A Lady Never Tells Page 5

  “I came from America!”

  “Ah. That explains it, I suppose. Still, it gives you no reason to see the earl. Kindly take your leave.”

  “I will not!” Mary wanted to scream in frustration. “I am the earl’s granddaughter.”

  Her announcement did not have the effect she had hoped for. If anything, the butler’s face grew even more remote, and his voice was like ice as he turned from her. “James. Escort this person out immediately.”

  The footman who had run her off from the front door strode forward now from the rear of the kitchen. There was a purposeful look on his face that left Mary in little doubt that the fellow would pick her up bodily if necessary and put her outside. In order to retain what little dignity she had left, Mary turned and stalked out the door. She heard it close solidly behind her.

  Fighting back tears of fury and embarrassment, she marched back up the stairs and along the narrow walkway to the street. It was then that she realized that she had no idea how to get back to the Boar and Bear where her sisters were waiting.

  Hiring another hack was not an option since she had no English money to pay for it. Nor did she know how to go about getting her American money exchanged for British. She would have to walk back to the inn. It had not been terribly far, but she had paid little attention to the route.

  She set off in what she hoped was the right direction and stopped the first gentleman whose path she crossed to ask for directions. He looked askance at her, then shook his head and pointed vaguely, saying it was no doubt to the east. Next she approached a pair of women who were strolling along, parasols raised to ward off the sun, but they shook their heads and quickly skirted around her. The young boy sweeping the crossing was equally little help, though he was happy to talk. As Mary could understand less than half of what he said in his thick accent, she soon moved on. It was a woman pushing a cart full of fruits and vegetables through the streets who finally steered her in the right direction.

  As Mary walked, she noticed that more than one passerby shot her a quick, curious glance. She supposed it was her clothing, for her dress was plain and she could tell from looking at the few other women on the street that it was out of style, as well. But more than that, she realized after a few minutes, she was the only woman who was unaccompanied, except for the vegetable vendor. Most women were on the arms of well-dressed gentlemen or hidden away inside carriages, and the rest had other ladies with them or maids trailing along just behind—or both. It seemed quite peculiar to her. Did women remain in the house if they couldn’t find another person to drag along?

  The distance was longer than it had seemed in the carriage, and Mary got lost a second time. The trek was made no easier by her gloomy thoughts. How was she to talk to their grandfather if she could not get inside the house? She had known that she might have a hard time convincing the old man that she and her sisters were his granddaughters, and she had not been certain that he would take them in. But it had never occurred to her that she might not even be able to present her case to him!

  At last, bone-weary and dejected, she reached the inn. The first thing she heard as she stepped inside was the merry sound of her sisters’ laughter coming from the private parlor, so she turned her steps in that direction. Knocking on the door, she went in and stopped abruptly.

  There, sitting with her sisters, looking quite composed and devastatingly handsome, was Sir Royce Winslow.

  Sir Royce had not intended to concern himself further with the Bascombe girls. He had seen them to a respectable inn; they had assured him that they were able to take care of themselves. There was no need for him to worry about what became of them.

  He was not, after all, the sort of man who took everyone else’s problems on his own shoulders. Let his stepbrother Oliver hold himself responsible for every person within his reach, however tangentially. Royce was a different sort. He was not the head of the family, merely the son of a nobleman with a nice inheritance. He looked after his estate, of course; the old man had drummed that into him. Any of his tenants could turn to him in need, just as they could expect fair treatment from him. But Royce had always been careful not to take on added responsibility. He was not one to stick his nose in where it did not belong.

  And the four young American women he had encountered last night were no business of his. He could not have left them alone by the docks; he was, after all, a gentleman. But having seen them to safety, he considered that he had done his duty.

  However, he found that he could not stop thinking about them. They were so odd—at once quite pretty and yet far out of the mode, they were naïve and innocent, but at the same time bizarrely able to take care of themselves. Whoever heard of a young lady strapping a knife to her leg? Or of four young gentlewomen traveling alone across the ocean, as they seemed to have done? Why, Charlotte and his other female cousins had never ventured as far as the park without a chaperone, at least in the form of a maid.

  And what, he wondered, was in that satchel that was so important to them? He supposed it must be their money; yet it had been quite light, as if containing very little. Certainly it was nothing heavy like coins or jewelry or even stacks of paper scrip.

  Most of all, though, Royce found himself thinking about Mary Bascombe. But, no, that was too common a name for such an uncommon woman.

  “Marigold,” he decided, and a smile curved his lips.

  Certainly she was no flower—what a blunt, unrefined, direct creature she was—but the exotic quality of the name suited her. He had never met anyone quite like her. She had none of the airs of a lady, no girlish simpering or missish indecision. She had not cast herself at him, playing the helpless innocent as most young women would have, seeking his aid in her desperate situation. Indeed, she had been, if anything, reluctant to receive his help.

  But there was nothing of the jaded sophisticate about her, either. She was far too fresh, too unaware of the dangers of their situation. And despite the astonishingly straightforward way she had talked to him, a strange man, it was clear that she had had no experience with men.

