More Than A Lover
He did not take the hint. With grim determination, he walked her all the way to the hotel entrance and handed off her basket to the footman waiting at the door with an easy grace that belied his missing left hand. After five years, he must be used to it, she supposed, but still, something inside her ached at the sight of the sleeve pinned at the wrist.
Not that his injury made him any less of a man. Indeed, he had the sort of lethal masculinity that warned the unwary to be careful unless they disturb a sleeping beast. And warned a woman to guard her heart.
‘What time did you intend to set out for Skepton tomorrow?’ he asked in a surprisingly mild tone given the heat of anger in his gaze. Or perhaps it wasn’t anger at all, but something far more risky. Chills ran across her skin. Pleasant little prickles.
She ignored her body’s reaction. ‘I asked Mr Garge to have the coach at the door at eight. The haberdasher has promised to deliver the rest of my supplies later this afternoon. I will be home by mid-afternoon.’
He doffed his hat and bowed. ‘Then I wish the rest of your day is pleasant and bid you good day.’ He marched off, his bearing very much that of a soldier.
Dashing and handsome, in or out of uniform. Her skin warmed. Her body tingled in unmentionable places she thought she had firmly under control. The man was without doubt one of the most attractive she’d ever met. The kind of man...
Blast. How could she entertain such thoughts when she knew the danger of the smallest indiscretion? She had spent years creating an aura of respectability. Fought hard to maintain it, too. She wasn’t about to throw her life away for the sake of a handsome man. Especially not one of the ilk of Mr Read, who, while not legitimate, had an earl for a father. For Tommy’s sake, she could not afford to be noticed by anyone with connections to the beau monde. Not if she wanted to keep her son by her side.
If Mr Read should ever put two and two together she might well lose her son.
* * *
Charlie’s timing was abysmal. The next morning, sitting in the snug at the Sleeping Tiger, Blade stared at the letter that had, according to his groom, Ned, arrived in the first post. It was exactly what he had hoped for and the worst possible news. If he had known about this yesterday, before he’d met Mrs Falkner, it might not now feel so damnably uncomfortable. Mrs Falkner was not going to be pleased.
Understatement of the year.
She might, he mused, even think he was lying to get his own way in the matter of her requiring an escort.
Too bad. Charlie had offered him a position, albeit temporary, and he intended to do all he could to prove his friend’s trust justified. He needed this job. If he was successful, he might even be able to hold up his head and meet his father’s gimlet gaze after the Peterloo debacle.
Serving in the army had offered him the chance to leave his unfortunate beginnings behind and he’d mucked it up. No doubt the earl would already have received word of his failure. This offer he’d received from Charlie was a chance to start again without the need to ask his father for assistance. Something he hated. He certainly wasn’t going to let Mrs Falkner’s dislike keep him from honest employment.
He glanced at the dingy face of the case clock in the corner. ‘Damn.’ It was gone nine, well after the time she said she’d depart. Still, ladies were often late. Or at least his sisters often were. As were his previous inamoratas. Lost hair ribbons and misplaced gloves generally delayed a lady’s departure by more than an hour or two.
Unfortunately, Mrs Falkner did not strike him as a lady subject to missing articles. She was far too efficient or Charlie would not have left her in charge of the charitable establishment Merry and Mrs Falkner had founded. A home for fallen women and their children they called the Haven.
He downed a cup of scalding hot coffee and called for his shot. He’d have to hurry if he was going to catch Mrs Falkner before she left her hotel. The innkeeper ambled over with his bill. ‘Thought we was to have t’pleasure of your company a few more days, Mr Read.’
‘Change of plans.’ Blade skimmed a glance down the bill and found it accurate.
‘You’ll be careful on the road,’ the landlord said. ‘I hear there are rabble-rousers going around the countryside stirring up sentiments as ought not to be stirred.’
‘Do you know any specifics?’ he asked casually as he got to his feet.
‘Not me, sir. I hear things. Mutters and so forth. No specifics.’
Hardly helpful. ‘Have your man come up for my valise in ten minutes.’ Ten minutes he could hardly afford, but it would take him that long to pack without help from Ned. ‘Have a note taken round to Shaw’s Livery for me, would you please?’
