They left the horses at the Crown and found Cyn’s coachman there in
the taproom. Hoskins was a barrel of a man with the ruddy, weathered
face of one who had spent a large part of his life on the box.
“Sent the others on to the Abbey, milord, since there were spaces on
the uptraveling Exeter Fly.” He drained the ale Cyn had purchased for
him and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Reckoned I’d best stay,
though, in case you needed ‘elp. ’Sides which, I can’t go ‘ome without
me rig, can I?“ He gave Chastity an unfriendly look, but there was no
hint in it that he thought she was female, or a true villain.
She took as large a swig as she dared from her own tankard, and worked at looking like a cocky young rogue.
“Then you’ll approve of my plan, Hoskins,” said Cyn. “I want you to drive us.”
“That’s me job, milord,” the man agreed, but with narrowed eyes. “That, and keeping you out of mischief.”
Cyn grinned. “And how do you think to achieve that?”
“Lord only knows. Gallows bait, you are.”
Cyn slapped him on the back. “Cheer up. It’s not as bad as you fear,
certainly not a hanging matter. The first thing you should do is hire
yourself a horse so you can ride back with us. Then,” he added
blithely, “purchase a pint of paint to match the coach color as close
as you can. It has been a little scratched. Be ready to ride out with
us in an hour or so. My friend and I have some purchases to make.”
Cyn then dragged Chastity out of the room before the man could
splutter his alarmed questions. Chastity pulled against Cyn’s hand on
her arm, but his grip was like steel. He did not let her go until they
were well clear of the inn.
“Believe me, lad,” he said, “you don’t want to be the one to describe the damage to the coach. Especially as it was your doing.”
“It’s only a few scrapes.”
“I’ve seen Hoskins fret over a bird dropping on his varnish. He’s going to want blood when he sees what you did.”
“Then why are you adding him to our party?”
“We need someone to drive the coach. Don’t worry. If he tries to
flog you, I’ll defend you to the death.” He looked at the street name
painted on a building, and plunged down an alley.
Chastity had expected to derive amusement from his lordship’s
attempts to procure ladies’ clothing at short notice in a strange town.
Her own ignorance, not his, was exposed.
The Walgrave ladies had only ever patronized one dressmaker in
Shaftesbury, and Miss Taverstock had only been entrusted with the
simplest garments. Cyn had made inquiries of the innkeeper, and now had
the direction of the town’s secondhand clothes dealer.
Chastity was fascinated to venture into parts of Shaftesbury which
were strange to her. There were alleys with small shops, and narrow,
winding streets festooned with lines of washing. There were houses as
dark and forbidding as the Fleet, and others which turned smiling faces
to the world. In front of the former lurked scabrous, dirty rogues; in
front of the latter sat women preparing food or knitting, while
watching children and chatting with their neighbors.
Some streets were dry and wholesome, others noisome from the sewage pooling in the central gutter.
A junk shop full of fascinating bits and pieces distracted Chastity,
then an herbalist’s that looked as if it still operated according to
the rules of Gerard’s Herbal. Cyn drew her away, even from a delightful
bookshop.
“We’re hardly in a hurry,” she protested.
“I told Hoskins we’d be back in a hour. If we’re not, he’ll probably decide you’ve done away with me. Look, here we are.”
Mrs. Crupley’s Emporium presented a narrow, faded front at the
entrance to a particularly dismal alley. Chastity took in the foul mess
lying in the middle of that dark passageway—including a dead cat—and
gave thanks they didn’t have to travel it. They had obviously reached
the edge of respectable Shaftesbury. She doubted they would find much
of use in such an establishment.
They pushed through the door, and Chastity’s nose wrinkled at the
musty smell of damprot and stale sweat. The place was packed with
garments, headgear, footwear, and accessories. Items lay on shelves
against the walls and in boxes on the floor. Most of the clothing hung
from ropes stretched across the room.
Mrs. Crupley sat near the door in a rocking chair by a stove. She
had a cat on her lap, and a mug in her hand. Chastity feared it held
gin.
She had to smile, though, when she saw the way the plump middle-aged
woman clearly enjoyed her stock. She wore a gown of opulent yellow silk
and lace that was at least twenty years out of fashion, and hopelessly
stained. On her wiry gray curls sat an elaborately dressed lace cap of
the style of Queen Anne.
