Chapter 7
Seven
Caroline closed the door to her bedchamber. Much too agitated to lie down, she began to pace the narrow confines.
Was her nemesis possessed of preternatural powers?
She had thought herself safe from any pursuit for at least a few more days.
But it seemed that was naught but wishful thinking.
A shudder passed through her, and she had to fight down a rising wave of panic.
Then her eyes fell on the ragged dress draped over the back of the chair, and she drew a deep breath.
She would not—could not—let the papers fall into the wrong hands.
The thought helped steady her nerves. What was it that Lucien had always told her when she was younger and hesitated at following him up to the highest boughs of the tree or setting her horse at a difficult jump?
The only enemy was fear itself.
With that in mind, Caroline cajoled herself to think. What would Lucien do? He certainly wouldn’t cower like a frightened mouse waiting for the snake to strike. He would take action.
And so would she.
Her pacing became less frantic as she began to parse through her options.
First of all, it appeared that she could expect no help from the infamous Earl of Davenport.
But she supposed she should still count herself fortunate in some respects.
Not having a feather to fly with—that is, if he could be believed—appeared to have curbed some of his more flagrant excesses.
There was no sign that any wild debauches were going to occur while she was under his roof, so her virtue seemed safe enough.
At least for the time being.
However, his claim to poverty did appear to have the ring of truth. Even the most cursory look around revealed a household shackled by the strictest economy—the shabby furnishings, the lack of servants, the simple supper taken off a tray.
Her brow furrowed. That the earl’s pockets were empty certainly jibed with her understanding of his character. No doubt he was rusticating in the country to hide from his most pressing creditors…
However, the thought of the dissolute earl actually stooping to manual labor was nearly as implausible as her own predicament.
Caroline shook her head and decided it would be best to put the conundrum of Davenport out of her thoughts.
After all, his troubles were not her concern, just as hers were obviously of no interest to him.
It was solely up to her to come up with a plan.
As she turned abruptly, the hem of her gown caught on the bedstead. An impatient yank freed it, but in smoothing the folds of the skirts, she couldn’t help but mutter an unladylike oath. Men had much fewer constraints on them—in dress, in behavior, in the freedom to move about…
Caroline stopped dead in her tracks. The merino wool was still between her fingers, and she toyed with the cloth as her mind raced.
A man.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that it would give her the best chance of eluding her enemy and getting the precious government papers to London.
It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she had ever masqueraded as a man.
Lucien had taken her to a boxing match to see Cribbs step into the ring with the challenger from the north…
Caroline was sure that she could pull it off.
Her mind made up, she made herself lie down.
She would need her strength. And besides, she couldn’t put her plan into action until well after midnight.
Thankfully, there were no servants sleeping on the upper floor.
As for the earl, she could only hope that he would indulge in a goodly amount of brandy, as wastrels were wont to do…
Indeed, on recalling the distinctive aroma that had enveloped his person on both the mornings she had encountered him, her lips curled in a smile. Yes, there was no doubt he would still be in a drunken stupor at dawn’s first light.
* * *
Some hours later, Caroline quietly crept into the dark hallway.
She dared not light her candle just yet, but a pale wash of moonlight from a window near her door gave just enough illumination for her to make her way through the gloom.
She was fairly certain of where she was going, for though she had dozed off and on throughout the afternoon, she hadn’t been able to help but hear the sturdy tramp of Mrs. Collins climbing up and down the stairs to and from the attic.
Her throat tightened at the thought that she might inadvertently stumble into the earl’s bedchamber as she searched for the right door, but she forced herself to relax. It was highly unlikely he would notice even if she did. By this time, he was no doubt three sheets to the wind.
Caroline paused in front of a closed door near the end of the corridor.
It seemed the likely one. She slowly lifted the latch and pushed it open a few inches, a sigh of relief escaping her lips as she saw the murky shape of stairs.
Slipping inside, she pulled the door shut behind her and took the steps two at a time.
It was even colder in the attic than in the rest of the house, and she shivered in the pitch dark as she fumbled to light her candle.
