Pursued by the Rake Page 10

  “It’s your jailer!” Hazel hissed at Bart. “Hide yourself! And don’t come down until we call you.”

  The children looked aghast as Bart bolted from the room.

  “You mustn’t look as if anything is wrong,” Hazel told them urgently. “For Bart’s sake. Now, I think we should take the tea things back outside again and pretend this is our complete party. You’re enjoying yourselves and looking forward to your journey tomorrow. It’s a game of pretend.”

  She could say no more, for she had no idea what tale Joe was telling outside.

  Taking a deep breath, she fixed a smile to her face and then said loudly and brightly, “Come, we shall have tea in the garden.”

  She opened the door once more and marched outside, shaking out the blanket, which was still littered with pieces of grass from where it had lain on the lawn only moments before.

  “Oh,” she said in apparent surprise, for under the glower of the jailer, Joe was shaking hands with a gentleman of middle years.

  “Sir Joseph Sayle,” he introduced himself—which was unusual. She had never heard him use his title before.

  And then all eyes had turned on her and the children armed with crockery and a large plate of scones.

  “Ah, my dear,” Joe greeted her smoothly. “This is Mr. Curtis, a friend of Mr. Armitage. And the local Justice of the Peace. Sir, my wife.”

  Hazel absorbed that with difficulty. She hoped the sudden rush of blood to her face would be mistaken for embarrassment at being discovered with the undignified blanket, which she promptly dropped on the ground and walked forward.

  “Mr. Curtis, allow me to welcome you in Mrs. Armitage’s absence,” she managed, holding out her hand, which the magistrate bowed over punctiliously. “Will you join us for tea? Is Mrs. Curtis with you?”

  As if cued on stage, a lady strode busily around the path from the side of the house. She looked suspicious and disapproving.

  “You are not Mrs. Armitage!” she declared. “What in the world are you doing here when the house is shut…” She broke off, and her mouth fell open at the sight of the children spreading the blanket and laying the things out for tea.

  Hazel laughed. “Indeed, I am not, ma’am. Mrs. Armitage was my governess, and now I return the favor by looking after her young brothers and sisters while she is away.”

  “My wife, your ladyship,” Curtis said, somewhat embarrassed by his lady’s rudeness. “My dear, this is Lady Sayle and Sir Joseph Sayle.”

  It brought her up short, though she was clearly not overawed. “I heard nothing of this!” she said at last. “And it does not explain why the house is closed up and shuttered.”

  “Why, because we are leaving first thing tomorrow, and there are no servants to do it for us,” Joe said in amusement.

  “No servants!” Curtis said in astonishment.

  “Well, we understand Mr. Armitage gave them leave of absence,” Joe drawled with a shade of haughtiness, a man clearly unused to explaining his actions and seeing no reason why he should. “We sent our own people on ahead to Sussex, apart from our coachman, obviously. But the children wanted to collect things from home before we go. Is there anything else I can tell you to satisfy your…concern?”

  He so clearly meant curiosity that Mrs. Curtis actually blushed.

  “Concern indeed,” her husband said hastily. “We had word of someone’s presence up here, smoking chimneys and so on, and of course it is my duty to investigate and make sure all is well. Mr. Armitage led me to believe his bride’s family would stay with their aunt until he returned from Paris.”

  “They were a bit of a handful for Mrs. Vale,” Hazel said delicately.

  “Sir Joe, Dennis won’t fetch the extra cups!” Louise called, as though bearing her out. “And it’s his turn!”

  “A life without servants,” Hazel sighed. “But we will have tea in a civilized manner! Will you join us?”

  But Mr. Curtis, clearly reassured by her familiarity with the Vales’ name, and by the children’s familiarity with Joe, hastily excused himself and his wife. “No, no, you obviously have quite enough on your hands without entertaining uninvited guests.”

  He trailed off, listening impatiently to something Bart’s late guard was whispering in his ear. Whatever it was, it caused Curtis’s frown to turn into a scowl. He waved his man away impatiently. “He merely said he recognized your ladyship from the market yesterday.”