“Good day to you,” the woman said. “What can I do for you, dearies?”
Mrs. Crupley knew her stock well. When Cyn told her. without
explanation, that he had need of good-quality ladies’ garments for a
woman of above-average height and sturdy build, she put down her cup,
tipped off the disgruntled cat, and headed toward the back of her shop.
Chastity and Cyn had to fight their way through after her, like
battling through endless lines of washing.
“Keep the good stuff back here, I do,” said the woman, “well away from sneak-thievery.”
Once they reached the dim and musty depths of the place, she began
pulling down samples, extolling their virtues. “Lovely, this is,” she
said, dangling a blue lutestring silk, her eyes darting to catch their
every reaction. “The highest lady in the land could wear this as it is,
or it’d cut up a treat.”
More likely the latter, thought Chastity, for the gown was shredding
under the arms and badly faded in many places. It was certainly large,
though. Huge, in fact. Cut up, it probably could make a passable gown
for a slim lady. She, who had never considered such things, became
intrigued by the possibilities of secondhand clothing.
After all, it seemed very likely that she would have an impoverished future.
She expected to be asked for her advice, but Cyn ignored her. She
remembered then that he thought her a youth. He didn’t seem to need
help anyway. He rejected various items of evening wear, and some shoddy
garments which Mrs. Crupley obviously thought all the go, and chose two
ugly gowns of excellent quality.
One was a brown Brunswick traveling dress with beige braid; the
other was an open sacque of Prussian blue figured cloth to be worn over
a quilted gray petticoat and a stomacher of blue and black braiding. He
added a dark blue hooded cloak, and a plain straw villager hat.
Mrs. Crupley clearly didn’t think much of his choices, and pitied
the poor lady who would be forced to wear such dull stuff, but she made
one last attempt. “Look lovely with new ribbons, this will,” she
crooned, stroking the flat hat. “Yellow or bright green, I’d think.
Have to have at least sixpence for this, I will.” She glanced at Cyn
slyly. “A guinea and a half for all this, I’d say.”
He ruthlessly beat her down to eighteen shillings and sixpence, and
had her throw in a shabby black wig and a huge cloth muff as well.
Chastity was amazed to see the woman look content when she took the
money.
When they were out in the alley she said, “Eighteen and six for all that! You diddled the poor old dear.”
He laughed. “I paid her more than she hoped for. She’d have been
suspicious if we paid much over the odds. People poor enough to buy
castoffs watch every penny.” He flicked her an indulgent glance and
dumped one of the large, newspaper-wrapped bundles in her arms. “You
don’t know you’re born, do you, young Charles?”
Chastity snarled at him, but he was already off at a brisk pace back
the way they had come. Chastity quickly followed and had to admire his
command of geography. She would have been hard put to find her way back
to the Crown unaided.
Suddenly he stopped in front of one of the shops that had fascinated
her, a tiny haberdashery crammed with goods—threads, ribbons, caps, and
ready-made ladies’ undergarments. She followed him into the intimate
establishment.
Showing a shocking expertise in such matters, and no embarrassment
that Chastity could see, Cyn purchased a nightgown, a lace-trimmed
chemise, two pairs of cotton stockings, and garters threaded with pink
ribbon.
Eyes twinkling, he held the garters up before Chastity.
“What do you think, Charles? Will these please my sister?”
Chastity knew she was blushing. “As long as they keep her stockings
up,” she said, “I suppose they’ll please her well enough. What else are
such things for?”
Cyn winked at the girl behind the counter. “These bashful young lads.” The girl giggled. Chastity gnashed her teeth.
Cyn looked around the shop where sample garments were hung on
display. His smile widened. “I see you even have silk stockings. Let me
see a pair of those, my dear.”
The young woman climbed a small stepladder to reach down a box, and
opened it to reveal stockings in a range of colors, some even striped.
“They are of the finest make, sir,” the girl said, all rosy under his
attentions. “See the quality of the embroidery.”
Cyn held up a pair admiringly, a very racy pair of pink silk with
fancy red stripes. “Oh, I don’t think one should be cheese-paring about
such matters,” he said lovingly, and grinned at Chastity.
