Arncliffe turned to his passenger, wondering what story she would offer him next.
Instead, she gripped his arm, her eyes suddenly dark and intent. “Thank you. Thank you so much. But we must part ways here. Really, we must.”
With that, she turned and scrambled down from her seat, taking her portmanteau with her. She strode into the inn, her head up and her back straight.
He stared after her, torn between the desire to help her and the dictates drilled into him from early years.
A gentleman never intrudes, never puts himself into the business of others. A gentleman respects a lady’s honor above all else, and never questions her.
He could almost hear the platitudes in his father’s droning voice.
And he was damn tired of following them. Particularly when this stubborn, independent lady looked to be deeply troubled by some problem.
He swung down from his seat, gave orders to his groom to see his grays rubbed down, and watered—he would arrange later for them to be fetched back to town—and to oversee the selection of a new team. That done, he made for the inn. Was there really someone here to meet Audrey? And if that tale unraveled, what story would she spin for him next? It surprised him just how much he looked forward to discovering the next steps in this dance.
After the bright sunlight of summer, the low-ceilinged inn with its wood paneling seemed dark. He paused on the threshold to allow time for his eyes to adjust, anticipation tingling on his skin. The scent of tobacco and ale drifted to him from the tap room, along with the welcoming aroma of meat roasting in the kitchen. The faint, low hum of the grooms’ conversations carried to him from the yard, along with the jingle of harness, and the clop of hooves on cobblestones.
Over the noise from outside, he heard Audrey’s distinctive contralto, its tones rich and no longer rambling but sharp with command. “What do you mean you have no carriage that the likes of me might hire?”
Arncliffe smiled. Perhaps now he might get a truer story. He stifled his smile and stepped forward, making certain to make enough noise to announce his presence.
Even before she heard the click of boot heels on the wooden floorboards, Audrey sensed Arncliffe’s presence in a prickling of awareness that swept down the back of her neck. She turned, her irritation with the innkeeper settling onto Arncliffe as well. Why must a single female be regarded as helpless or dangerous? These two did nothing but delay her!
She caught herself on that. In truth, Arncliffe had not delayed her—but having to invent more explanations for him certainly would. And she feared Fitzjoy and Chloe were already too far ahead.
Arncliffe swept off his hat, and swept the situation from her control. “A private parlor, if you please,” he said to the innkeeper. “And something cool to drink—lemonade for the lady. I’ll have ale.”
The innkeeper bowed, bowed again as he hurried to open a door into a small parlor with sparse furniture and white curtains at the windows. After seeing them into the room, he bowed again and hurried off, attentive to Arncliffe’s orders as he had not been to hers.
Insufferable, really, that a single female who wished to hire a carriage should be treated as a pariah, while a prosperous gentleman with an air about him could command the world. With her temper simmering at such injustice, Audrey strode across the room and sat down in one of the four wooden, straight-backed chairs.
“I thought we parted ways in the yard, my lord?” The words came out sharp, and that, too, irritated her. She ought to be grateful that he had brought her so far in only a few hours. But she wished him anywhere else just now.
He glanced at her, and she could not mistake the faint amusement in his eyes, nor the concern. That unsettled her. She did not want him being concerned for her. No, she did not. Busying herself with dragging off her gloves and undoing the ribbons to her bonnet, she heard his boots on the floor and the creak of the chair next to her as he sat down.
“Miss Colbert—Audrey, it is highly improper of me to pry, but I am going to. Why do you need to fly north in this manner? I do wish you would trust me.”
Brushing at the curls on her forehead, she glanced at him. He had taken off his hat, and his hair looked rumpled, as if he had just dragged a hand through it. Dust lay on the shoulders of his coat, turning the blue pale, and she wondered if he could be as thirsty and out of sorts as she. He did not look so, but he had ordered them refreshments, after all.
Her displeasure faded. This must be nearly as frustrating for him as it was with her. If only he...
No, she would not wish for it. He loved Chloe. She had seen how he looked at his intended. She would not do anything to ruin that for him.
So what could she tell him?
Wetting her lips, Audrey tried to compose her thoughts.
Arncliffe waited. The advantages of his training, he thought, mouth twisting. A lord often spent long hours waiting. At court for his king’s pleasure. At Parliament through dull speeches for vital votes. In endless reception lines at the social affairs that commanded his attendance. He had the schooling to wait for hours—and for Audrey he could wait even longer.
He had glimpsed the hesitation in her eyes, and that brief flicker of wistful yearning, as if he had almost tempted her into sharing whatever burden lay on her. She looked down to smooth the soft kid of her gloves and he wondered if she would insist on pushing him away?
