The Coachman's Daughter (5 page)

When she appeared, he noticed her black
hooded coat of oilcloth, ankle length and the driving gloves she
wore. Striding out the door, she nodded to the lad holding the lead
horse and then climbed on her perch.

He got inside, settled on comfortable
cushions, grudgingly noticing how smoothly she turned them about
and had the coach rolling out. She had driven dozens of times,
hundreds, and usually with less finesse. Yet he supposed she would
not put a team at risk, even to annoy him.

Whilst he rode in relative comfort, Deme was
also aware she was in the elements. Nothing new there either, but
he found himself pounding on the roof about half way there.

She stopped the team. He stepped out, looking
up at her on her perch, her face shadowed in the hood.

“Are you well.”

“Perfectly.”

“It’s raining…”

“Aye. And in winter it snows.” She shrugged.
“I can handle myself and this team, my lord. Your boots are getting
ruined.”

He muttered and climbed back in. so much for
bothering. He pulled a flask of his own from his breast pocket.
Monty would be shocked if he showed up half way sober. He was not
intending to get foxed—but he was desperate for distraction.

It seemed like a long ride to Wolford Hall,
and Deme stepped out finally, watching the livered grooms lead the
team to the shelter of Wolford’s fine stables.

He knocked at the door and was greeted soon
by the housekeeper.

“Welcome, your Lordship.”

“Thank you. Is your master about?”

“In the study, my lord.” She stepped
back.

He paused while a chore boy wiped his boots
of mud and took his coat. One of them explained the butler had a
cold. He said something solicitous and then followed the lad to
Monty’s study.

His friend was there, but so too was Lady
Juliette. She looked quite fetching in a quilted bronze gown with
white silk chemise showing. Her riot of red blond hair was pulled
back.

Monty was in his shirtsleeves and it appeared
they had been playing a cozy game of cards before the fire.

“Deme.” Monty greeted him.

“Monty. Juliette.” He nodded to the woman who
had stayed with his family for a while, became friends with
them—and whom he believed he had a slight hand in finally getting
herself and Monty to the alter.

“Is something amiss at Wimberly?” Monty asked
while Juliette invited him to sit in one of the winged chairs
before the hearth. She turned her own and moved the card table, and
before long, they made a cozy circle.

“Not at all. Mother is hosting a gathering
and I wanted to issue the invite personally.” He told them about
James and Aiden, soon realizing Monty was looking at him curiously,
knowing full well why. He had hardly been sober, solicitous, or
anything but foxed in years. “And—I was going bloody daft in the
house.”

Monty arched his brow. “We shall, of course,
attend.”

Deme moved his gaze and noticed Juliette
staring at him too.

She did not pretend not to, and offered, “You
look better, Deme.”

“I haven’t been ill.”

Her dry, amused smile reminded him of someone
else’s. “That’s debatable.”

Monty offered, “Dare I hope sobriety is a
more constant state in your future, than this path to destruction
you’ve been on for years?”

“No.” Deme grinned lazily. “It’s forced upon
me. Mama and his grace seem to be taking the lads leaving rather
hard. In fact, they have sprung quite a few things on me this
week.” He spoke his father’s wish he take over Wimberly, and the
fact the Duchess was inviting Marston down.

“The lads are growing up.” Monty sighed and
shook his head. “And I for one would applaud it if you did have
something to do besides rake. You know those tenants and
lands.”

“I do. But I am not you, my friend.” Deme
gave his charming smile. “I haven’t the nature to endure life with
sobriety. I quite enjoy my vises.”

Lady Juliette, as unconventional as his own
siblings, offered, “You’re spoiled, Deme. It will not kill you to
spend some time with your brothers, and at least consider your
father’s wishes. As for Marston, I do not know him, but I doubt
seriously that Lisette welcomes his being picked for her. You must
make sure he is someone she could love and not just a title and
fortune.”

“Lisette will be forced into nothing. As for
you summation of my character…” he drawled and looked at Monty
before looking back at her. “I whole heartedly agree. I never said
I did not get what I wanted. Don’t worry, I quite like my brothers
company.”