  Hazel allowed herself to peer at the jailer. “Yes, indeed, there was nothing in the larder, and I hurt my ankle, and then Sir Joseph met me… Ah, were you the man who was fighting?”

  Whatever the jailer had been about to say—and he had been staring suspiciously at Joe as well as Hazel—got lost in the magistrate’s glare.

  “Fighting!” Curtis exclaimed. “No wonder you lost a prisoner!”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize it was a prisoner,” Hazel said. “I hope he isn’t dangerous if he escaped!”

  “He was charged with highway robbery,” Curtis said, “and has now vanished out of our grasp.”

  Hazel shuddered and drew nearer to Joe. “Highway robbery? In this neighborhood. Oh, I am glad now we are leaving tomorrow!”

  Joe patted her hand indulgently. “There, my dear, I daresay the villain is keeping very low for now.”

  Hazel devoutly hoped so.

  “Well, well, we won’t keep you,” Curtis said. “Goodbye, and we wish you a good journey.”

  Hazel curtseyed, and with a flap of her hand, encouraged the children to bow and curtsey, too.

  The Curtises returned the civility, but as they turned away, the guard burst out, “You look awfully like her servant at the market.” He was staring at Joe, and Hazel’s heart suddenly quailed.

  Joe raised one eyebrow and looked down his long, haughty nose. “A most interesting observation. No one has ever compared me to a menial before, let alone to poor old Arty.”

  “Imbecile!” Mrs. Curtis flung at the hapless jailer as she stalked down the path. Her husband followed, dragging his man away.

  It seemed they had got away with it. But Hazel’s relief was short-lived, for Joe suddenly said, “Mr. Curtis? Who told you we were here?”

  Curtis turned back. “Don’t know his name. Stranger at the Red Lion in the village. Said he’d been up at the church and met a lady coming from the vicarage, even though the house looked shut up.” He gave a last wave of his hand, and they vanished from view, arguing in low mutters.

  “Selim’s messenger?” Hazel hazarded. “Why would he do that? To get you into trouble?”

  “Or to make me hide up until Selim gets here,” Joe said thoughtfully. “Either way, it is definitely time to be going. And I really think you have to come with us.”

  Hazel had been thinking about that, too. She drew in her breath. “I will, and I shall call myself Miss Hazel to save your mother embarrassment. But we must tell your family the truth as soon as we arrive.”

  Joe held out his hand. “Done.”

  Feeling as if she had made some great and far-reaching decision, she took his hand and shook it.

  Chapter Ten

  They set off early the following morning in two vehicles—a large coach drawn by four indifferent horses that Joe had hired in Scorton, and Joe’s own curricle and pair. Since it was rather squashed in the coach, they all took turns to sit with Joe in the curricle. Everyone considered this a treat, even Bart, who was allowed to drive the beautiful greys for a little.

  “Do you want a turn driving?” Joe asked Hazel when she joined him in the curricle after luncheon at a busy inn.

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate for the governess,” Hazel replied reluctantly.

  “Hmm. Is it appropriate to be seen with me at all on the open road?”

  “I expect there are some who find me encroaching, but it is hardly improper, especially when closely followed by a coach full of my charges.”

  “I have never met anyone less encroaching,” he observed.

  “That is
because you are thinking of me as Hazel Curwen, not Miss Hazel, the governess.”

  “I don’t distinguish.”

  She regarded him with fresh curiosity. “I don’t believe you do. You accept people for who they are, not their place in society. Which is odd, because I thought you disagreeably proud and superior when I first met you.”

  “It’s my natural reaction to disapproval,” he said lightly. “But it is never entirely serious.”

  “Oh, I know that now.”

  “Then you like me a little better?”

  She flushed. “Of course I do.”

  He glanced at her with that quick, flashing smile that must have won him just about anything he wanted in life, and actually nudged her with his elbow as if they were children. “Then we are friends?”