  A smile touched his mouth again as he remembered their kiss, her lips soft and yielding beneath his. He had not intended to kiss her—he had been certain that, despite her odd ways, she was well brought-up—but at the last moment, he had been unable to resist. He had had to taste that luscious full mouth. She had melted so easily against him, her response untutored yet eager. It had been far harder to pull away than he had expected.

  And far harder to forget.

  It had taken him a long time to go to sleep, and the next morning, as he dressed and shaved, he found that Mary Bascombe was still on his mind. And her sisters, of course. They were, he thought, mere babes in the woods here in London, completely unprepared for the pitfalls of the city. Mary had said that they would contact their grandfather, but what sort of grandfather would fail to come to the docks to greet them, or at least send someone in his stead? He could not help but wonder if she had told him the truth or if they had some other plan entirely.

  No matter what the girls had planned, Royce had a strong suspicion that they would find it more difficult than expected. Set down in a strange country, not knowing where anything was, they were bound to need help. And there were many men with far from savory intentions who would jump to help four such attractive females. Besides, even though the Boar and Bear was a perfectly respectable inn, it would not do for the sisters to go exploring—which was, when he considered it, precisely the sort of thing they would do.

  With a sigh, Royce acknowledged that he would not be able to spend a peaceful morning until he had visited the Bascombe sisters again and elicited from them a more thorough explanation. And, he admitted to himself, he would not mind having another look at Marigold Bascombe. Therefore, after breakfast he set out for the Boar and Bear. Normally he would have walked or hailed a hack, for it wasn’t far, but today he had his carriage brought round, suspecting that before the day was over, he would once again have use for it.
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  He was somewhat surprised to find the girls tamely whiling away their time in the private parlor—Rose occupying herself with darning while Lily read aloud from a book and Camellia appeared to be repairing the sole of a ladies’ boot.

  “Ladies.” Royce swept them a bow as he entered the room, quickly taking in the fact that Mary Bascombe was not among them. “I hope I am not interrupting you.”

  “Oh, no!” Lily cried, closing the book with a thump. “I mean, well, yes, you are, of course, but I am very grateful. ’Tis the dullest book imaginable—there’s not a single mad monk or rattling skeleton or even a ghost.”

  “Shocking.”

  Lily laughed. “You may pull that face with me, but I warrant you would find it dreadfully dull, too. It’s horridly uplifting, all about a boy who wants better things, which seems to me perfectly reasonable, but then these dreadful things happen to him because of his pride. And really, that sort of comeuppance so rarely happens, don’t you think?”

  “Too true.”

  “Whereas one often meets mad monks,” Rose teased.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. That’s not real either, but at least it’s fun!”

  “In any case, at least I shan’t have to feel guilty for intruding upon you,” Royce said.

  “Goodness, no.”

  “Anything would be a relief after hearing about that watery Hubert,” Camellia agreed, then blushed a little. “That is—I didn’t mean that you were just anything, or anyone—I mean—”

  Royce laughed. “Oh, no, don’t apologize. Your bluntness, Miss Camellia, is admirable.” He glanced around. “I see that your sister is not here.”

  “No, she has gone to—” Lily stopped short. “I forgot. We are not supposed to tell you.”

  “I see. Well, I would not wish you to go against your sister’s edict, of course. But I could not keep from worrying that I had abandoned you to your fate. I wanted to offer you my further help.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Rose told him. “But Mary will be able to handle everything. At least … well …” She trailed off uncertainly.

  “I see.” Royce studied the girls’ faces. “Has she been gone long?”

  “Forever,” Camellia said, with a look of relief that told him he had found the precise point of their concern.

  “It has been a good while,” Rose agreed, frowning. “But I am sure that she is all right. It probably takes longer to get places here. We are not used to a large city.”

  “It’s been almost two hours,” Camellia pointed out. “How could it possibly take that long? She went in a hack.”

  “Indeed? Well, then at least she should not get lost.” Despite his cheerful tone, Royce could not help but feel a twinge of alarm. “Can you not at least tell me to which area of town she was going?”

  “We don’t know,” Rose confessed. “She asked the innkeeper, I think, where it was, and he told her, but she didn’t say what area that was.”

  “Perhaps we should ask the innkeeper,” Royce suggested. “Surely if it is all right for him to know, it would not be amiss for me to know as well.”

  “I suppose not.” Rose frowned thoughtfully.

  “Oh, really, Rose,” Lily grumbled, “you cannot believe that Sir Royce is a swindler. Or that he is going to take advantage of our—well, you know who.”

  “And he’s right—Mary must have told the innkeeper,” Camellia pointed out.

  “Yes, but though she may have told him who, she did not tell him why she was going to see … this person whom she was going to see.” Rose began to chuckle even as she finished her sentence, and the others joined her in laughter. “I am sorry. This is awfully secretive, isn’t it?”

  “Positively furtive,” Royce agreed. “In another moment, I shall become convinced that you are involved in a secret society.”

  “Like in the The Secret of Castle Ordeyne !” Lily sat up straighter, her face glowing. “Where the wicked count is part of a group that supports the false prince, and they all dress up in hooded robes and meet in the dungeon of the castle.”

  “Precisely.”