What a devilishly headstrong female.
But, of course, she must be the one who managed everything within her family—a rather heavy responsibility for such slender shoulders. Her father had died years ago, he knew. He had seen how little her mother could get about. And the past week had been a revelation about how little sense Chloe seemed to have, even though he kept telling himself it must be wedding jitters that had caused him to see Chloe in another light. She seemed so different from the woman he had fallen in...
He stopped himself. His feelings did not matter now. Not when he had promised himself to Chloe. A gentleman’s word could not be broken, and so it did not matter if Chloe now seemed not at all what he had thought her. A good lesson—even if learned too late—in the lack of wisdom in a speedy courtship. But he had though himself finally to have been as lucky as his brother.
Well, no use brooding about it. He had another lady to think of at the moment.
“This is all such a disaster,” she muttered.
She said nothing more and he wondered if he ought to press harder for answers, only guilt stung him for having already stepped so far over the bounds he had lived within all his life.
At last she seemed to make up her mind about something, for her gaze lifted to meet his. “I am embarrassed to admit this, but, well, I am running away. I am trying to catch up to the man I love. His name is Fitzjoy and he is an Irishman, and my Great-uncle Ivor would not consider a match between us. So Mr. Fitzjoy took himself away, but I am determined to catch up to him so we might marry.”
And what I will tell him when we do catch up with Fitzjoy and Chloe is something I will have to deal with
, Audrey thought, holding her breath and waiting to see how Arncliffe would take this new tale.
His frown deepened. He will never believe this, she thought, desperation welling. But he nodded and took her hand, his touch as gentle as if he held some priceless object. She let out her breath.
Oh, no, he does believe this of me.
“No wonder you asked about an Irishman at the tollgates. Well, he must be a decent fellow if you hold him in such regard. I shall do all I can to help you—I did not wait all those years for love to appear in my life only to scorn another for such fancies. Now, just where is your Mr. Fitzjoy bound for?”
She stared at him and stammered, “Scotland—I think.”
“You think?”
“Well, I—that is, he did not tell me directly, other than to say he was leaving. And I—oh, bother, I have no idea what direction he went off in. I am only following a hunch.”
Rising, Arncliffe paced away, one hand rubbing his chin. “Pardon me for a moment,” he said and let himself out of the room.
Audrey leaned back in her chair and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows with two fingers. She had not known that inventing tales could be so taxing. Would she ever keep all of it straight? Her face burned. Oh, how could she tell such falsehoods? But she knew how. She glanced at the doorway. She could do it for Arncliffe—for his happiness. Straightening, she started to work out just what she might possibly do when they caught up to Fitzjoy. If they did.
The maid—a white apron over her blue muslin dress—knocked and came in with a brass tray that held a pewter jar and mug, a glass, and a pottery pitcher. The lemonade and ale, Audrey assumed. She gave an absent thanks and kept worrying.
By the time Arncliffe returned, she still had no plan—only a growing sense of desperation, as if she had wound herself so tightly in sheets during a dream that she could no longer move.
Only that was silly.
To prove it so, she sat up and poured the drinks—kept cold in an ice house before they had been brought in, she assumed, or in the cellar—as Arncliffe outlined what he had done.
“If he is traveling by carriage, which he must for any great distance, he also must change horses. On the road north, he will most likely have changed somewhere between Barnet and Stevenage. At Barnet, I’d guess, for thirty miles with the same team would be a miracle unless he set a slow pace and took the entire day. I’ve sent grooms from the inn to find some trace of his trail, so it won’t be long until we’re after him in earnest. For now, I suggest we have something to eat.”
Audrey tried to smile at this. When the roast chicken and pigeon pie and the peas in cream and strawberries arrived she tried to do more than pick at the meal. Good as it smelled, her stomach tightened on every bite. She now dreaded coming across Fitzjoy and Chloe.
To make it worse, Arncliffe asked about her romantic tale. She had to invent a first meeting, the instant attraction, the painful parting. Hoping to distract him from wanting more lies, she asked, “But you said you had waited for years for love. Is that true?”
His cheeks reddened and he glanced away. He looked back and admitted, “It unmans me to own to such a sentiment, but perhaps I can regain some ground by telling you that I had an example to envy. My brother’s. Or at least the wife he found himself. The titles came to me, but I’ve told Arthur often enough that I would change places with him in a moment.” He grinned, and suddenly looked years younger. “Of course, he’s not such a fool that he would.”
