And in fact there had been nothing untoward, at least as far as she was concerned. She’d simply gone for a journey with her dearest friend to see her married, even if that marriage hadn’t, in fact, taken place as yet. Not that they needed to know that. And what was the harm in going on a journey with Miranda to keep her bridal nerves at bay? Even the censorious Mr. Bothwell couldn’t have any objections. Could he?
Of course he probably knew perfectly well that if anyone needed her nerves soothed it was Jane herself, not Miranda, who sailed through disaster with admirable calm. She could only hope her dear friend wasn’t heading into disaster with the Earl of Rochdale.
“You look tired, lass,” Mrs. Grudge said comfortably. “Did you na’ sleep well last night?”
“Not too well. Too long in the carriage, I think. I woke up at two and couldn’t get back to sleep. I even went down and slept in front of the fire for a while.”
“Tha’ did?” Mrs. Grudge was looking disturbed at the notion. “And where was yon coachman? Last I saw Jacobs was in a chair by the fire hisself. Happen he might ha’ found companionship for the night.”
Jane didn’t know whether to defend him or not. Her companion was looking so disturbed that she thought it might be better not to mention their odd meeting.
She’d only slept in the chair for an hour or two, returning to her lumpy bed before the inn came to life, and by the time she woke up she realized how absurd her suspicions had been. Jacobs reminded her of the mysterious man who’d kissed her. And the reason was quite simple—they were both men who knew how to flatter and seduce women. She’d experienced the coachman’s easy charm and recognized its familiarity.
In truth, no one flattered and charmed her at the parties she attended. Not even Mr. Bothwell, who had addressed her father before she even knew he was interested.
Simon Pagett was an enlightened man, and he told him it was up to his daughter, a fact Mr. Bothwell found distasteful but not offensive enough to turn him away. And she’d said yes, though now she wasn’t quite sure why. She was twenty-three and no one had shown the slightest bit of interest in her. When her father had inherited his cousin Montague’s estate there’d been little money left, though her mother had a comfortable amount from her first, miserable marriage. Neither of them liked Mr. Bothwell very much, but Jane insisted she was in love, and they gave in after much arguing. She wanted a home of her own. She wanted children. She wanted a husband, and Mr. Bothwell was tall and handsome, if a bit severe. So she’d lied.
It was astonishing what a few days away could do. Astonishing to have a man kiss her with real passion, astonishing to have another man flirt with her. Granted, the second would have flirted with a tree stump if nothing else had been around, and the first was a criminal, but still.
She looked down at the diamond ring on her finger. It really was astonishingly beautiful. Her mother had jewels that were as valuable, jewels to suit her glorious beauty. But there was something about this ring that she loved. Perhaps because it felt as if it was hers. Which of course it wasn’t.
“You certain you want to take that ring off, Miss Jane?” Mrs. Grudge said, eyeing it with only a trace of covetousness. And who could blame her—any woman would want a ring like this one. “Must be at least two carats.”
Mrs. Grudge would have been quite striking in her youth, and even in drab clothes she was still more than attractive. How she knew the weight of diamonds was beyond Jane’s comprehension, but perhaps she’d had a misspent youth before she married the unfortunate Mr. Grudge. She wore no jewels of any kind, but Jane could almost imagine her dressed in something glorious, be-decked with rubies.
And then she laughed. Her imagination was really going wild nowadays. She looked down at the ring. “I have my reasons.”
“Your fiancé must love you very much to give you a ring like that. I wouldn’t toss him over without a good reason.”
That was the same thing Brandon had said. Why did people equate love with expensive jewels? If that were the case then the stranger with the midnight kiss loved her very much indeed, and he didn’t even know her name.
And how did Mrs. Grudge know she was having second thoughts about Mr. Bothwell? Though it was a logical leap, if she was trying to remove an engagement ring, and Jane was hardly about to explain that the diamond came from someone else altogether.