She glared at him.
“Goodness,” Cyn said to the shopgirl, “I’ve offended the lad. He
must not approve of fancy stockings. Tell me, my dear, what do you
think of the matter?”
The girl, thought Chastity in disgust, was incapable of thoughts
that were other than lustful. And how any man could so shamelessly
flaunt intimate apparel in front of strangers…
“Oh, sir!” gushed the shopgirl. “I do think them ever so wonderful.”
Cyn admired the stockings again. “I’ll take this pair. And five yards of wide yellow ribbon, if you please.”
Chastity choked. Cyn looked at her and back to the shopgirl. “I
don’t think he cares for the yellow. A young man of Puritan tendencies.
Perhaps you’d better make it that striped fawn.”
When they left the store he laughed.
Chastity glared at him. “You, sir, have no decency!”
“True. Do you not approve of striped silk stockings? They make the most of a well-turned ankle.”
“It is not a matter I give any thought to,” Chastity said frostily. She stalked ahead in what she hoped was the right direction.
He caught up, laughter in his voice. “You give no thought to ladies’ ankles? ‘Struth, but you’re a strange young man.”
Chastity decided it would be wiser not to pick up that gauntlet. Anyway, she had to let him lead again, for she was lost.
Despite the brisk pace he set, very little escaped Lord Cynric
Malloren. As they approached the Crown he entered another shop, one
advertising soap and beauty agents. This was a different type of
establishment altogether, and one with which Chastity was familiar.
Walgrave Towers had been ordering its soap and unguents from Travis
& Mount for years. What the deuce did Cyn Malloren want here?
Again without embarrassment he purchased a pot of rouge, a box of
pale powder, and, after sniffing at a number of samples, a small vial
of perfume. From the ecstatic look on the face of Mr. Mount, Chastity
knew it was expensive.
Once outside, she said, “Why are you wasting all this money if you truly want to help us?”
“It’s not a waste. It’s important to be thorough in a deception, and
we have ample funds I assure you. You must learn not to worry so,
Charles.” He smiled at her in a beguiling way. “Perhaps you’re hungry.
Surely even such an unnatural youth as you must have a sweet tooth?”
What else could Chastity say but yes, and in truth she did love
sweet things. Her heart gave a little leap when she saw where he was
headed. Still, she had to protest. “We don’t have time or funds for
pastries.”
He was already within the establishment of Dunn and Carr,
Confectioners and Pastry Cooks. Chastity decided that, all in all, the
aroma of the bakery surpassed even that of the perfumier’s.
They emerged in a little while with a damson pie and a bag of crisp
biscuits. He juggled his parcels and took out two Shrewsbury biscuits.
Walking backward down the street, he popped one into her mouth.
Chastity took it. He reminded her of a schoolboy on a pleasure
outing, and for a moment she felt his equal— the same sex, the same
brash confidence, the same carefree approach to life. She grinned as
she arranged her own parcels so she could hold the biscuit and enjoy
it. It was delicious, still warm from the oven.
He took a bite of his, still walking slowly backward. She took a
bite of her own. He trapped her gaze and she found herself watching his
lips as he bit again and chewed. He had beautiful lips, with a perfect
bow-curve…
The muscles of his throat moved as he swallowed. His tongue slid
out. He slowly licked a trace of golden crumbs away from those lips,
leaving the gloss of moisture behind.
His eyelids lowered sleepily, sensuously, and he smiled.
Chastity felt her heart thump, and she gaped.
She realized they’d arrived at the inn and were standing there like
statues, gazing at one another. She knew she should move but felt
trapped in a web—a sticky, warm web. She had only taken one bite of her
biscuit, but the sweet tingly taste lingered on her tongue.
“Taste, texture, heat,” he said softly, seeming to dare her to take
another bite. “Life offers such beautifully simple yet rich pleasures
for our delight. Taste them with me, Charles…” He slowly put the last
of his biscuit into his mouth.
Chastity realized she had obediently taken another bite and was
chewing in synchrony with him… She almost choked. A dizzy heat reminded
her sharply that they weren’t the same sex. Nor did they have the same
approach to life.
He was the enemy. He was a man. He was supposed, damn it, to be her prisoner!