Page 10

C onstantia weighed whether to call out and beg the driver to stop.

They were currently passing through what might as well have been the middle of nowhere, and daylight was beginning to fade. But those were not always disadvantages. Darkness made it easier to disappear, and there would surely be a hedgerow or an outbuilding where she could shelter from the cold and damp. She was still sore and bruised in places, true, but she could walk. If she kept the setting sun to her right, she would be headed south. Eventually she would reach the water. A port town. A fishing boat.

Somewhere, some way she could get free of England entirely, without endangering anyone else.

She could feel Ryland’s eyes boring into her with that mixture of astonishment and irritation he did so well. He would never permit her to walk away from the carriage, no matter how worried he claimed to be about his sisters. It wouldn’t suit his notion of honor.

“You are right, of course,” she said, pushing her shoulders down and turning to face him. She wouldn’t cower like a frightened animal. “Ridiculous to think that I might be followed. What could anyone want with me?” She forced a little laugh into her voice. “Artists can be prone to fits of overactive imagination.”

He nodded, a trifle wary of her sudden change of mood, if not the sentiment. “Yes. Perfectly understandable. You’ve suffered a shock, and your mind wants to concoct some interesting explanation for what happened, something that seems worthy of all the pain and disruption the accident caused. With time, however, the simple truth will come back to you. And when it does, I’ll be only too happy to make whatever arrangements I can to help you get wherever you belong.”

Only too happy... That, she didn’t doubt. But the truth was, she didn’t belong anywhere. She never, never had. Certainly not with Lord Ryland’s family, where she might put his innocent sisters in danger. Oh, why hadn’t she considered that risk sooner?

To her chagrin, tears sprang to her eyes. Shifting her gaze back to the window, she surreptitiously whisked the moisture away with her bandaged knuckles. “You’re too kind,” she said, surprising herself with the apparent sincerity in her voice.

“You’re overwrought,” he said, in that soothing tone she imagined him using with his sisters. “You should try to rest.”

She nodded. Yes, she was exhausted and in shock. Leaning her head into the little corner formed by the back of the seat and the frame of the window, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. She wished with fresh desperation that she could remember those few moments before the accident. But try as she might, everything between the time of her leaving the meeting of the magazine staff and waking in Lord Ryland’s house stubbornly remained a blank—and might always be so. No way of knowing for certain if she had been chased into the street or merely stumbled. No way to determine whether she was already being followed or whether she had a few more days or even weeks of peace.

And so, in spite of the comforting appeal of Ryland’s words, in whose warmth she longed to luxuriate for a little longer, she focused instead on the damp chill seeping in around the glass and began to plan.

Once they had stopped for the night, she would set out on her own.

Sometime later, she was roused from thought—or rather, to her astonishment, from sleep—by the slowing of the carriage.

“Almost to the inn,” Ryland said, peering outside. The sky was dark. “I wonder whether we shouldn’t change horses and press on.”

“I suppose that depends,” she replied, trying with subtle movements to ease the kink from her neck, “on whether you are more concerned with the distance to be traveled tomorrow or your comfort tonight.”

“My comfort?” He made a scoffing noise in his throat, as if he’d never considered such a thing. He looked her up and down. “Yours, certainly. John Coachman’s,” he added, jerking his gaze back to the window. “No, we’ll stay. Tomorrow will have to take care of itself.”

She mustered a smile. Tomorrow she would once more be taking care of herself—as she preferred, of course. Only it had been more than a year since she had faced the peculiar struggles of a woman traveling over long distances alone. She couldn’t yet judge how far she would be able to walk in a day, or how far she was from the coast. And then there was the matter of her money, the larger share of which had been entrusted to Lord Ryland. She hadn’t yet worked out how to retrieve it without raising alarms.

But she would manage, somehow. Because she always had—and what choice did she have?

The inn was a large and bustling one, well suited to her intention of slipping away undetected. Ryland helped her down from the carriage and into a clean and neat anteroom with a tall counter opposite the door and well-polished benches along two walls hung with flower-patterned paper.

“My lord.” A bespectacled woman, her brown hair liberally streaked with gray and arranged in the sort of knot from which softening locks did not dare slip, appeared suddenly behind the counter, as if she had emerged from the woodwork. Only then did Constantia see the outline of the door behind her, carefully papered over to disappear into the wall. “How may I serve you?”

“Two rooms, please,” he said. “One for me and one for my sisters’ new governess, Miss—”

“Creevey,” Constantia supplied hurriedly. If she were right about being followed from London, then Cooper might be recognized.

“Very good, sir,” the woman said, as if Constantia hadn’t spoken. She wrote something in a ledger and handed over two keys. “I’ll have a boy bring up your things. Will there be anything else?”

“Miss...Creevey,” he glanced over his shoulder at her, something like confusion or perhaps speculation lifting one dark brow, “will take supper in her room.”