She folded her hands, hiding the diamond from her own sight and that of Mrs. Grudge. She would have to give it up sooner or later, and the truth was, she wouldn’t need axle grease. It came off quite easily this morning when she was washing her hands, and she was going to have to do something about it before long.
But not right now. Right now it was hers. A gift from a fantasy lover.
She turned her attention back to Mrs. Grudge. “When do you think we’ll reach London?”
“I should think one more night on tha’ road and happen we’ll be there,” she said in her comfortable voice. “We’ll try to find you a better bed tonight. Jacobs has been keeping to back roads, but I’ll tell him to find a place better suited to the gentry.”
Where she wouldn’t run across a handsome driver in the middle of the night. “Oh, I like the smaller inns,” she found herself saying. One more night of freedom. One more night before she had to face Mr. Bothwell and make up her mind when she thought she’d done that long ago.
Well, she’d wanted adventure, and she’d gotten it. Midnight kisses, elopements, raffish carriage drivers with charming smiles, and it had thrown her safely ordered future in disarray. And she was glad of it. It was simply getting through the shifts in circumstance that were uncomfortable.
“I’ll tell Jacobs when we stop for lunch,” Mrs. Grudge murmured, closing her eyes. “I had such a night ma’ self, Miss Jane. Tossed and turned.” A faint smile curved her full mouth.
“Oh, then maybe we should push on ahead,” Jane said, feeling guilty. The sooner she faced Mr. Bothwell the sooner she could move on. She was being a coward.
“Nah, there’s na reason ta hurry, Miss Jane. I like a bit of the countryside meself. Tomorrow we’ll arrive early, all right and tight, with no harm to anyone. Does tha’ suit you?”
She should hurry home. She should get rid of the diamond ring; she should be a dutiful wife to Mr. Bothwell.
And she would. Tomorrow. One more night, she promised herself. One more night to indulge the wild child who was trapped inside her ordinary body, and then she’d once more be what people expected her to be.
He just hoped that Marley hadn’t decided it was time to make his move while the King of Thieves was out of town on what was the most ridiculous, trumped-up excuse he could imagine.
Scorpion wasn’t going to be happy with him, taking over like this, but he should have known he could never resist Miss Jane. Besides, Scorpion wanted him to get the bloody ring back, and this was as good a way as any. Except that he didn’t care about the damned ring, and neither did Scorpion. He just liked loose ends dealt with.
He would hardly be surprised once he found Jacob had taken over. They knew each other too well.
He didn’t know if a man like Lucien de Malheur was capable of falling in love, but he was coming damned close with his unwilling bride. Jacob had known him for more than half his life, and he’d never seen him so wound up, so angry, so twisted. It must be love, he thought with a grin.
Lucien wouldn’t have his head for taking over the job, simply because he wanted his best friend in the same rotten condition. That was Scorpion, out to share the misery. What he’d failed to take into account was that Jacob loved easily. He loved them and left them, making the entire process much less onerous.
He wasn’t about to love and leave Miss Jane Pagett. He wasn’t about to love her in the first place. There was trouble in a tall, sweet package, and he was smart enough to avoid it in the first place. His taking over as driver was simply a way of proving to himself and to Scorpion that he wasn’t going to weaken. That kiss had been irresistible, but he wouldn’t do it again. If he could manage it, he wouldn’t even talk to her again. She looked at him out of her sweet brown eyes and he fancied she could see right through him.
Which of course, is exactly what her type would do. Look straight through their inferiors, not even noticing they were human. Except…she’d been concerned about him riding in the rain. She hadn’t wanted to take his chair by the fire. Foolish girl, she’d even suggested they sit side by side.
Lord, he could get under her skirts in no time flat, she was that innocent and trusting. He liked his women wise and experienced. What did he need with a chit who trusted everyone and had a mouth that tasted like magic?
One more night at some small, out-of-the-way inn. He’d survive just fine.
It took five days to get everything swept and scrubbed and dusted. Each night Miranda would fall into bed, too tired to ring for a bath, too softhearted to make her already overworked servants lug the water for her. On the fifth day, when everything was finally clean and smelling of lemon oil, she twirled around the large front hall with its walls of medieval weapons, laughing.
