Chapter 16
Sixteen
The sails backed, the helmsman shifted course a few degrees, and the ship ghosted into the crowded harbor.
At the first lieutenant’s crisp command, chains rattled and the anchor plunged into the murky depths.
Although the moon was still casting a faint glow over the water, the duke and his nephew were aboveboard and pacing the deck before the last sail was furled.
The captain approached, the set of his shoulders betraying a hint of nerves.
It wasn’t every day that his small vessel was commandeered by a peer of the realm—and one in such a dire haste to reach his destination.
He swallowed hard as he considered that the storm may well have sunk all hopes of advancement.
“Your Grace,” he said stoutly. “I regret that I could not deliver you here sooner…”
His apology was gruffly interrupted. “You have my thanks, captain. You’ve done extraordinarily, sir. The Admiralty shall hear of it.”
The officer’s anxiety appeared to dissolve into relief. Perhaps it was not merely a flight of fancy to imagine being made post captain—however, he quickly caught himself and put aside such dreams on catching the last of the duke’s words.
“…ashore immediately.”
Fortunately, he had expected no less. A longboat was already being lowered, eight muscled sailors ready to take the oars.
The ladder was lowered, and with a minimum of ceremony—no pipes, no officers lined up in salute—the two passengers were helped down the steep, pitching side and into the small craft.
It fairly flew toward shore, propelled by the bosun’s stentorious command and the promise of an extra ration of rum for all hands on making land in record time.
The duke breathed a sigh of relief on setting foot on English soil. He took Lucien’s arm and hurried awkwardly across the dock, legs still rolling with the gait of the sea.
“Not much longer now,” he muttered as his eyes swept the cobbled streets.
The sky was just beginning to lighten with the glow of dawn, and the wharves were nearly deserted, save for a few drays, whose drivers were unloading coils of hemp and barrels of tar in front of a row of warehouses.
The duke grabbed at the closest driver and barked a demand to be taken to the coaching inn.
The man regarded the elegant figure as if he had just emerged from Bedlam until he heard the heavy chink of the purse thrust under his nose.
With a grunt, he heaved the last of his load onto the street and motioned for the duke and his nephew to climb into the back of his vehicle.
The crack of a whip sprang the draft horses, which amounted to little more than a plodding trot.
They arrived at the coaching inn a short time later.
The main room was already filling with people despite the early hour.
The smell of coffee drifted through the still-chill air, and Lucien hurried to fetch a mug for himself and his uncle while the duke remained outside to negotiate for a private carriage to leave within a quarter hour.
“Ah, that tastes ambrosial,” he murmured to himself as he slid into a chair and took a sip of the steaming brew.
Several men, gentlemen by their looks, conversed together in low murmurs at a table in the corner while the farmer next to them put the last knots in several bulging sacks.
An elderly curate was already nursing a tankard of ale, while the other passengers for the mail coach simply sat in sleepy silence, eyes not venturing up from the ill-swept floor.
Outside, the ostlers were hitching a fresh team to a sleek phaeton painted a garish black and yellow, all the while coming under a steady stream of invectives from a foppishly dressed young man.
Lucien watched the argument escalate as he took another sip.
Finally, the gentleman seemed resigned that his heated words were having no effect on the men save to elicit a veiled sneer or two.
With a hitch of his caped driving coat, he mounted his vehicle with as much dignity as possible and cracked the whip.
Lucien noted that he wasn’t the only one observing the proceedings.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed two men standing by the far end of the stables, watching the scene.
They were rather disheveled, their hats pulled down low, collars turned up against the bite of the morning air.
The taller one bent to converse with his companion, then drew him back farther into the shadows.
Lucien shrugged as he turned his attention back to his coffee. Laborers heading to London for work, he thought. Or two seamen tired of a brutally harsh life. In any case, it was no concern of his.
The duke returned and quickly accepted the mug of coffee offered by his nephew, a look of grim satisfaction on his weathered face. “It took a little persuasion, but we have two carriages, with two teams of decent horses.”