A sudden draft reminded her to look for a warm jacket as well as the other things she had in mind.
A flame finally came to life, and she hurriedly began searching through the cavernous darkness, her stockinged feet making no more noise than a scurrying mouse would on the dusty floorboards.
A short time later, Caroline returned to the corridor, her arms laden with an assortment of clothing. She crept back to her room and laid out the items she had selected on the bed. As she had suspected, very little had been thrown out over the years. She had exactly what she needed.
Stepping back from the looking glass, Caroline adjusted the oversized woolen cap so that it fell even lower over her eyes.
The effect was perfect. She then tucked the tails of a rough cotton shirt into a pair of breeches, marveling at how much freer she felt already, unencumbered by yards of material swishing around her legs.
The leather boots were a little too large, but they would do. At least the thick wool socks kept her toes feeling warm. Shrugging into a thick woolen jacket, she was not unhappy that it, too, was a trifle big. It helped to camouflage certain parts of her anatomy that were best left unseen.
Caroline took it off again and carefully felt around in its lining.
Yes, it would do.
Fetching her old gown and the sewing things Mrs. Collins had left for her, she quickly went to work. The transfer of the oilskin packet that was holding the vital papers took only a few moments—she hadn’t been bamming the housekeeper about being skilled with a needle.
As Caroline put the garment back on, she looked out the window. A hint of light was just beginning to edge its way to the horizon, but even if there was a groom in the stable, he wouldn’t be up for another hour or two.
It was time to go.
* * *
Davenport splashed cold water from the pitcher on his washstand onto his face.
He had slept fitfully and felt the dragging lethargy of one not fully rested.
Still, it was futile to stay in bed. His mind was too preoccupied with his mounting problems, not least of which was the damnable young lady peacefully asleep down the hall.
He didn’t doubt for a moment that she was a lady and not some farmer’s wife or daughter. Her hands were smooth and soft, showing no signs of labor. And her speech was too refined—not to mention her knowledge of Polite Society. After all, she had known exactly who he was.
So who the devil was she?
Her clothes certainly didn’t indicate that she came from a highborn family. But then again, he thought with an ironic smile, dress didn’t always indicate pedigree. It could also be a disguise. If she were fleeing someone, she would no doubt seek to obscure her background.
Davenport thinned his lips. He didn’t have the time or energy for such gothic melodramas. He meant to have the truth out of her this morning—and then get her out of his life.
But could he truly hand her over to someone who had subjected her to such physical violence?
He swore under his breath as the towel he was using to dry his face scraped over the thin line of scar tissue on his cheekbone. His fingers came up to rub along the puckered flesh.
Why did it always ache like the devil when he was tired and agitated?
He suddenly felt in need of some fresh air. A gallop on Nero would do him good despite the early hour, he decided. Surely, a solution would have come to him by the time he returned.
It was barely light as the earl made his way to the stable. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost missed the flicker of movement in the interior shadows. He stopped short, his grip instinctively tightening around his crop.
Something was amiss.
Then it struck him. The stable doors shouldn’t have been ajar like that. He knew that Higgins wouldn’t be up and about his duties yet—nothing short of Gabriel sounding the final awakening would induce the old man out of his bed until it was absolutely necessary.
Davenport approached quietly, every muscle tensed. At that moment, a lad emerged from the murky depths of the building, leading a fully saddled Nero.
The earl’s jaw dropped in disbelief.
Why, the scamp was stealing his horse!
“You there! Stand where you are!” he bellowed as he broke into a run.
The lad looked up with a start. He appeared frozen for an instant but then moved with astonishing quickness.
Thrusting a boot into the stirrup, he vaulted into the saddle and jammed his heels into the stallion’s flanks.
Nero tossed his head and shied to one side, but the boy handled the reins with skill.
His heels came down again, urging the big stallion forward.
Davenport’s lunge missed the bridle by inches. “Damnation!” he roared as he skittered to a stop and watched them gallop off across the field.