Mrs. Humber observed her with a grim expression on her face. She’d taken the flurry of cleaning badly, but after one or two weak attempts at intimidation she gave in, following Miranda’s orders with an ill grace. “He won’t even notice. We’ve done all this work for nothing.”
“I notice,” Miranda said in a tranquil voice. “The next thing we need are painters.”
“Painters, my lady? You’ll be wanting your portrait done?” Her tone suggested that was a waste of time.
“No, to paint Lord Rochdale’s bedroom. It’s much too dark and dingy in there. I’m surprised he can see his way at all. We’ll need new curtains as well—where’s the nearest mercer?”
“The master prefers his bedroom dark.”
“The master prefers his life dark. That was before he made the mistake of proposing to me,” she said in the sweet voice she usually reserved for Lucien. Calling it a proposal was stretching the truth just a tiny bit, but life with Mrs. Humber was an ongoing struggle and she needed to keep her in line. “I hope to have everything finished by the time he returns, so clearly we must waste no time.”
Mrs. Humber stared at her. “It would be a very great mistake to interfere with the master’s rooms. I told you we shouldn’t even be cleaning it. He’s given strict orders that we weren’t to go in there without his express permission.”
“Well, we did, and we didn’t find anything the slightest bit interesting or romantic. I was expecting the bodies of seven brides, but there was nary a one to be seen. Find me painters and have them here in the morning, Mrs. Humber.” Her voice left no room for argument.
“And what color would you be wanting to paint his rooms, my lady?”
Miranda considered it for a long moment, and then a smile lit her face.
“Pink.”
Which was a good thing. He’d been too long without a woman—since the night of the Carrimores’ ball, in fact, and he wasn’t a man made for celibacy. He should have taken the barmaid up on her offer last night. That would have settled things.
But he’d been a right idiot and said no and here he was, needy, with the only tapmaid some forty years old and bearing a mustache. No, he wouldn’t be enjoying anything but his own hand tonight, more’s the pity.
Long Molly would be more than happy to take care of his needs, but they’d been lovers a long time ago, and the friendship they had now was too important to risk on a casual tup.
Besides, if truth be told, he didn’t want Long Molly or the buxom maid at the last tavern. He didn’t want Lady Blanche Carlisle, whom he’d been bedding on a regular basis when her husband was out of town, and he didn’t want Gracie, who ran Beggar’s Ken with an iron fist and a lovely smile. Everyone wanted Gracie, and she was right generous with her favors, but she was partial to him, and he enjoyed that partiality.
And he hadn’t touched either of them in more than a week. Bloody hell, a woman was a woman, at least when it came to sex. He could have taken either of them, and if he was longing for someone else he could close his eyes and pretend he was smelling violets.
He pushed away from the bar, the beer sloshing a little bit. He’d had too much to drink and he knew it. They would be in London by noon tomorrow, thank God, and he’d never have to see Miss Jane Pagett again. She’d marry her worthy fiancé, have babies and a good life and he’d continue to raise hell.
He could pretend to be drunk, stumble into her private dining room and maybe she’d invite him in, talk to him in that soft, charming voice that he sometimes dreamed about.
He could…
He could head out to the stables and forget all about Miss Jane Pagett. She’d know better than to come traipsing down in her nightgown in the middle of the night this time. She could come across Jacobs the womanizing groom, and there was no telling what might happen.
The truth was, he didn’t want to return to London. He was sick of the city, the smell and the smoke, the noise. He’d been a traveling man since he first ran away from his master who’d beat him when he grew too big to climb up the chimneys. He wished he knew where that mangy old bastard was. He’d gotten right big, well over six feet, and it would give him a great deal of pleasure to loom over the old man and show him what it was like to be stuffed up a chimney.
Ah, but he’d let that go. Still, he was longing for sunshine and warm air. For different lands and words and choices. That was one reason he hadn’t put up an argument when Long Molly told him they were to spend another night on the road. He was in no hurry to return to London. He could happily drive this landaulet anywhere Miss Pagett with the sweet brown eyes and the wonderful mouth told him to.