Later, Monty said to him when they stood by
the open French doors with cheroots, the rain dripping now from the
eves, “Stop punishing yourself.”

“I’m not.”

Monty turned his head and those brown eyes
met his. “Yes you are, or at least you have got it into your head
that you don’t deserve better, none of us can undo regrets. I wish
you had come with me, back then.”

“As do I.”

“But you did not. I was not here for your
worst days. However, we have been friends most of our lives. I have
found my soul mate, but I still need my friend. You know me as I do
you, Deme. This is a rare occasion when I have actually looked at
you and seen you view me through clearer eyes— rather than the haze
of brandy. It does you no good to protect yourself with it. If you
never care again, you will never really get over it and get on with
living. You numb yourself. You are over the facts, but you don’t
trust anyone or yourself, my friend.”

Deme blew smoke and looked away. “I don’t
know what it is everyone thinks I need to feel or do. My future is
secure; I have everything and have had it from the day I was born.
My father says I lack passion and fire...” Deme laughed low. “You
cannot invent something to give you that, and frankly, I no longer
desire it.”

“You will.” Monty grunted. “You’re a man in
your prime. You will.”

They visited a bit more and then Deme took
his leave, giving Juliette a wink when she kissed his cheek.

“Tell Lisette to come see me if the weather
is clear.”

“I shall.”

It was not raining when they departed, only
muddy and growing foggy out. Half way to the estate, vexed by all
the unasked for opinions and peering into his emotions, he tapped
the roof and the coach halted. He told her to drive to the village.
For a moment, he thought she would ignore him, but with a flick,
she took the detour.

Deme told himself it was restlessness. It was
everyone bloody lecturing him. It was one last hurrah, because
apparently, everyone expected him to suddenly do a complete about
face in his life.

* * * *

Four hours of waiting outside the smoky
tavern, before Haven went in. It was noisy, crowded, with thick
smoke hovering like a cloud overhead. Patrons were drinking, and
gambling. Half dozen women in kerchiefs, and wool shawls hunched
over pints in the shadows. The serving women ranged from fifteen to
sixty, and were dressed in wool skirts and low tucked blouses, with
over-corsets that were laced up under their barely covered bosom,
and wearing caps. Aprons over the skirts on some were dingy, and
much washed. The wenches were as coarse in speech when replying, as
the men who yelled out to them.

Familiar with the Blue Goose Tavern, Haven
nonetheless kept her hood up as she entered the main room, turned
right through the arch and headed toward a great hearth at the
end.

“What’ll it be?” One of the serving girls
asked passing her.

The brandy from earlier still burned and she
was trying to shake off light-headedness. “Bread, cheese, some milk
if you have it.”

“Aye.” The woman met her gaze with a bit of
mockery.

Haven ignored it. At the fire, she took off
her wet coat to let it dry, laying it over a bench she later
propped her booted foot on, after seating herself in a straight
chair. She idly watched the flames, aware of others in the room,
but most notably conscious of the Marquis—who was across the way in
a corner, his low laugh and murmured words mingling with that of a
female.

Once the woman brought her plate and cup, she
consumed the food and milk then set the items on the bench. There
were times Deme would not stop drinking until dawn, and she was
hoping this was not one.

She had words with her father, thanks to her
exchange with the Marquis. She regretted them. She hardly knew what
was wrong with her anymore. Lives were changing, certainly. She
always knew they would. Her father told her about his Grace wishing
Deme to take over Wimberly, and that pretty much pushed her make
her own decisions. Even if Lisette did not care for Marston, there
would eventually be someone. There were none of them children any
longer.

Turning her head toward the corner, she
caught a flash of green eyes before Deme rather loudly drawled, “I
see my watchdog has arrived, Giselle. I fear our tryst is to be cut
short.”

“Greta, yer Lordship. She appears to be a
sporting one to me. Seen her before.”

There was rustling. Haven caught sight of
Deme’s hand rubbing the woman’s wool stocking’d limb. Her full
stomach tensed. She could tell he was whispering in the blond
woman’s ear. A giggle issued from the wench before she lurched to
her feet, apparently trying to coax him above.

