Page 36

All he wanted from Mary now was that she not throw up obstacles for him in his pursuit of Mrs. Sebastian. Because just as she had destroyed his previous hopes, Mary Pence alone had the power to destroy his new ones.

He must tread carefully.

Extricate himself from his past ties to her without stirring desires for vengeance on her part.

His pace slowed perceptibly. “Mary—Miss Pence, I should call you now—”

“Call me Mary! Ones who have known each other so long and so well should not balk at Christian names. Or do you want to forget our past intimacy because you would rather someone else not know about it?”

When she saw he would not be baited into replying, she was forced to press further. “Do you like that Mrs. Sebastian Barstow now? From what I saw, she’s doing all she can to catch you.”

“She’s doing nothing of the kind,” he said, unable to prevent himself.

“And looks like your new friend the baron would be in favor of the match.”

He said nothing.

“I would never have thought you so changeable. To forget me and your family and Portsmouth and—everything. All forgotten in a couple months’ time!”

“Mary,” he said through a hard jaw, goaded at last, “if I might remind you, you were the one to end things between us. Should you be surprised I would go as far away as I could and try to surround myself with new people and new memories?”

The ghost of past heartbreak she detected in his words was enough to soften her. “Well, you need not fear me anymore,” she told him. “You may come home now.”

Her use of the word jarred him, having just applied it in his own thoughts to—the other one, and then he did speak rapidly enough.

“—Tell me what has become of Captain Colley,” he urged. “The last time I saw you, you told me in no uncertain terms that you preferred him to me, and I was to set you at liberty.”

She pursed her lips coyly and lifted a roguish shoulder, which, in Wrigley’s costume had more a grotesque than a charming effect.

“I was harsh with you, was I not? I confess to you, Horace, that he quite captivated me in your absence, being ever so handsome and every bit as daring as you. Perhaps even more so, now, now that you turn up your nose at this little escapade of mine,” she added with a sniff.

“You, who used to love a joke better than anything!”

“But to return to the handsome, daring captain,” he said inexorably. Had she always danced around the point thus in conversations? Always flirted so? “What became of him?”

There was a pause. Mary kicked at the stones in the road, scuffing the fine slippers which surely belonged to Perryfield and Lord Dere and must be returned forthwith. (Another item added to the list of tasks he must see to, to conclude this affair.)

“I sent Captain Colley to the right-about,” she answered at last. “Just as I had you.”

They were nearing where Wallingford Way joined the causeway, and soon the Pettypont would be in sight, marking the entrance to the town.

Langworthy’s pace slowed another degree.

This matter must be settled now. And if Mary Pence could not be brought to reject him, once for all, he must determine how best to bring it about himself.

“Did you break your engagement with him because you had changed your mind?”

“I am not so inconstant!”

“But—certainly Captain Colley had not the right to end it.”

Her small form sagged, and then the Mary Pence who looked up at him was not the mischievous, teasing miss of Langworthy’s adult years, glorying in the discovery of her beauty and power, but, in her disguise, more like a schoolboy caught in an awkward predicament.

“I will tell you, Horace, but you mustn’t laugh or fling it in my face, though I did treat you so badly.”

A fortnight earlier—less, perhaps—he would have wanted to do just that. (Had he not spent the last many weeks dreaming of revenge on not only her, but all womanhood?) But that was before Sarah Barstow. Sarah Barstow, and her disarming kindness to him.

Therefore he did not have to dissemble to say gently, “How long have I been your friend? I won’t. I promise.”

“Very well.” She heaved a sigh, barely audible over the sound of their steps.

“Captain Colley did not end my engagement with him, but he did ask if—if I would do him that favor. Because—” breaking off, she pressed her lips together a moment, striving for mastery.

“—Because a-a-a young lady he had once loved had been recently widowed, and-and-and he told me he…could not help it, but he thought of her still.”

Although the sun was setting, its lingering beams caught the two tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh, Mary,” he echoed her sigh. “I’m sorry.” And he was for her.

“I have my pride,” she sniffled, extracting a handkerchief from an inner pocket. “I refuse to marry a man whose heart belongs to another, so I told him of course I released him and wished him every joy, though in truth I wanted to run him through with a rapier or push him off the nearest dock.”

Langworthy understood that as well.

He said nothing, only making a sympathetic sound in his throat.

And perhaps it was her disguise as Wrigley the footboy, but he made the move he would have done with any fellow man: he clapped a compassionate hand to her shoulder and gave it a squeeze in the universal unspoken expression of Brace up, my lad .

It was imprudent of him, to say the least.

For Mary Pence turned at once to face him and metamorphosed as quickly from Wrigley into Mary Pence. “Oh, Horace!” she cried. Throwing her arms about his neck, she collapsed against him, giving way to a storm of tears. “Oh, Horace, who has ever loved me like you have?”

“Mary! Mary, hush,” he pleaded over her noisy laments. “They will hear you in the next county!” They had reached the Pettypont Bridge, and if traffic had been nonexistent before, here the London and Henley roads met, and both vehicles and pedestrians were sure to come along.

“If I didn’t have your love, what would I do?” she wailed, even more loudly, and such was the flood of her weeping that he felt his breast dampened as if he had spilled soup upon himself. Nor was it any use trying delicately to detach her—that only made her cling the harder to him.

“You will always have my friendship, Mary,” he hissed, “but you must release me. Remember where you are!”

“I am with you, my darling Horace,” she sobbed. “Faithful, steadfast Horace! Forgive me! Take me back! Say I am yours again!”

Before faithful, steadfast Horace could say anything, however, his former intended bride tugged his head downward and fastened her lips to his.

They had kissed before—over two years previously—once, when she accepted his offer of marriage, and again the next day, when he took leave of her to go again to sea.

And though those kisses had dimmed in his memory, he could have sworn they were nothing like this one.

Indeed—what kiss ever had been, where the young lady adhered to the man like a barnacle to a ship’s hull, though the victim tried, through the pushing of his hands and twisting of his neck, to get away?

Moreover, despite her crooning and crying and muffled endearments, Langworthy’s cocked ear caught exactly the sounds he dreaded. A carriage was coming!

“Let go!” he cried, no longer trying to be gentle. Seizing her wrists, he tugged, his own body twisting and writhing to break free.

“Ooh,” gurgled Mary Pence, a mixture of tears and overexcitement making her voice husky. “How you navy men do like your rough play.”

“Lad! Lad!” shouted a voice. “Is that man attacking you?”

Without waiting for an answer, even if one had been forthcoming, the driver gave a grunt and a “whoa, Blackie.” The vehicle halted, and the driver jumped down, holding up his lantern. What its rays illumined almost caused him to drop it.

“Can that be you, Wrigley ?” he asked, dumbfounded. “With Mr. Langworthy?”