“But you also found your ladylove,” Audrey protested.
“Have I?” He pushed away his empty plate. “I thought so, and then—well, you know your cousin far better than I. Is it that...is she perhaps shy in my presence?”
“Chloe? Well, no. No, I do not believe so.”
“Then why does she seem a different person from the one in her letters—from the one I fell in...”
A knock on the door interrupted, leaving Audrey wide-eyed and her insides knotted tighter than ever. Arncliffe came back, his expression polite as ever, but she noted the disappointment in his eyes. “Not a trace of him, I’m afraid. At least not toward Barnet. Are you certain he came north? Does it not seem likely that he might have sailed for Ireland, and so gone south or west to a port town?”
Audrey sat frozen. Sailed? She had not thought of that. Could Fitzjoy be taking Chloe to Ireland? However, English law held there, unlike in Scotland, where a girl did not need her guardian’s consent, nor to be over twenty-one, to marry. But if not north, where else? The Isle of Mann? No, that too lay to the northwest. The Channel Islands? That seemed a possibility, as well, for they held to their own laws.
She gave a sign. The world suddenly seemed far too large to search for one particular Irishman and a stolen bride.
Glancing up at Arncliffe, she asked, “Do you think he might have sailed from London even?”
“Perhaps. But he would have to wait for a ship’s passage there. He’s more like to find a regular ferry from Southampton or Liverpool.” Arncliffe frowned. “In fact, I seem to recall, or was it him? No, I believe it was. It was certainly some Irishman talking to Whitaker about taking the loan of Whitaker’s yacht to pay off a gambling debt, and I know Whitaker keeps the Elegance docked in Southampton.”
Torn now, Audrey bit her lower lip. Did she give up her chase north? But what if this proved a mistake? What if Fitzjoy, expecting a chase, had not set out on the Great Road North, but on one of the smaller lanes? It seemed so little to go on. Yet, what else did she have?
Arncliffe’s hand covered hers, his touch warm, his wide palm and long fingers engulfing hers. “Trust me, will you? We’ll gallop south, and if I don’t find a trace of him on the way we’ll at least be in London where I’ve staff who can scour the docks and every tollgate that leads from the city. I’ll find him for you.”
That is exactly the problem, she thought, as she allowed him to help her to her feet. He probably could do just that. Heaven would certainly have to help her.
Arncliffe galloped the fresh team back to London, his jaw set with concentration, but with a gleam in his eyes as if he found unholy pleasure in this mad dash. Even his hat sat at a more rakish angle that usual, and Audrey dared not distract him as he feathered past the mail coach and other vehicles, dashed through towns, and galloped up and down hills. Twice she squeezed her eyes shut, once as Arncliffe drove his team from the road and onto the verge to pass a lumbering stage loaded with passengers on the top seats. She bounced from her own seat as the carriage bumped over grass and rough ground and grabbed for his arm. Shutting her eyes, she half-expecting to hear the screech of wood on wood as the wheels of the two carriages caught.
Wind brushed her face, and Arncliffe’s low, rumbling voice made her open her eyes again. “So little faith? Well, you have my permission to clutch me as much as you like. I rather enjoy it.”
Mortified, she let go and straightened. She glanced back at the stage they had passed.
At the next close brush—this time into the narrow streets on the outskirts of London—she gripped her hands together and closed her eyes. But the memory lingered of strong muscles under her hands, the brush of her shoulder against his, the pleasant warmth of his body with the wind cold on her cheeks.
She risked a glance at him now. London traffic—hand carts, wagons, carriages, riders and pedestrians—had forced him to slow his sweating team to a trot. Somehow he found a path around every obstacle. His mouth curved slightly and that warm light danced in his green eyes so that they sparkled, bright as the water in a mossy river.
What had he been about to confess back at the inn, she wondered for the hundredth time? That he had fallen in love with Chloe? She knew he had. She had seen him do so on his first meeting with her, and he had even told her that he loved Chloe with all his heart. So why had he mentioned the letters? Chloe’s letters.
Biting her lower lip, she sent up a silent prayer that this newest fear would not be proven true. A treacherous part of her whispered the doubt—what if he had fallen in love with the writer of those letters? But he was pledged to Chloe. Oh, had she perhaps not done the right thing after all?
She shut her eyes tight once again, wishing she would wake in her own bed to find this nightmare gone. The carriage swayed as Arncliffe wove through London streets and lanes, and she could smell the city with its odors of horse and coal fires and the faint fishy decay of the Thames, which had grown stronger in the warming days.