Constantia only narrowly prevented herself from exhaling a sigh of relief. Lord Ryland’s sense of propriety—she had almost called it thoughtfulness —would make it possible for her to get away that much sooner, and on a full stomach to boot. And if he intended to eat in the dining room, as his lack of instruction regarding his own meal would seem to indicate, that would provide just the window she needed to slip into his room and retrieve her money.

A few moments found her comfortably ensconced in a room on the second floor, blessedly near the servants’ stairs, which she hoped would not creak. A girl arrived soon after with a fine supper of roast venison, and Constantia ate heartily, though she was not especially hungry. One never knew how long it might be between meals.

When the girl returned bearing a canister of hot water, Constantia bathed with her new soap and donned her nightdress, though she hadn’t any intention of sleeping. She also scattered a few of her things about the room, the sign of a traveler settling in. That way the servants would assume that “Miss Creevey” was intent on a night’s slumber, and nothing more.

She even dropped a subtle question regarding the frequency with which public conveyances stopped at the inn. In the morning, when it was discovered she was gone, someone might think to ask the servant, who would say she hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but when pressed would recall a seemingly innocuous query about the stage.

At last, heartened by the clatter and commotion rising from the dining room below, she slipped on her mantle in lieu of a dressing gown and her shoes, stepped into the corridor, and took the stairs to the third floor.

After a quiet rap on the door to ensure no one was within, she entered to discover that Lord Ryland had been given a large and well-appointed suite, including a sitting room with a small table for dining and a bedchamber with separate dressing area. Instinctively, a flicker of annoyance, or perhaps jealousy, passed through her. Her money had paid for this luxury, after all—luxury she was not permitted to enjoy.

But he had not requested such accommodations, she reminded herself. The woman below had known his rank and simply assumed. Constantia thought of those faded pink draperies in his bedchamber in London. If one were a necessitous nobleman, it was no doubt difficult to pinch pennies without calling attention to circumstances one would rather not broadcast. Witness the fact that Ryland was at present suffering the noise of a crowded dining room rather than pay servants extra to bring his food here.

He would eat quickly, she decided, eager to retire to this private and pleasant space. She might not have much time. So, crossing the fingers of her bandaged hand for luck, she headed toward the bedchamber.

Like the sitting room, it might well have passed for unoccupied. The dark green coverlet was unwrinkled; no head had dented the plump pillows. Only in the dressing room did she find evidence of his presence: his greatcoat hung from one peg, the shirt and cravat he’d been wearing from another; his valise sat open on a stool; and the contents of his toiletry kit were spread in orderly fashion about the washstand.

Stepping closer, she touched the outside of the water pitcher. Warm, but not hot. He had not been gone long enough for it to turn cold. She dragged a fingertip over the prickly bristles of his hairbrush, paused to sniff his cologne. He’d changed clothes, taken some pains to make himself presentable, but he had not shaved.

From an artistic standpoint, she rather liked him with the dark shadow of a beard. It made his jaw sharper, his face more...interesting.

Though they were hardly necessities, she meant to pack his gift of crayons and paper in her bag. That way she would have the means to draw him from memory once she was safe. Reining in the thought, she turned to the valise.

At first she found nothing but the expected items of clothing: fresh linen, a nightshirt, another pair of stockings. Then her fingers encountered the crinkly paper in which the laudanum bottle was wrapped, used by apothecaries so that patients would know, even in the dark, what they’d got into their hands. She hesitated for a moment, then decided it might prove beneficial and tucked it into the neck of her nightdress, between her breasts.

Further searching found nothing more of use to her in the valise. Had he taken his purse with him to dine? It seemed possible, probable even. Nevertheless, she refused to be thwarted. Turning to the pockets of his greatcoat, she began to rummage through them. At long last, the clink of coins told her she had succeeded in her quest.

Withdrawing the leather pouch, she spilled the coins onto her bandaged palm. He’d spent carefully, she would say that much for him. And she did not intend to leave him without sufficient funds to pay the coachman or the bill for their lodgings. He had been generous—generous with her money, it was true—but too generous for her to reward him with humiliation. Counting off a suitable sum, she dropped those coins back into his pocket and was in the process of taking the rest when she heard the click of a door latch.

A servant, mostly likely, come to fetch the dirty water away. If she were caught here, purse in hand, everyone would assume she was stealing from her employer. To preserve his good name, Lord Ryland might have little choice but to cast her off. She’d be turned out into the night, all on her own but not as she’d planned, with nothing and no way to start again. She simply could not afford to be spotted in his rooms.

But no matter how frantically she scoured the corners and crevices, neither the dressing room nor the bedchamber offered any place for her to hide.

At least she would not have to wait long for her fate to be sealed. There was nothing in any other part of the suite that would require a servant’s attention for more than a moment or two. Footsteps approached the door to the bedchamber, and she thrust her hands behind her back.

Her pulse pounding in her ears had muffled those footfalls. Otherwise, she might have realized more quickly that they did not belong to a maidservant, or even a footman. No, what she’d heard had been the booted tread of a gentleman.

Lord Ryland appeared in the doorway to the room.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone not precisely angry, but certainly surprised.

“I, uh—my, my headache has returned. Carriage travel never has agreed with me. I was looking for the laudanum.”