  “You know perfectly well we are friends,” she retorted.

  “So, you won’t mind if I spring the horses a little.” A flick of his wrists, and the horses broke into a gallop, speeding along the road and around the next bend.

  “Why on earth would you do that?” she demanded.

  “Oh, just to let them stretch their legs,” he replied, “and to get ahead of the others.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  He transferred the reins to one hand and lifted her hand from her lap. “Because they might not understand.”

  “Understand what?” she asked, bewildered.

  The horses slowed again to a gentler speed. She barely noticed, for his fingers drew back the cuff of her glove. Then, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the sensitive skin at the side of her wrist.

  Her face, her whole body, flamed. “Are you flirting again?” she asked breathlessly.

  His eyes danced. “Is that so terrible?”

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate for the governess.”

  “But for a friend?”

  “I don’t believe it’s normal for friends.” Remembering that he still held her hand, she tugged it free. It was difficult to meet his gaze now, for his eyes were too warm, too…exciting.

  “But if we were to become more than friends?” he asked softly.

  Her heart hammered with a confusion of fear and incomprehensible longing. “What do you mean?” She meant it to be sensible, bracing, but her voice was husky with uncertainty.

  His gaze dropped to her lips. “Courtship.”

  Nervously, she licked her lips, and he leaned closer. The horses had slowed to little more than a walk. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Don’t be silly,” she managed. “You cannot court the governess.”

  “So many rules. And you’re not the governess. One day, Hazel Curwen, I shall have to kiss those lips and find my answer there.” He flicked the reins, and the horses trotted faster. Only then did he turn his attention back to the road.

  Her breath tumbled out in a rush. What on earth just happened?

  Did he mean it? Could he mean it? That he wanted to court her?

  He can’t mean it. It is just part of his flirtation.

  And if it isn’t? A wave of euphoria swept through her. Moreover, the constant awareness of his nearness, which she always tried to ignore, now flooded her self-imposed barriers. Suddenly, there was only him, even as she heard the heavier rumble from behind as the coach caught up with them, even as a stagecoach swept past, traveling in the opposite direction.

  If he does mean it, if he truly wants to court me, would I let him?

  Oh, dear God, yes! Have I ever wanted anything else?

  The lowering thought came to her that even at the beginning of their acquaintance, she had never really been angry with him. She had merely been jealous of the princess.

  He moved his long leg, stretching it out in front of him, and she wanted suddenly to place her hand on his thigh, to rest her head against his broad shoulder, and wait for him to kiss her.

  Her heart seemed to turn over and dive into her stomach.

  Again, his elbow nudged her, soothingly playful, and yet his voice was serious as he murmured, “Think about it.”

  Think about it? As though she could think of anything else!

  *

  Those brief moments on the empty stretch of road changed everything for Hazel, heightening all her senses. His every glance burned, his every touch thrilled, even just handing her down from the curricle or up into the coach. When he sat beside her during a stop, she didn’t know if she felt more delight in his nearness or fear at her body’s reaction.

  She had never felt like this before about anyone. And the feeling was huge, frightening, wonderful, utterly overwhelming. Rather like the lightning bolt he had mentioned.

  Do I love him? she wondered in shock as the coach trundled on in his wake.

  She was much too sensible to believe in love at first sight, and this was little different, for she barely knew him. At least…the world would say she barely knew him. But she truly felt as if she did. Of course, every moment with him was a discovery, but the basic trust, the basic friendship had been forged during their journey through Essex. And the days since had been spent almost entirely in each other’s company. Never seeing him again was unthinkable.

  But surely the question was not so much about whether this madness was love on her part, but why the devil Sir Joseph Sayle should wish to court her. She was no one, a cast-off lady-in-waiting to a scandalous princess, poor and ruined. She could not even suspect him of making her an indecent proposal, for he would not take his mistress, even a prospective mistress, to be a guest of his mother’s.