Ned would have his horse ready by the time he arrived.
Chapter Two
Blade hunched deeper into his greatcoat. Naturally, it would rain all day. And naturally he’d missed Mrs Falkner at the King George.
Fortunately, his batman-cum-groom had taken the change in plan in stride. An excellent fellow, Ned. He’d been with Blade since the day he set foot in Lisbon and had proved a loyal and worthy comrade-in-arms. Blade was determined to keep the man employed, since work for soldiers returning from war was scarce, there being so many of them. Hopefully, Charlie would agree with the extra expense. If not, he would have to pay him from his own salary.
‘House steward’ was what Charlie had called the position he’d offered. Not something Blade would have thought of doing in his wildest dreams. He’d never thought of any career but the army from the time he could handle a wooden sword. And with the army reduced to a fraction of its former size, there wasn’t a hope in hell of selling his commission quickly. If at all. He could just see the earl looking down his nose in his autocratic way and pretending he understood perfectly, while not understanding at all. Likely wishing him in Jericho, too. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Not that Blade cared.
The odds had been against him from the start. Even his mother hadn’t wanted him. He’d been in the way from the day of his birth and likely before. Nothing but a bloody nuisance. His mother’s words still had the power to carve a slice out of his heart.
He’d tried his best not to be in the way at his father’s house when he’d gone there at the age of ten. Tried to do nothing that would make him or his lady wife regret offering him a place in their home. He hadn’t stood a chance. What man wanted his mistake thrust under his nose on a daily basis?
Thank God and Charlie, he didn’t have to return to his father like the beggar he’d always been.
He hunched deeper into the folds of his scarf, but it didn’t prevent a trickle of rainwater finding its way down the back of his neck. And that didn’t take his mind off the water splashing up from his horse’s hooves and soaking his breeches. Pretty soon his backside would be soaking wet, too.
While the dry and warm Mrs Falkner, when he caught up to her, would not be the slightest bit pleased with him or his news.
The woman certainly offered a challenge to a man known for his charm when it came to lonely widows. A reputation he’d worked hard to acquire. Pleasurably hard. Those words in conjunction with thoughts of Caro Falkner had him shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. Was it her obvious disapproval that had him thinking of seduction each time he saw her or the beauty she tried so hard to hide behind her severe demeanour and dress? Or was it the mystery behind her facade of unbending respectability? The picture she painted of the vicar’s perfect daughter, when he remembered her so very differently. Was she hiding something that might prove dangerous to his friend and his friend’s wife?
An intriguing question.
He rounded a bend to a scene of utter disaster. A carriage tilted crazily on the verge. A shattered wheel some distance off. A team—Tonbridge’s team, for goodness’ sake—trembling and shifting in the harness, ready to bolt. His heart rose in his throat.
He galloped the intervening hundred yards and leaped down. His gut clenched at the sight of the coachman sprawled face up in the ditch. Blade had seen enough death to recognise a broken neck. Why had he not caught them up sooner? Had the woman’s distaste for him made him deliberately hang back? Idiot.
‘Mrs Falkner?’ His shout was met by a resounding silence. Heart in his mouth, he approached the carriage door swinging free on its hinges and peered inside. The sight of her pale face, her closed eyes and the way she lay on the floor in a heap brought bile to his throat. He leaped aboard. She groaned softly and her eyelids fluttered.
Alive, then. Relief flooded through him.
He rubbed her cold hands. ‘Mrs Falkner?’ he repeated. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’ It would be cold in the wind and rain, but he could feel the carriage shifting as the horses moved restlessly. At any moment the animals might take it into their foolish heads to run.
‘Mrs Falkner,’ he said again, more demanding this time. Louder.
She opened her eyes and put a hand to her head. For a moment she stared at him blankly, then frowned. ‘Mr Read? Where is Josiah? Mr Garge?’
He thought about lying, but she was going to see how matters lay the moment he got her out of the carriage. ‘Dead, I am afraid. Broken neck. Here, let me help you up. Put your arm over my shoulder and hang on.’ With only one hand, he had to get her to help herself. Fortunately, her eyes cleared and, with his aid, she pushed to her feet. He helped her to the ground, where she swayed slightly, then found her feet and her balance.