Turning her gaze back to the fire with a curl
of her lips, Haven reminded herself it was a scene she had
witnessed before. The outcome depended upon how well he could walk,
and to be sure, it was less risky for him to be tumbling tavern
wenches than some of the women he had in London. Titled ladies,
widows, they adored Deme, and he appeared game for them most of the
time. Their guardians were not so affectionate towards the
rake.

Intending to ignore him, she paid no heed to
the scuffle and sound of his boots, or closer giggles from the
woman. (Let him go up and tumble her, the quicker he did, the
sooner they could leave.)

She was surprised then, when he unsteadily
drew up a chair and draped his arm around the back of hers, leaning
over and down so that his face nearly touched hers. “You have lousy
timing, Mulhern.”

Drawing a bit back, yet looking at those
sooty lashed eyes, Haven smelled the whiskey on his breath. “You’ve
been here four hours. What is another? I was merely coming in to
dry and warm myself. If you want her, by all means…”

He blinked slowly, obviously intoxicated, but
those pure green eyes remained on hers. “Want her…” His smile was
mocking. “You mistake the matter, m’dear. It has little to do with
her.”

“I am sure I understand perfectly.” She
placed a hand on his shoulder and eased him back a bit. “This is
not our first trip to this particular tavern.”

“Right.” He captured her hand before she
could move it, never taking his eyes off her. Haven did not know if
he was aware of retaining it, but he did and rasped, “My protector,
Haven Mulhern, making sure the Wimberly heir doesn’t get gutted by
some doxie or break his neck whilst foxed.”

“Just so.” She refused to look from his stare
or react to his mocking tone. She’d already let him push her;
effect her, more than she dared.

He was unconsciously rubbing his thumb over
her hand, and his mussed hair tumbled on his brow like that did not
help. His shirt was partly undone, the firelight showing his
natural dark skin and sinew. It was disgusting that such a… Rake,
could look so good.

Whatever he saw of her own features, whatever
the fire enhanced, she heard him murmur, “In a gown, I believe you
would be quite ravishing, Mulhern. Decidedly not, like a watchdog.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered and then came up to meet
hers. “I would almost dare that you could pass for a Lady of
quality.”

“I have no such desire.” She pulled her hand
free and glanced away from him. “Go find your wench, my lord, so
that we may return home before another downpour.”

He sighed and stretched out his legs a
moment, withdrawing his arm from around her chair back long enough
to finger comb his hair. “It seems I am to be deprived of both
oblivion and pleasure, Mulhern.” He slid his feet back and stood.
“I’ll meet you outside.”

She did not move for a moment, wondering at
his mood, then stood and drew on her coat, eyeing him in the
process of raising her hood.

He stood backlit by the fire, his expression
too enigmatic for a man who should be foxed. Oh. God. She really
needed to heed her own good sense sometimes.

With a nod, she left and went out into the
damp night. Going to the head of the team, she stroked the horses
and spoke to them before climbing up on her perch. When he came
out, hat on, coat on, he did not look at her before climbing
inside.

It was slow going, thanks to fog, though the
horses could find their way by instinct, so well did they know the
roads.

They were already on Wimberly lands when he
knocked on the door.

She slowed and expected it when he emerged
and jumped a ditch to reach the clearing beyond. Haven set the
brake and got down; reaching inside the coach, she pulled a case
from under the seat and took out a cloth and flask. The flask had
lemon water in it. She went in his direction, feeling her boots
sink and slide in mud. Finding him at length, slightly bent over,
hands on his knees.

“Here.”

He took the items blindly, uncapped, rinsed,
spit, wet the cloth and cleaned his tongue and teeth, and then
wiped his face before straightening and doing the mouth rinsing
several times.

Taking the empty flask, she pushed her hood
back and watched him arch his neck, drawing in deep breaths through
his nose repeatedly.

When he lowered it and glanced at her, she
refused to let herself respond to that handsome visage. He deserved
his misery.

“I was taking my time.”