of her coat. Mist’s warm breath moistened her palm as he nuzzled it free.
‘Perhaps if I went to speak to the Marquess, he would listen to reason,’ she said.
‘Take pity on a helpless woman, you mean?’
Phrased in such bald terms, it sounded thoroughly dishonourable. William would never approve. But then he wouldn’t approve of her taking to the High Toby, either. A career that she’d discovered all too quickly, lacked the romance and adventure of legends. If they were caught, the authorities would respond without mercy. ‘Ask for more time.’
‘Jarvis said he needs the money. Got debts of his own.’
They always did, these fashionable men. Michael, her eldest brother, had had huge debts when he died. They were what made her invest in the ship.
There had to be some other way out. ‘We need something to trade for the mortgage.’
‘Too bad you didn’t think of that an hour ago. We could have traded his lordship.’
Jaw slack, her eyes wide, she gazed at Martin’s broad back. ‘Blast. I walked away from the perfect solution.’
Martin swung around. ‘Oh, no. I was jesting, my lady, and badly. I promised your father my loyalty to his children and I’ve kept my word, but I’ll not be party to abduction.’
‘You are right. It is far too dangerous.’ She tossed an old blanket over Mist’s back. Martin did the same for his mount.
‘Why didn’t you tell me the rest of that stupid legend?’ she asked. ‘The kissing business?’ A kiss as sweet as sugar and as dark as the brandy on his breath. Not to mention strange delicious shivers deep in places she never knew existed. His body, where he pressed her close, had felt satisfyingly hard. She had wanted to touch him. All over. At the thought of her fingertips on his skin, her stomach tumbled in a strangely pleasant dance.
Blankly she stared at the plank wall with limbs the consistency of honey. She clapped a hand to her mouth. How could she feel this way knowing what this man had done?
Martin scratched his chin. ‘My brother never mentioned no kiss, my lady.’ Which meant it probably wasn’t true. She felt the heat rise in her face as Martin turned to look at her. ‘Why did you take his boots?’
Eleanor still didn’t understand the sudden teasing urge she’d felt and she certainly wouldn’t tell Martin about the way his wicked smile and brush of his lips had turned her insides to porridge. ‘They were new and he’s a dandy.’ She shrugged. ‘It will annoy him. You know how ridiculous William is about his boots.’ Besides, he’d been too bold, too reckless for his own good. A real criminal might have killed him. A lesson in humility would do him good. ‘Throw them in the pond.’
She picked up her hat, tucking the wig and mask inside it. She stripped off the coat and waistcoat and handed them to Martin, who hauled the bundle up to the rafters in a net by way of an old block and tackle they’d found in the hayloft. ‘We will have to ride out again.’
‘Please, my lady. You are risking your neck for naught but a few baubles and a handful of guineas.’
She winced. As her father’s sergeant in the army and later his steward, Martin would have given his life for her father. Now he held doggedly to his promise to serve his children, but she couldn’t ask him to take any more risks. Not when everything she touched went wrong. ‘It would serve William best if you returned to Castlefield. Keep an eye on the house. Make sure the bailiffs don’t steal anything.’
‘And let you risk your neck alone?’ Martin glowered and shook his shaggy head. ‘Your father always said you was a handful.’
A tomboy, he meant. Too competitive for a girl. Too impetuous, Father had said, when Mother defended her. And she’d been so sure she’d show William how well she could handle things in his absence. Pride had definitely ended in a fall. And if she didn’t do something soon, she’d drag the rest of the family into the pit.
Garrick groaned and sat up on the floor of the carriage. Cursing, he pulled himself on to the seat and investigated the bump behind his ear with his fingertips. A knot as big as an egg. Blast the woman.
A comely female at that, if he hadn’t been mistaken. He recalled the spiralling heat between them and her delicate trembles beneath his touch with a searing jolt of desire. For one heady moment, he’d thought he’d wooed her out of her villainous purpose. He might have, too, if she’d been alone. His luck was definitely out. First he’d taken the bit between his teeth to tell Uncle Duncan the bad news, and then he’d been robbed.
Head aching, he probed the tender spot on his scalp. Brandy might help. He fumbled in his cloak pocket and pulled out his flask. He rubbed some of the alcohol on the lump, hissing at the sting, then took a swig. The servants must have been terrified.
The abominable pounding in his head increased. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the squabs, uttering a sigh when, some twenty minutes later, the carriage crunched on gravel to a gentle stop.
Beauworth Court.
Johnson pulled open the door and let down the steps. ‘My lord? Are you all right? I darsen’t stop on the road.’
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Garrick said, forcing a smile.
He allowed the coachman to help him out of the carriage and glanced at the house. Stone lions guarded the wide granite steps to the front door. Columns, illuminated by torches, rose up to the first floor with Palladian grace and the lower windows blazed with light. Uncle Duncan must be entertaining. Garrick bit back a groan. Merde. He really did not want to be here.
‘Dan,’ he called out. ‘Bring my coat, please.’
Dan jumped down with alacrity and dived into the coach for the garment. ‘’Ere, my lord.’
‘Good. Stay close to me.’
The gravel stabbed into the soles of his feet as he hobbled up to the front door. ‘Damn, blasted wench.’ Why the hell she had stolen his boots he could not imagine.
On cue, the door opened. The butler, a slick-looking fellow Garrick didn’t recognise, stared down his nose. Recovering swiftly, he stepped back with a bow. ‘Welcome home, my lord.’
Hah. ‘Thank you.’ He handed over his greatcoat and headed for the arching sweep of staircase leading to the first-floor chambers.
A door opened. Light spilled from the dining room. A heavily built figure, his military bearing obvious, strode purposefully across the black and white tiled floor. Duncan Le Clere, his father’s cousin, and Garrick’s trustee for twelve more months.
Dan ducked behind Garrick as Le Clere’s stern gaze took in the scene. ‘The devil. What is the meaning of this?’
‘Got held up.’ His uncle stiffened. ‘By highwaymen.’ Garrick chuckled at his pathetic humour.
Le Clere quickened his pace. ‘Are you injured?’ He must have caught a whiff of the brandy because he recoiled. ‘Or drunk? Is this one of your pranks?’ Nothing slipped past Uncle Duncan with regard to Beauworth and its heir.
‘I