Out in the grey light of the morning, his blood chilled as he saw the red lump on her forehead, already turning blue, and the blood streaked across her chin. ‘You are hurt.’
She stared at him blankly, then glanced down at her hand where more blood welled. ‘A scratch, I think.’
He guided her to a boulder and sat her facing away from the coachman. ‘I must see to the horses and then we will see what we can do about that injury.’ He’d seen men die from less on the battlefields of Europe.
A quick check of the horses confirmed his impression that while nervous, they were unharmed. He found a length of rope beneath the coachman’s box and used it to hobble the leaders. There was no way for him to repair the coach. They needed help.
He went to his own horse and pulled down his saddle pack before going back to Mrs Falkner. Her colour was already better. A good sign. He put a finger beneath her chin to lift up her face so he could see to tend her forehead. Her eyes widened in shock. ‘You have a bump,’ he said by way of explanation for his forward behaviour. ‘Do you have a headache?’
She shook her head. ‘It only hurts if I touch it.’
Another good sign. He pulled out a bottle of witch hazel and dabbed at the bruise and then at the cut on her hand.
‘Did you say Garge is...?’
No sense beating around the bush. ‘Dead. Yes.’
‘How can that be?’
‘He must have struck his head on a boulder when he came off the box.’
‘But...he opened the door. Looked in on me. I heard him. I felt so dizzy, I told him I had to rest a minute. He left before I could open my eyes. But he was there. After the accident.’
Not possible. She likely imagined it. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Falkner, but Mr Garge’s neck was broken by the fall. It would have been instant.’
She stared at him, then turned her face away, clearly confused. And why would she not be after such a bang to the noggin. ‘Is there nothing we can do for him?’
‘No.’ He kept his voice matter-of-fact. He did not want her going into a fit of hysterics after she’d been so stoic. She would not like him to see her in such a state any more than he would like to watch her fall apart.
She started to rise, swayed and put a hand to her head. Her face blanched.
He gently pushed her down. ‘Sit.’ He pressed her head to her knees with his forearm at the back of her neck, a beautiful vulnerable nape that begged a man’s touch. He forced himself to look away and gaze off into the distance until her breathing evened out.
She took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I am better now. Thank you.’
He released her immediately. He did not want her thinking he had anything untoward on his mind, because it would be easy to fall into such a trap with a woman as lovely as this one. ‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing,’ he said. It was what they always told themselves in the aftermath of battle, though, given his own experience, he doubted it was ever true. ‘There was nothing anyone could have done.’
She buried her face in her hands. ‘What on earth am I to tell his wife?’
He grimaced. It was something he had always hated, but at least he’d only been required to write a letter. He’d never had to face anyone’s widow with the bad news, though he’d met plenty of them since returning to England. Made a point of it. And they were grateful, most of them, when they should have taken him to task for not caring for their men better than he had.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. The coach bounced so hard it must have hit a rut in the road and then I was thrown against the door. I don’t remember much after that.’
With a coachman as competent as Tonbridge’s driving a team as steady as this one, it was hard to imagine Garge running foul of a rut. ‘Did you see anything unusual?’
She frowned. ‘What sort of thing?’
Clearly his conversation with the innkeeper had his senses on high alert. ‘I wondered if something might have distracted Garge. Made him make a mistake?’
She frowned. ‘I heard a crack. The whip. I assumed he was trying to make up some time after the slow going in the valley.’
Ice ran through his veins. A shot? He bit back a curse, not wanting to scare her. He needed to look at the carriage. And the coachman. He rose and stared around him. ‘Well, there is no moving the carriage with that broken wheel. We must find you some shelter.’ He’d also have to notify the local authority about the death. ‘Our best course is to hope someone travels along this road, sooner rather than later.’ Once he knew she was safe, he’d come back before the local coroner arrived and see if his suspicions were borne out by evidence.
She touched a hand to her temple. ‘Yes. Of course. That is best.’ She looked hopefully up and down the road.