  No, he was flirting, just flirting, and she should not be so ridiculously aware of his every word. But perhaps she should put a stop to the flirting altogether, for it was merely feeding her inappropriate attraction, making her imagine something greater.

  They were friends. That was the foundation she had to cling to. Everything else was a distraction.

  However, by the time they stopped for the night at a coaching inn near Tonbridge, her agitation had not calmed significantly. Worse, she could not even have the privacy of a solitary bedchamber, for the inn, being off the main post roads, was not large. She had to share a chamber with Irene and Louise.

  She washed and repinned her hair quickly and left the girls to follow her downstairs to their private parlor. Since she had been so quick, she expected to be first down and to have peace for a few moments. But Joe was already there, seated in front of the empty fireplace, his long legs stretched out in front him, elegantly crossed at the ankle.

  Pride—at least she hoped it was pride—refused to let her flee, especially as, seeing her at once, he rose to his feet and offered her a glass of sherry, which he pronounced tolerable.

  She thanked him with creditable calm and took the chair opposite his. Very aware of his long, slender fingers, she was careful not to touch them as she took the glass with murmured thanks.

  To her relief—or was it disappointment?—he retreated to his own chair. As he sat, he cast a quick glance toward the window. Dusk was approaching, but it was still light enough to see the inn yard and the gently waving trees beyond.

  “Are you searching for Prince Selim’s messenger?” she asked. “I looked back frequently and observed everyone wherever we stopped throughout the day, and I did not see him or signs of anyone else following us.”

  “Nor did I,” he agreed.

  “Then you believe we have lost him?”

  He took a considering sip. “I believe I might have put off seeing Selim until I am ready to.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Would Selim hurt you?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no. And he has too much honor to hurt women or children.”

  “Then why do you keep looking outside?”

  He smiled. “Habit, I suppose.”

  And then Irene spilled into the room with the younger children, all talking excitedly. Hazel should have been relieved the tète a tète was over, and yet she felt curiously disappointed.

  The meal was as merry as all the others she had enjoyed i
n the same company, for Bart, excited about the prospect of seeing his love again, was full of good humor, and Joe, in his inimitable way, was both funny and knowledgeable about any of the things the younger people asked about, from owls to the length of days and nights and the monarchies of various European countries.

  However, the children were tired after traveling, and the party broke up early. Hazel made sure to go up with them, avoiding any possibility of another late-night flirtation with Joe. His eyes might have gleamed with challenge as well as understanding as he bowed to her, but she refused to rise to the bait.

  “Good night,” she murmured again and closed the door on him.

  But in the bedchamber, once the girls’ chatter and giggles had lapsed into sleep, even with the candle still burning, she sat for a long time in the window seat. Still wearing her half-unlaced dress, she gazed at the dark glass, using the silence to help her think.

  The sensible conclusion she came to, despite her indisputable attraction to Joe, was that the flirting was too dangerous to continue. Already, she was almost believing him, and the fun of it was not worth the risk of a broken heart. Or an even further broken reputation.

  So, she composed a speech to him in her head, a speech she would make if he ever flirted with her again.

  Satisfied, if stupidly sad, with her decision and her speech, she pressed her nose to the window to peer into the night one last time before bed. Almost at once, some movement in the trees beyond the inn yard caught her attention.

  Unease twisted through her. Her first thought was that it was the Ottoman prince’s henchman come to hurt Joe in some way. She shaded the candle to get a better view and peered harder.

  A few moments later, a man strolled around the edges of the trees, hatless but eternally elegant. Joe.

  Hazel’s shoulders dropped with relief. He carried no lantern, but then, in a cloudless sky, the moon was clearly bright enough to guide his steps. He seemed in no hurry to come in, either, for he strolled past the gate and kept going. When he was almost out of her sight, he turned and came back.

  It struck her then that she could end all this nonsense, now, say what had to be said to him tonight and clear the air for tomorrow. Her breath caught. Her heartbeat quickened, but she did not hesitate, merely rose and seized her shawl on her way to the door.