He nodded, though one dark eyebrow lifted in a skeptical quirk. “I’m sorry to hear that. But why didn’t you ring for a servant, have them find me? If you’re feeling unwell, you might better have been resting in your room.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. A much better idea. But I-I’m not accustomed to having servants, you see. I prefer to—”

“Do things for yourself,” he finished, moving toward her as he spoke, the way one approached a timid animal one didn’t wish to frighten. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Well, did you find it? Or shall I—?”

Eventually only the corner of the bed separated them. Not long until he discovered she’d taken more than the laudanum. And not long after that until he pieced together her intentions. He was rather cleverer than she’d given him credit for being. He would tell her that the risk of setting out alone was too great. He might even try to stop her. She needed a distraction, and she seized on the first that came to mind.

She launched herself forward and kissed him.

Lips and teeth met in an uncomfortable clash. Neither of them closed their eyes.

He didn’t kiss like a practiced rake, to be sure.

Not that she had a great deal of experience kissing rakes—kissing anyone. Kisses required a degree of proximity, both physical and emotional, that she made it a rule never to allow.

And to be fair, this might not be his best effort. She had startled him. Instinctively, both of his hands had risen as she’d approached. To push her away, she’d thought at first. Or perhaps to catch her, imagining that she’d stumbled.

Now they hovered not quite an inch from her body, one at her waist and the other at her head, almost but not quite cupping her cheek. She could feel the brush of his fingers against the blowsy halo of her hair, the way a cat’s whiskers sensed danger.

Why, then, was she tempted to nestle against his palm and purr?

Perhaps because his mouth had begun to soften. Almost imperceptibly, the kiss became something else, not an awkward embrace between strangers or the plundering conquest of a rake, but a tender, eager exploration. His eyes drifted shut, almost unwillingly, like a drowsy child resisting much-needed sleep. Or a proper gentleman succumbing to unwelcome desire. His charcoal-black lashes fanned over his cheeks in spiky shadows.

Her own eyes threatened to follow suit, to close, to surrender to the kiss. But another part of her wanted to go on looking at him forever.

What an effort it had taken to draw the Earl of Ryland as if he were not handsome as sin.

In spite of herself, her eyelids drooped. Other senses surged to take the place of sight. The gentle but insistent pressure of his lips against hers. The spice of his cologne and the sweet sharp tang of claret. The heat of his mouth, his touch, as his hand sank to her hip and drew her closer still.

The whisper of a sigh.

Her sigh.

She leaned into his embrace, pressed her lightly clothed form against his chest, then stiffened at the telltale crinkle of the laudanum bottle.

Good God. What was she thinking?

All he would have to do would be to wrap his arms around her, and he would find the purse.

She broke the kiss, took a step backward, opened her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said gravely. As if he had done anything other than what she’d asked of him. As if he’d done something far more scandalous than kiss her back.

She shook her head, denying the apology, and almost immediately became aware of the sensation of the bottle sliding down the front of her nightgown, her bosom entirely inadequate to the task of keeping secrets.

Instinctively she brought up a hand to catch it and heard the muted tinkle of coins spilling onto the carpet around her.

Astonishment, disbelief, something very like hurt flared into his dark eyes. “What’s this, Miss C—?”

Whether he had intended to use the old alias or the new, she couldn’t be certain. She spoke across him before the word took shape.

“Constantia. My name is Constantia.”

She blurted it out in part to divert attention from the unfolding disaster of the spilled purse and all it implied.

Also because over the last few days, an unexpected intimacy had grown between her and Lord Ryland, and the continued ruse of lost memory was now an uncomfortable weight she wanted to shed. This way, she could leave with a clear conscience.

But when he repeated Constantia , shaping the syllables of her name as if speaking in a foreign tongue, she realized her mistake.

Deception was her familiar, well-worn armor. The alternative was a vulnerability that left her lightheaded, her very spirit scraped raw.

She must have wobbled on her feet, for the next thing she knew, he had caught her by the upper arm and steered her backward to the chair in the dressing room, stepping carefully around the pile of spilled coins.

“You know who you are,” he said, stooping so he could look into her face. His dark eyes flitted over her features, his own expression a mixture of confusion, disappointment, and relief. “I suspected as much all along. Yet you were going to”—he glanced toward the money and back again—“to leave without saying anything at all.”

“Yes. I—” She paused to gnaw on her lower lip. “It’s safer for you if I do. And you’ve been kinder than I expected, far kinder than I deserved.”

“Kinder than you expected,” he echoed, irony hollowing out his voice. “Then you—you remember me too.”

Unable to hold his gaze, she nodded. “From the first. But you offered me your protection—”

“Until your memory returned,” he finished for her, his voice heavy with something like disbelief.

He sank to the floor, dropping onto his backside with a soft thud , then propping one forearm on his raised knee. The pose suggested he expected to be seated thus for some time. “Before you go, Constantia,” he said, giving her name a subtle stress, a hint of skepticism, “don’t you think I deserve the truth?”