He couldn’t believe her calmness. Most women in her place would be fainting all over the place and calling for their hartshorn. Not his sisters, though, he realised, suddenly missing them like the blazes, when he’d done his best to ignore them for years. She was like the women who had followed the drum with their husbands. One of the kind made of sterner stuff. The kind a man could admire as well as lust after. Curse his wayward thoughts.
‘Sit here and don’t move while I see to the horses.’
She stiffened and he realised he’d phrased it as an order. ‘If you don’t mind?’
Her posture relaxed. She nodded, trickles of rain coursing down her face.
‘I don’t suppose you have an umbrella in the coach?’
She shook her head, her eyes sad.
Blast, he needed to get her out of the rain before she caught some sort of ague. As soon as he was sure the horses would not make a dash for it, he would sit her back in the carriage.
And then he heard the sound of wheels on the road and the clop of hooves. For a change it seemed luck was on his side.
Rescue was at hand.
* * *
Sitting by the hearth in a tiny parlour of the small inn at a crossroads some two miles from the accident, Caro could not seem to get warm no matter how close she sat to the blazing logs. They had been lucky the carter had agreed to bring her to the closest inn while Mr Read stayed with the horses. The Crossed Keys, situated high on the moorland, was the only hostelry for miles. The carter had then gone off with the innkeeper to fetch the local constable.
In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing poor Mr Garge, lying on his back on the rock-strewn ground. Kept thinking of his wife. She had no doubt that Tonbridge would offer the woman some sort of aid, but that wasn’t the point. They were a devoted couple and now the woman would be alone. Caro knew the pain of losing everyone you loved. Even blessed as she was with Thomas, it had taken years before the agony of that loss had eased to a dull ache she rarely noticed.
The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Lane, bustled in with a tray. ‘Here you go, ma’am. This will warm you from the inside out. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a tot of brandy. Put some heart into you, you look that pale.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lane, but I do not drink strong spirits.’
‘It’s medicinal,’ the woman said and folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Ye’ll drink it like a good lass. One swallow. I’d do no less for one of me own.’
A will of iron shone in the other woman’s eyes, but there was kindness there, too. How kind would she be if she knew the truth of Caro’s past? But that was neither here nor there in this situation. She picked up the goblet and sniffed. The pungent fumes hit the back of her throat and made her eyes water. ‘I don’t think—’
‘The trick is to drink it down quick, lass. The longer you dally, the worse it will get.’
Like the rest of the unpleasant things in life. Heaving a sigh, Caro closed her eyes, tipped the glass and swallowed. Her throat seized at the burn. She choked and coughed and gasped while Mrs Lane banged her on the back—until she caught her breath and was able to ward her off.
‘I’m fine,’ she managed.
‘Aye, well, you will be. Now drink your tea and we’ll await for the menfolk to return. Meanwhile I’ve a supper to cook.’ She marched out.
Her husband, who was also the local undertaker, had sent his potboy for the local coroner. The Lanes were indeed practical folk.
Caro poured her tea and sipped to take the taste of the brandy away. She had to admit she did feel better. And warmer. A whole lot warmer. A welcome numbness stole over her. She leaned back against the plump cushion.
* * *
A sound jerked her fully awake. She opened her eyes to find Mr Read staring down at her with an odd look on his face.
She sat up, her cheeks flushing hot. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘I must have fallen asleep. I beg your pardon.’ She glanced at the clock. Goodness. She had slept for more than an hour. The landlady had taken her tray away and she hadn’t heard a thing. ‘Is everything all right?’
Such a stupid question from the look on his face. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to break free of the fog of sleep.
He grimaced. ‘I hate to do this, but the coroner is requesting a word. About the accident.’
The last word had an odd emphasis, but when she looked at his face, there was nothing to see but a kindly concern. ‘Yes. Of course. If it is required.’
‘I’ll fetch him.’ He made a small gesture with his hand and let it fall. ‘You might want to take a peek in the mirror. Your cap...’ His words trailed off, but there was heat in his eyes she did not understand. He turned away smartly. ‘I’ll fetch him up.’