He prided himself on being a practical man, a pragmatic one. He’d had that damnable romantic streak beaten out of him when he was young, for all that Scorpion liked to tease him. There was just something about her eyes…
He drained his ale, setting the mug down with a snap. As always he was the last man standing, alone in the taproom. She would have gone to bed by now, wouldn’t she? He could make a little bargain with himself. He’d go check on the private dining room. She was more than likely gone, in which case he’d go on out to his bed in the stables with no one the worse for wear. If she was there he’d stay and talk with her, flirt with her just a little bit. It was up to the fates.
The room was empty, the fire banked down to coals. It was a clear night, and the moon shone in brightly, illuminating the empty parlor. He closed the door and leaned against it, telling himself it was relief that he felt and nothing more.
And then he saw the stairs.
It was a very small inn. There was only one bedroom for the quality. Their servants, including Long Molly, were housed around back of the kitchens. He’d known that when he’d stopped for the night, hoping that the place would already be bespoken, and they could push on for the night, relieving him of temptation that much sooner.
But that had worked against him. The place was deserted except for the landlord, his good wife and the barmaid, and now all were abed. Everyone but the wicked, randy King of Thieves masquerading as a coachman, in search of…
He didn’t want to think about what he was in search of. In truth, his brain was too foggy to clarify exactly what he wanted, though his lower half was leaving him in no doubt. And he headed for the stairs.
Would she be asleep? Would her door be locked? Any sensible woman would lock her door in a public house, but he wasn’t convinced of Jane’s sense. She’d let him kiss her, hadn’t she? She’d invited him to join her by the fire. She hadn’t a whole lot of sense when it came to protecting herself from wolves like him.
Though those were two different men she’d invited, he reminded himself. Perhaps he was completely wrong about the girl. Beneath her startled eyes and soft mouth was the heart of a wanton, who took whatever was offered.
No. She hadn’t known how to kiss, and he could tell by the racing of her heart and the trembling of her body that she would have kissed him back quite hungrily had she known how. As it was, her attempts had only whetted his appetite.
No, she was an innocent, all right and tight. Most likely very tight, he thought dreamily. The women he tupped had had so many men that if he weren’t a good-sized man he might have fallen out.
Ah, but virgins were the very devil. He’d had his share of them, going through scores of them when he first discovered sex, and they’d discovered things together. As he grew more experienced he avoided them. They cried, they hurt, they didn’t know where to put their legs or their hands, they especially didn’t know where to put their mouths, they believed your lies and they wanted to be held when all was said and done.
He looked at the staircase. There was a window on the landing, and the moon illuminated the way. Clearly that was a sign.
He started up the stairs, thinking about what lay ahead of him. If the door was locked would he force it? Would he knock, and if she said go away, would he? If she screamed would he put his hand over her mouth until she liked it? Just how big a bastard was he?
He reached the top landing. Her door was there, the only door, and he contemplated it. What if he opened the door and she smiled and bade him come in? What if she was frightened?
He stood very still. Tomorrow she’d be out of his life for good. Tonight was his last chance, and he had to be hog-whimpering drunk to even risk coming up these stairs.
He was at her door, and he leaned his forehead against the warm wood, closing his eyes. He thought he could smell the faintest trace of violets through the door, but that had to be his imagination. The imagination that had become his worst enemy.
He whispered her name, so softly it could be the sound of the wind through the fresh leaves outside the moon-shadowed window. And then he laughed soundlessly, at what an idiot he was being. Moon-mad indeed.
He pushed back from the door. The first thing he was doing after he dropped her off at her family home was head straight back to Beggar’s Ken, grab Grace by the hand and take her up against the nearest hard surface.
And then he’d find Lady Blanche and do the same. And then see if he could get the two of them together—right now he felt as if he could take on half a dozen hungry women at once, he was so fucking randy.
