Moonspun Magic (8 page)

“I pray you won't stop now, my dear. I'm fairly crackling with interest.”

Victoria raised her chin and her eyes flashed with remembered anger and hurt, but she managed in a nicely distant voice, “It was a boring denouement, truly. He didn't really want to wed me, nor I him.”

Rafael gave her his best incredulous expression.

It was an excellent ploy, and Victoria found herself quickly filling in the silence. “It's odd. According to David, it was his father who wanted to have me for a daughter-in-law. Perhaps he knew I wasn't a poor relation, perhaps he wanted my money.”

“I doubt that sincerely. Damien, whatever his failings, never would make free with information that was of a private nature, and your money would have been very private.”

“Yes,” Victoria said, “perhaps. I think it was for the best. I didn't love David, you see. It would have been unfair to him had I married him.”

“Oh? He wasn't the one to break things off?”

“Well, perhaps . . . a bit . . . somewhat, I guess.”

Rafael laughed. “Well done, my dear girl. If you learn more such definitive words, I pray you will tell me.”

“Maybe, if it pleases me to do so.”

“I begin to believe that a girl raised in Cornwall has a sufficient measure of wits. You please me, Victoria.”

She ducked her head at that compliment and fiddled with her napkin.

“As for David Esterbridge, he's what I'd call meager, no shoulders, you know. Not at all a sterling specimen.”

“That's what I thought, but I felt ashamed to be so very unkind in my appraisal of him.”

“As for you, you would have made his life a misery.”

“Misery. You make it sound as though I am some sort of termagant, a fishwife, a—”

“No, not at all. But you are strong-willed, are you not? I venture to say that most other young ladies, finding themselves in such an untenable situation as you did, would have succumbed.”

Mollified, Victoria smiled, just a bit. “One has to be a bit strong-willed if one is much alone,” she said without a shade of self-pity.

He was glad that he'd asked her to ride with him on the morrow.

The direction of his wayward thoughts drew him up abruptly. He rose, scraping back his chair. “It's late. I wish to leave early. I shall see you to your bedchamber.”

Victoria frowned over at him. Had she said something to anger him? She didn't think so, but her experience with men wasn't all that impressive. She followed him to her room, where he left her with a nod and a curt good night.

By the following afternoon, she knew she'd made a grave mistake in judgment.

Pain will force even the truthful to speak falsely.

—P
UBLILIUS
S
YRUS

V
ictoria gritted her teeth against the painful spasms that rippled in her thigh. She'd realized, all too late, of course, that an entire day of riding might prove too great a strain. She hadn't thought. She nearly laughed aloud, remembering how she'd been so anxious to ride the entire distance to London.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to control the pain. The mare, sensing that her rider was losing control, snorted, flinging her head up, and wheeled to the left.

“Victoria. Pay attention to your mount.”

She set her jaw and brought the mare under control. She should have broken it off when they'd stopped for lunch. But then, she'd felt only a tightening, not really any pain.

It was only early afternoon, a warm, blue-skied day in Somerset. But Victoria was beyond basking in the lovely day and the sweet-scented grass of the fields beside the road. At a particularly vicious spasm, she knew she had no choice.

“Rafael,” she called. He was riding a little way ahead of her, and at the sound of her voice, he pulled up, turning in his saddle.

“I think I should like to ride in the carriage for a while.”

He grinned. “Your bottom hurt?”

If only that were true, she thought, not taking offense at his outrageous remark. “No. It's just that I would like to ride in the carriage now.”

His grin fell away and he looked at her with lowered brows. Did she look different? Was her voice shaky?

He said with appalling frankness, “Do you need to relieve yourself?”

“No.”

“Well, then, why? I thought you wanted to ride all the way to London. Your bottom is sore, isn't it?”

This time, she wasn't too much of a fool to grasp at the proffered straw. “I am sore. I've never ridden so long and at such a pace.”

Still, he continued with that steady look of his. She was pale, and there was something in her eyes that wasn't quite right.

“Please.”

“Very well.” He wheeled back and waited for the carriage to round the bend just behind them. Victoria was relieved. He wasn't paying her any attention at the moment. Slowly, painfully, she managed to slide off the mare's back. She clung to the mane, willing her leg not to collapse beneath her.

