the farmer asked. “You’ll need a ferry to reach it.”

Tanner reached into the sleeve of his shirt where he had tucked his purse. He opened it and took out a sovereign. “Very well.”

The farmer’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the coin. Both he and his wife sprang into action, leaving Tanner and Marlena alone.

Marlena gave him an anxious look. “I will not go to Holyhead. Just leave me, I beg you. I will not even ask you for money.”

He shook his head. “I’ll not leave you.” He leaned closer to her. “But I have no intention of going to Holyhead either. Let them think that is where we are bound.”

Warmth spread through her, and she did not think it was from the porridge. She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude. Instead she composed her emotions. “Mrs Davies told me Cemaes is five miles from here in the opposite direction from Holyhead.”

“Then we shall go to Cemaes.” He smiled.

Mrs Davies brought Tanner’s coat, waistcoat, boots and Marlena’s half-boots. She rose and took her shoes from the woman’s hands. They were still damp and the leather tight, but she did not care. Tanner was going to help her to get to Cemaes.

Arlan Rapp sat in front of the fire in the inn at Llanfwrog, sipping hot cider, waiting for his clothes to dry through and through. He puzzled what he should do next.

All he really wanted was to return to London and get paid for his work, but he’d better not do that until he discovered if the Viscountess Corland had been lost with most of the other passengers and crew, or if she had by some miracle survived.

The Vanishing Viscountess had vanished again. That would make a good story for the newspapers, he’d wager, but he’d rather it not be widely known he’d been the one to lose her.

He stared into the fire and pondered the choices he’d made. He refused to feel guilty about taking her place in the last boat. She’d been as good as dead from the moment he first put her in shackles. He would have taken her back to a hangman’s noose, nothing less. The Vanishing Viscountess had killed her husband in a jealous rage. Everybody knew her husband rutted with any female he could find. The Viscountess had been caught red-handed. Her cousin had discovered her standing over Viscount Corland’s dead body, bloody scissors in hand. There was no doubt that she’d committed the murder.

She had escaped, however. The guilty always ran away if you gave them half a chance.

She’d escaped again, Rapp thought, rubbing his face. He hoped drowning was an easier death than hanging by the neck.

He took another gulp of cider. A log sizzled in the fireplace. He glanced around for the serving girl, who seemed to have disappeared. Rapp’s stomach growled, ravenous for breakfast. He was also bone weary from being up all night, pulled out of the sea by local folk and sent to this inn in a wagon with the handful of other survivors.

Rapp bowed his head, thinking of the women and children in his boat. They had not been strong enough to hang on when the wave washed over them.

Rapp suddenly wanted to hurry home to his wife and children. He wanted to kiss his wife, hug his two sons, hold his baby girl. It was only right that he’d seized the chance to survive. His wife and children needed him.

Only eight passengers survived, as far as he knew, and a few more crewmen. The Vanishing Viscountess was not among them. If her body lay at the bottom of the sea, it might never wash up on shore. Rapp cursed the storm. Wexin would not pay him without proof that the Viscountess had perished.

He’d have to investigate, make absolutely certain she was among the dead. He was a Bow Street Runner. It should be a simple matter for him to discover who survived the shipwreck.

The serving girl finally set down a plate with bread and butter and thick pieces of ham.

He nodded his thanks. “Bring me paper, pen and ink,” he asked her.

He’d pen a letter to Wexin, reporting the shipwreck, and one to his wife, as well, telling her he loved her, but that he must delay his return to London until he had searched up and down the Anglesey coast.

Chapter Three

By the time Mr Davies’s old horse pulled the cart to the front of the cottage, Tanner was more than ready to leave this place. He had no wish to tarry until the son returned.

Tanner pressed a hand to his still-aching ribs, remembering the strength of the man’s boot. He had no wish to meet young Davies again.

He stepped aside for Miss Brown to walk out ahead of him. The red cloak the old lady had found for her was threadbare, but Tanner supposed it would keep her warm enough. His lack of a top coat did not worry him overmuch. The temperature was not that harsh and would keep him alert.

Mrs Davies trailed behind him. “You promised us payment, sir.”

He turned to her. “I will pay when your husband delivers us where we wish to go.” He strode on.

She skipped after him. “How do we know you will pay? Your lady is walking away wearing my clothes. We can’t afford to give our possessions away. Times are hard.”

He stopped again and the old woman nearly ran into him. “You will have to trust my word as a gentleman, will you not?” He walked over to where Miss Brown waited next to the cart.

He did not know how much of her story to believe, but he’d be damned if he’d turn her over to a magistrate. No matter what she had done, she’d paid for it by what that deuced Bow Street Runner made her endure, leaving her to die while he saved himself. As far as Tanner was concerned, that alone should give her freedom.

Saving her life absolved him, in part, for the other deaths that weighed on his conscience. He would see her safe to help repay that debt.

He touched her arm. “I will climb up first, then assist you.”

His ribs only hurt mildly as he got up next to the old man. He reached for Miss Brown’s hand and pulled her up. As she settled next to him, he wanted to put his arm around her. He wanted to touch her, to keep fresh the memory of their naked embrace. He remembered the feel of her in his arms as he lay between sleep and waking. Her skin, soft and smooth and warm. Her curves, fitting against him as if tailored to him.

“Let us go,” he told the farmer.

Mr Davies snapped the ribbons and the old horse started moving.

“You make him pay, husband!” Mrs Davies shouted after them.

The old horse pulled the cart past the vegetable garden, colourful with cabbages and kale. Wheat was already planted for the winter crop and a rook swept down and disappeared into the field of swaying stalks. The cart rolled at a slow speed finally reaching a road, leaving the cottage some distance behind.

At the road, Tanner turned to Mr Davies. “Take us to Cemaes.”

The old man’s head jerked in surprise. “Cemaes is north. You’ll be wanting to go south to the ferry to Holyhead.”

“We wish to go north. To Cemaes,” Tanner said.

Mr Davies shook his head. “You want to go to Holyhead, I tell you.”

Tanner felt a shiver crawl up his back. He’d wager the old man had some mishap planned on the road to the ferry. He held up the sovereign, which glittered in the sunlight. “If you wish to earn this coin, you will take us to Cemaes.” He returned the coin to his pocket. “If not, we will walk from here.” Tanner began to stand.

The farmer gestured for him to sit. “I’ll take you to Cemaes,” he grumbled and turned the horse and cart north.

The road, still muddy from the rains, wound past more farmland and other small cottages like the Davies’s. Sometimes Tanner could glimpse the sea, looking calm this day, like a slumbering monster that had devoured its fill. The old man kept the frown on his face and did not speak. Miss Brown gripped the seat to steady herself as the cart rumbled along, but she, too, was silent. The cart jostled her against him, from time to time, keeping Tanner physically aware of her.