He turned, silent, letting out his pent-up breath, not sure if it was relief or regret. And he started back down the stairs.
So she’d closed the door again and headed upstairs for her usual struggle with her gown and undergarments. Never in her life had she been without her maid, and she appreciated her absent servants’ efforts more than ever.
Speaking of which, what did her maid Hester and Miranda’s abigail make of their mistresses’ sudden disappearance? She hadn’t even stopped to think of that.
She’d find out soon enough. Tomorrow, in fact. Tomorrow, when she’d be back in her old life and Jacobs the womanizer would be long gone, ensuring her safety. Safety.
If she let Jacobs seduce her, she thought with a snort of amusement, at least he’d know how to get her blasted clothes off without much effort.
Or maybe he’d simply push her down on the bed and pull up her skirts. She could certainly manage her drawers on her own—it was the rows of tiny buttons at her sleeves and her back, and the corset ties that annoyed her, but in the end she managed. No need for a lover after all, she thought wearily.
She’d be so happy to get into fresh clothes again. Back to her own bed, the comfort of her maid and her family, her future mapped out in front of her.
She heard him in the room beneath her, and she muttered a polite curse under her breath. If she’d just stayed down there a little bit longer she could have seen him, talked to him. Harmless enough. Though she wasn’t quite certain why she wanted to do that.
Anyway, it would have been a great deal longer. She’d been in bed for hours, tossing and turning. She’d even slept for a bit, then woken again, from a strange dream in which her mysterious jewel thief had kissed her once again, picked her up in his arms and carried her into the light, and she’d looked up into his handsome face and seen Jacobs.
Ridiculous. If a man was clever enough and well-spoken enough to be a jewel thief then he’d hardly be driving a carriage to dispose of an unwanted female.
For that’s what she felt like. Unwanted, awkward, in the way. Not that her parents ever made her feel that way. They loved her dearly, and her older brother doted on her, as well. But she knew the way her parents looked at each other, the deep passion that still ran between them, the kind of passion that wasn’t to be her fate. And she knew she needed to let them be on their own.
When she heard the booted footstep on the first stair her heart slammed to a stop. And started again on the second step. There was nothing up here but her bedroom, no one up here but her. Lying in bed in the nightgown Mrs. Grudge had brought her, along with a few other necessities. And she heard another step, and she sat up, her hand to her throat.
She hadn’t locked her door. There’d been a key all right and handy, and she hadn’t used it. Hadn’t she heard tales of robbers who came upon lonely inns and slaughtered the guests asleep in their beds?
But she knew those footsteps. It could only be Jacobs. Though why in the world would she suppose the handsome coachman would have an eye for someone like her?
He was far beneath her in every way, she reminded herself. One didn’t speak to servants; one didn’t even look at them. Though in truth her parents were far more casual than that, and treated the vast number of servants who kept Montague House going with kindness and respect.
And the Rohans as well weren’t particularly starchy. Not that anyone would consider hopping into bed with a coachman, no matter how handsome he was. It simply wasn’t done.
Not that a betrothed, virginal young lady should consider hopping into bed with anybody but her husband, and only that well after the marriage ceremony. It was too bad she couldn’t view the inevitable ceremonial deflowering with the excitement that was rising with each of his footsteps on the narrow, twisty stairs.
He reached the top, and she let out a squeak of excitement and dismay, one she quickly smothered as she clapped both hands over her mouth. It took but another step or two to reach her door, and she waited, holding her breath, for the door handle to move.
She heard a soft thump, and she considered calling out. Good sense kept her silent. The door handle remained still. He would knock, so as not to scare her. He wouldn’t want to frighten her, after all. Particularly since, if he didn’t know she was hoping, expecting him to follow her up those stairs, and she’d be likely to scream the house down at the first sign of an intruder.
She wouldn’t scream. She closed her eyes, and she could feel him on the other side of the door, and she waited, breathless.
Until she heard him turn around and start back down the stairs again, leaving her alone in her virginal bed.
Safe and sound. And weeping.