“Giving your mare a kiss?”

“Only in the morning. She's too sweaty now.”

“That's better. Pull over, Tom, our lady wishes to ride in the carriage.”

“Aye,” Tom called. “Ye wish to lead the mare, or will ye tie her to the back?”

“The back, I think.”

It wasn't a great distance, only a few steps. She had only not to disgrace herself for six steps. Tom opened the carriage door. Victoria looked at the door,
then back to Rafael. Thank God, he was tying the mare to the back of the carriage, on a long lead, paying no attention to her.

She managed to make it to the door, then grasped it when her leg collapsed.

“Miss? What be the matter with ye?”

“Nothing, Tom, really.”

He snorted in obvious disbelief, then hefted her up into the carriage without ceremony.

Victoria sank onto the soft cushions, stretching out her leg. Automatically her fingers went to the tortured muscles and began to knead them.

Rafael's face appeared in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

“Certainly,” she said. “Go along. We still have some hours of daylight.”

He frowned a bit, but nodded. “Very well.”

She watched him stride back to his stallion and gracefully climb into the saddle. To be free like that, she thought. Never to fear others seeing your weakness, never to feel the ghastly pain.

Her fingers went back to the knotting muscles.

Three more days, she thought, three more days of riding in this bloody carriage. She wouldn't be such a fool as to ride again. Well, perhaps in the mornings. Yes, until they stopped for luncheon.

If Rafael wondered why she rode her mare only until they stopped for luncheon each day, he said nothing. She was, after all, a lady, and ladies didn't have a man's endurance. He found her appetite for his adventures insatiable, and over dinner each evening he told her of places he'd visited and things he'd done. He told her about his grandparents and the immense parcel of cousins, aunts, and uncles who all lived in Spain. He told her of America, its vastness, its mix of people, from the Boston merchants and their whaling ships to the Virginia planters and
their huge numbers of slaves. He told her of the Mediterranean and the incredible Rock of Gibraltar, and the pirates from North Africa who still preyed on unwary ships. He told her of Jamaica, of the Barretts and the Palmers, and how the sugar plantations were run. He always tired before she did.

“Enough,” was his invariable ending, and her invariable response was a disappointed sigh. Had she been so bereft of companionship, then? So very alone? Very probably, he thought, until Damien noticed that his little cousin-in-law had become a tempting morsel.

Victoria wasn't at all stupid and she soon realized that the places he told her about in the most detail were where English soldiers and Napoleon's men fought. He'd been much more than a simple sea captain, it was obvious to her, but she held her peace. Perhaps he was still involved in activities of a secret nature. If she pried, he might not tell her any more of his more innocuous adventures.

Their last night was spent in Basing. Rafael managed a private dining room, despite a boxing match that was being held nearby. Victoria, he quickly discovered, had become too quiet for his taste.

“You're scared, aren't you?” he said finally, pouring her another glass of wine.

“A bit,” she conceded. “And excited. I've never been to London before. What if this Lady Lucia isn't there, Rafael? What if she takes me into dislike? Or you?”

“Don't worry about it. Here, have some lamb. It looks quite nice.”

She ate little. Rafael began a tale of how he'd met his valet, Savory, who had remained with the
Seawitch.
“I met him when he was only fourteen years old. His nickname when I met him was Flash, and it still is what he is called. ‘Flash,' because by his eighth
year of life he was the fastest pickpocket in all of London, he told me.”

“Goodness, a criminal.”

“Well, I suppose so. He was quite good, only I was just a bit faster. While he was pinching my money, right out of my coat pocket, mind you, I just happened to sneeze. I shall never forget the look on his face when I had my arm around his neck.”

He was grinning in fond memory, and Victoria leaned forward, fascinated. “However did he become your valet?”

“I made him a deal. He agreed to be my valet for three months. If he disliked it, I would pay him twenty pounds and turn him loose again on the innocent of London. He liked it. He is an excellent friend, and thankfully, an excellent sailor. I do believe that's what turned the trick, and not my sterling personality. I do wonder occasionally if he will leave me once I tell him I won't be putting out to sea again.”

“Back to being the Flash of London?”