Lucien smiled faintly, wondering how many guineas had changed hands and how many disgruntled people would be cooling their heels until later. Not that the cost mattered. Not that anything mattered, save for finding Caroline.
“I shall go directly to London,” continued his uncle. “You are to drive with all speed to Roxbury Manor. Let us hope between the two of us, we shall find her…unharmed.”
The sharp blast of a horn announced the arrival of the mail coach bound for London.
A number of people rose and hurried into the courtyard, knowing full well that any dawdling would result in being left behind.
The duke paid no little heed to the commotion.
“Better finish your coffee quickly,” he advised.
“As soon as the mail has departed, the ostlers will have us off in a trice.”
Lucien set down his cup, and both men scraped their chairs back, taking no note of the two slightly disreputable figures who climbed aboard the lumbering coach along with the rest of the passengers.
* * *
Davenport muttered a curse under his breath.
“I had engaged a private conveyance and a fast team, then the damn ostler suddenly informed me that an important personage had precedence over my request.” He pulled a face.
“Unfortunately, neither my person nor my purse could argue with him. We have no choice but the mail coach.”
Caroline avoided looking at him. “I’m sure it will make little difference, milord. And perhaps it is even better this way. I should imagine the chances of being noticed are slimmer if we remain in a crowd.”
He merely grunted, but she noticed that his hand rarely left the pocket that contained the pistol. The earl was certainly keeping his guard up, she thought glumly—and not least of all against her. As the heavy coach rumbled into the courtyard, he urged her forward.
“For heaven’s sake, keep your hat pulled down and don’t utter a word during the trip,” he whispered as they pushed toward the cluster of people waiting to squeeze into the dark interior.
There was little danger of that. It seemed they had had precious little to say to each other since leaving the shelter of the stable.
She found herself wedged in between a country squire reeking heavily of scent and a merchant clutching a small parcel to his chest, as if he feared highwaymen would accost them at any moment. The earl took a seat directly opposite her, promptly dropped his head to his chest and began to snore.
Caroline closed her eyes as well, but she knew for her, sleep would be nigh impossible.
Drat the man!
Did he have windmills in his head? How could he imagine she didn’t trust him or thought of him as some sort of lackey? That wasn’t it at all!
As she reflected on what, exactly, had kept her silent, honesty compelled her to admit it was fear.
She had come to value the feisty camaraderie that had developed between them, with none of the artificial constraints of Society coloring their actions.
Why, she even found that she liked his curses and his irritable moods…
indeed, she liked that he passed her a bottle of brandy, that he told her she looked a fright.
He treated her like a real person, not some porcelain doll devoid of brains or grit.
All because he thought her a woman of no consequence.
Caroline found herself loath to give that up. Only Lucien had ever treated her like an equal.
But once the earl knew the truth of who she was, that bond was likely to prove as chimerical as the lightness in his eyes. Of course, he would find out soon enough, but, like a child clinging to the last shreds of a cherished blanket, she would hold on to what they had as long as she could.
There was another matter too. She swallowed hard as a different sort of fear crept up into her consciousness.
She had learned he was a man of honor. What if he felt compelled to offer for her when he learned of her rank?
There could be no question as to whether their intimacies had thoroughly compromised her in the eyes of Society.
The very thought of what had taken place brought on a rush of color, and she needed no admonition from the earl to keep her face buried in the folds of her jacket.
Ruined.
Funny, but she did not feel ruined in the least. Or sorry.
In her mind, there was nothing shameful in what had happened—the blush rose more from the realization that, in fact, she had wanted very much for him to take her to bed.
Perhaps her cousin was right in pronouncing her a hopeless hoyden.
She had always rebelled against the rules, and this was no exception—though, again, she couldn’t begin to put into words why her actions felt right, not wrong.
Never had she dreamed of allowing a gentleman to take such liberties with her.
But things had happened in such a way that it was almost as if, with his intimacies, Davenport had been giving a part of himself, rather than taking something from her.
But what was the earl thinking?