The moment he closed the door, she leaped to her feet and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. Heavens, her cap was askew and tendrils of hair were hanging in strings around her face. Mr Read must think her a slattern to be drinking and sleeping in such a state. Cheeks pink with embarrassment, her stomach dipping in shame, she quickly tidied herself barely moments before she heard the tread of heavy steps on the stairs followed by a sharp knock.
‘Come.’
Mr Read ushered in a heavyset gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties with wind-roughened cheeks and a beak of a nose above a grizzled beard.
‘Mrs Falkner, may I introduce Sir Reginald Walcombe. Sir Reginald, this is the lady of whom I spoke.’
Sir Reginald bowed, with a creaking of corset. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Please, gentlemen, be seated,’ she said.
Sir Reginald sat, pulled out an enormous white linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Stairs, ma’am,’ he wheezed apologetically.
Behind him, amusement twinkled in Mr Read’s eyes for such a brief moment she almost might have imagined it. Almost. But it was such a warming and comforting thing, she knew she had not. Indeed, she had a tiny bit of trouble repressing a smile. ‘May I call for the tea tray, Sir Reginald?’
‘No, thank’ee kindly. I had a shot of Lane’s best down below.’
For some reason, Mr Read remained standing. His expression was blank, but he seemed to be watching her intently.
‘Now, ma’am, I know thee’s had a shock, but tell me, if you will, in your own words, what happened.’
She relayed the same information to him as she had told to Mr Read, whose gaze became more intense.
When she got to the part about Garge looking in on her, Sir Reginald frowned. ‘You saw him, ma’am?’
‘No. It took me a moment or two to come to my senses, but the door was open, as Mr Read will confirm.’
‘It was,’ Mr Read said.
Sir Reginald’s bushy brows drew down in a way that would frighten small children and miscreants. ‘He spoke then? Said something to ʼee?’
‘No. The door opened. Nothing else.’
‘Ah, probably the latch gave way. Coach is badly damaged.’ He shook his head. ‘Bad business all around.’ With a laboured grunt, Sir Reginald pushed to his feet with hands braced on the chair arms. ‘A terrible accident, then. And not the first time on that bend. I’ll bid you good day, ma’am.’
‘I will see you out, sir,’ Mr Read said. ‘I will return in a moment, Mrs Falkner.’
Something in the way he looked at her gave her pause. Was there something he wasn’t saying?
Heart beating fast, she awaited his return.
* * *
A good fifteen minutes passed and still no sign of him. She got up and looked out of the window. There was no sign of any conveyance, but the windows of the rooms below cast their light out into the courtyard.
Finally, a light knock sounded at the door. She hadn’t heard anyone mounting the stairs. ‘Who is it?’
‘Read,’ came the low rumble of his voice.
‘Come in.’
He entered with a frown on his face.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I took the liberty of asking for dinner to be served in here and booking you room for the night. I had your valise and purchases taken upstairs.’
Her stomach pitched. ‘I cannot be away all night. Tommy will worry.’ He was a clever little boy. It had not taken him long to realise that most children had two parents as well as extended families. He knew his father had died and had become terrified she would die, too, leaving him completely alone.
Mr Read’s expression darkened as if her anxiety was his fault, but he gave her no chance to explain. ‘We have no choice,’ he bit out tersely. ‘It is too late to set out tonight. Sir Reginald has promised to send over his carriage for our use in the morning, but he needed it to return home. Lane’s cart is required for funeral purposes.’ His voice was harshly matter-of-fact.
They were stranded. She took a deep breath. ‘I see. Well then, there really is no alternative.’
‘Mrs Lane will show you up to your chamber to freshen up. Dinner is to be served in here in an hour.’ He hesitated and went on in a voice devoid of all expression. ‘If you don’t care for company this evening, I am more than happy to take my meal in the kitchen.’
Despite the flatness of his tone, and an apparent lack of concern about her decision one way or the other, she sensed an underlying tension. As if he expected her to consign him to dine with the servants. He must think her rude indeed. ‘After today’s events I would be grateful for your company, Mr Read. And I wish to hear more of Sir Reginald’s opinion with regard to the accident.’
His expression lightened, very slightly. He bowed. ‘It will be my pleasure. I will let Mrs Lane know you are ready to go up.’
His pleasure. Now, why had that word sent shivers skating down her back?