“I hope not. I think I might have him join us in London after I send Tom Merrifield back to Cornwall. I'll tell him it is the ultimate test of his lawfulness.”

It rained only when they'd reached the outskirts of London. But Victoria was too excited to be forced back into the carriage. Rafael found himself smiling fatuously at her enthusiasm, but said firmly, “I don't wish you to take a chill, nor do I wish to present you to Lady Lucia looking like a drowned rat.”

He bundled her back into the carriage, turned up his collar, and pulled his hat firmly about his ears.

He began to doubt his own judgment when, upon arriving in Grosvenor Square and asking directions from a soaked sweep boy, he saw the imposing facade of Lady Lucia's town house. What if she wasn't in residence? What if Lyon were wrong and she
turned up her nose at him? He swore. He had all Victoria's worries, then some.

“It's beautiful, isn't it, Rafael?”

“I want you to remain in the carriage. I will speak first with this Lady Lucia. Don't move, Victoria.”

“I shan't play in the mud puddles, if that is what you are worried about,” she called after him.

His knock was answered by an imposing butler of advanced years and equally advanced dignity. “Sir?”

Rafael identified himself and asked to see Lady Lucia.

“She is tatting, sir, and doesn't wish to be disturbed.”

“Tatting? Good God, man, what the devil is that?”

Didier unbent a trifle. “It is something Lady Lucia despises, a form of needlework. She considers it in the nature of a penance.” Realizing he'd spoken too frankly to an absolute stranger, Didier frowned down his nose and added, “Should you like to leave your card?”

“No, tell the lady I am providing a new penance. Whatever sin or sins she's committed, tell her that this penance will be more than adequate for her needs. That is the new penance in the carriage.” He waved toward Victoria's face. “It is urgent that I speak with her, as you can see from the rain dripping off the lady's nose.”

Didier pondered. Her ladyship was growing a bit drawn in the withers. She was punishing herself with the endless irksome tatting because she'd read the entire batch of new gothic tales from Hookham's all in a week. He'd gently suggested that the tatting could wait for a snowy winter day, and she'd frowned at him and told him to stick his nose back in Cook's business.

A new penance, was it? He looked toward the
carriage through the drizzle and indeed saw a lady's face.

“Very well, sir. Please come in.”

 

Lady Lucia was bored. Drat that overbearing Didier anyway. And the tatting looked like no scarf she'd ever before encountered. Lyon and Diana hadn't yet returned from the West Indies, but the Earl and Countess of Rothermere were due in London sometime soon, and the earl's father, the Marquess of Chandos, as well. Ah, well, not too many more days filled with boredom, baiting Didier, and the ghastly tatting.

When Didier appeared in the doorway, she frowned at him. “Don't say it, Didier, I'm in no mood for more of your impertinence.”

“A new penance has arrived, my lady.”

“Eh? What the devil are you talking about? Have you finally fallen into your dotage? About time, I say.”

“No. A gentleman is here, a Captain Rafael Carstairs, and a young lady is very nearly here.”

“Not a whit of sense.” But she brightened. “A captain, Didier? A captain of what, pray?”

“I haven't the foggiest notion of his antecedents, my lady, or of his current affiliations.”

“Dratted academician Show him in.”

Lucia's eyes widened when the very handsome man came striding into her drawing room, a black greatcoat swirling about his booted ankles. He was somewhat wet—only to be expected, of course, since it had been drizzling for hours now. She quickly stuffed her tatting beneath her chair cushion and rose.

Beautiful eyes, she thought, a pale silver gray. Lovely thick black hair, and a presence to make even old Mrs. Ackerson's heart do a double beat.

Rafael regarded the proud old woman. She did look a terror with her very straight carriage and her gimlet eyes. “My name is Rafael Carstairs, ma'am. Thank you for seeing me. I married Lyon and Diana.”

Lucia didn't blink. “You're really a vicar, then?”

He grinned at the disbelief and disappointment in her voice. “No, ma'am. I am captain of the
Seawitch
. I sailed Diana and Lyon to the West Indies. Lyon told me all about you. He said that if he were ever in trouble, you were the one to save his hide. I'm in trouble, ma'am, and desperately need your help.”

“All ears, Didier? Fetch some brandy for Captain Carstairs.”

“The penance in the carriage, my lady?”