  Lily let out a huge sigh. “Well, it’s not at all like that.”

  “No? I am downcast.” Royce smiled.

  “I think we should tell him,” Camellia offered. “Mary has been gone too long. I’d go looking for her myself, but I haven’t any idea where to go. If she’s lost or in trouble, we need Sir Royce’s help. And it isn’t as if our grandfather—”

  “Your grandfather? Then he lives here in London?”

  “Yes. That is where Mary has gone, to see our grandfather.”

  “Why did he not come to meet you at the docks? Or send someone for you?”

  “He didn’t know we were coming,” Rose replied.

  “He didn’t know we were alive,” Lily added.

  As Royce was absorbing this bit of information, a knock sounded on the door, and it swung open. Mary Bascombe stood on the threshold, looking flushed, tired, and thoroughly irritated.

  “You!” Mary said in accents of loathing.

  She wasn’t sure why it was so irritating to see Sir Royce Winslow. But it seemed the final humiliating cap to a dreadful day to arrive, red in the face and perspiring, her hair damp and crushed under her bonnet, fuming from her encounter with her grandfather’s servants, and find Sir Royce here, looking handsome and carefree, so utterly relaxed as he joked and chatted with her sisters. Mary was perilously close to the edge of tears, and it would be the absolute worst to bawl like a child in front of this man.

  “Yes, I.” Sir Royce rose with easy grace and went to the bellpull. “I think something to drink might be in order. Some tea, perhaps?”

  “Anything.” Mary jerked at the bow tied beneath her chin, eager to pull the hat from her head, but the bow had turned into a knot during her long walk, and her sharp movements only served to make it tighter.

  “Allow me.” Sir Royce came over to her and gently pushed Mary’s fumbling fingers aside.

  He smiled down into her face, his green eyes alight with amusement and some other quality Mary could not quite identify. Despite her annoyance, Mary felt herself relaxing. It was difficult to keep her lips from curving up in response to his smile. And there was something so capable, so calm about him; she could not imagine anything ruffling him.

  His fingers grazed the underside of her chin as he worked at the knot, and it was all Mary could do not to shiver. It felt so pleasant and yet so different; she found her mind wandering to how it would feel to have his fingers trail all the way down her throat. She remembered the touch of his lips on hers the night before, and her cheeks warmed even more.

  Mary looked away, unable to meet his eyes. What if he realized where her thoughts were straying? What if he was thinking the same thing himself ?

  “There.” Royce gave a final pull, and the ribbons fell apart. He reached up and took off her bonnet, turning to set it on a nearby table.

  “Thank you.” Mary hurried over to the mirror.

  What she saw there was not reassuring. How had he looked at her and not burst out laughing? Her face was shiny and her cheeks beet red, and her eyes were still bright with anger. Mary dug in her pocket and brought out her handkerchief, wetting it in the washbowl and wringing it out, then smoothing it across her face. She picked at her hair and repinned a few strategic pins.

  “Mary! Do stop primping,” Camellia told her. “Tell us what happened.”

  “We are all dying of curiosity,” Rose added.

  “We were beginning to think something dreadful had happened to you.” Lily’s voice was concerned—and just the slightest bit hopeful.

  “I am not primping!” Mary whirled around. Her eyes went first to Sir Royce, who was now lounging beside the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel, watching her. Had he thought she was primping for him?

  She lifted her chin challengingly and swung away from him, going over to sit down on the couch beside Rose. “Nothing happened. Well, nothing helpful. I was thoroughly
embarrassed, but I am beginning to think that will not be an uncommon occurrence in this country.”

  “Did you not find our grandfather?” Lily asked.

  “I found his house. But they would not let me inside.”

  “He denied us?” Rose stared at her, shocked.

  “No, not him . His servants would not let me in. They sent me round to the back door!”

  Sir Royce smothered a groan, and Mary turned to glare at him. “You people are insufferably rude. Why would anyone tell their servants to behave like that? To treat people as if, as if they were—well, he called me a hussy!”

  Her sisters erupted into gasps and exclamations. Sir Royce just closed his eyes and sighed. “Oh, dear.”

  “Oh, dear?” Mary repeated. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “No. Of course not. It was quite dastardly of him.” A grin quirked the corners of his mouth. “Shall I call the fellow out? No, that would not do; he is, after all, a servant. I could demand satisfaction from his employer, of course—but then, he is your grandfather, so that would scarcely work. Perhaps I should just give the scoundrel a good thrashing.”

  “Oh, stop making jests. No doubt that is exactly the sort of thing you instruct your servants to do as well. The butler told me I should leave a card, but of course I didn’t have one, and then he said I should write a note and the earl would see me if he wished to. But he will probably just tear it up if I am not there to explain it all to him.”

  “The earl?” Sir Royce’s eyebrows rose. “Your grandfather is a peer?”

  “You needn’t look so amazed.” Mary crossed her arms and glared at him. “It is quite true. Our grandfather is the Earl of Stewkesbury.”

  The effect of their relative’s name on Sir Royce was astounding. He stiffened, his face going rigid and carefully blank. The casual arm draped along the mantel dropped to his side as he took a swift step forward.