Tarnished, Tempted and Tamed

‘Has Collins ever seen you?’ Luke asked.

Joan shook her head. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. I don’t go out much... Papa doesn’t like it. But I’m not frightened of such as Collins! I’ve told Papa he won’t keep me indoors, hiding away.’ Joan sighed. ‘Really I’d like to move back to London where it’s gay and there’s lots to do.’

Luke allowed a slight smile. She might be young—still a teenager, her father had told him—but she had pluck.

‘Collins’s luck will run out. I imagine the authorities must be closing in on him and will apprehend him quite soon.’

‘People in these parts have been saying that for over a year and still he carries on as he pleases.’ Joan dismissed the notion of an early arrest. ‘A Lieutenant Brown of the coast blockade was found clubbed in a lane, close to death,’ Joan said. ‘I think we all know who is responsible for that! And even more kegs of brandy have washed ashore this week...so my maid told me...’

Luke gave an answering grimace that conveyed he wasn’t happy to hear the news, but wasn’t surprised by it. ‘I have to be going now,’ he said, bowing politely and giving the young woman a smile.

Lady Joan was trying to prick his conscience and tempt him to again become embroiled in her father’s harebrained plot to lure Collins into the open so he might be caught. But in Luke’s opinion the duke, being self-opinionated and arrogant, was underestimating the wily intelligence of his foe. Collins was no fool and Luke knew he and the Duke of Thornley would never see eye to eye on how to go about things. Without full control, but with the responsibility of the mission’s outcome squarely on his shoulders, Luke couldn’t carry on. Besides he had pressing matters elsewhere to deal with.

He wasn’t looking forward to his meeting with Drew Rockleigh. But the matter that was threatening their friendship had to be dealt with before he returned to the metropolis.

Chapter Three

‘Are we travelling back to London later today?’

‘You are...’ Luke said with a smile. Turning to the mirror above the fireplace in the inn’s private parlour, he began deftly folding his neckcloth while meeting Becky’s gaze in the glass.

‘It’s too bad of the duke to cancel this escapade.’ Becky bit into her toast with an irritated little sigh. ‘He should allow me my fee. I want a new hat.’ Becky watched Luke’s broad back as he shrugged into his tailcoat.

‘He didn’t cancel it. I did. And I’ll give you some spending cash, sweet, don’t worry.’ He wasn’t the only mercenary in the room, Luke realised, suppressing laughter in his throat. But he preferred mistresses who were content with sensual satisfaction plus a generous allowance that allowed them to shop freely, without demanding more of his time and freedom than he was prepared to give. Unfortunately, Becky had been pushing the boundaries of her role. Their last few visits to the opera had seen her becoming tediously jealous, watching his movements around other women. He knew it was time to end their relationship and would do so when he returned to town. He blamed himself, in part, for her stalking him. He’d told her his destination, if nothing else about what business was taking him to the West Country. But he’d never imagined that she’d have the outrageous cheek to come and check up on him.

‘Will you return to Eaton Square soon?’ Becky knew Luke was still reining in his anger over her unexpected appearance, so sounded quite meek.

She had never set foot inside Luke’s Mayfair mansion. As his mistress she’d never be invited to do so and to pay an impromptu visit would be tantamount to professional suicide. No distinguished fellow would pursue a liaison with a courtesan who proved to be an embarrassment to him and his family. Of course, Becky was aware that Luke had few living relatives to upset. He was an only child and his paternal grandfather had outlived both of his parents, but that was the extent of Becky’s knowledge of her lover’s history. And she knew better than to chivvy for more details of his past.

Becky liked a challenge and had boasted to her friends that she could hook the ‘soldier of fortune’ as he was nicknamed. And she had. He’d taken her under his protection and set her up in Marylebone almost five months ago. She’d no wish to see their affair come to an end. Luke Wolfson’s rakish reputation and his gypsy-dark good looks were irresistible to Becky. But she was a seasoned paramour and recognised the signs of a man preparing to bed hop. She’d noticed him responding to a flirtatious redhead at Vauxhall in that quietly amused way of his. But Becky wasn’t too bothered about her, or any demi-rep who had a yen for Luke Wolfson. It was another, serious, rival who had her rattled.

‘The London Season will soon be underway...’ Becky tried another tack to discover Luke’s plans as he’d grimaced his indecision in answer to her earlier question.

‘What of it?’ Luke asked, turning from the mirror.

‘Will you stay permanently in town for the Season?’ Luke had a vast acreage in Essex. Becky guessed he had a chère amie in the countryside to keep him company on his long absences from her bed. But a fat-ankled milkmaid didn’t bother her, either.

‘Perhaps... Why do you ask?’

‘Harriet Ponting has arrived in town with her mother.’

‘And?’ Luke’s expression remained impassive as he straightened his shirt cuffs.

‘Oh, you know what’s expected of you!’ Becky cried, covering her pretty features with her palms. ‘Her mama has been spreading rumours for ages that you are ready to pay court again to her eldest daughter.’

‘Is that right?’ Luke murmured distantly, with an expression that Becky, peeking behind her fingers at him, recognised. He was letting her know that any marriage plans he had were none of her concern and he was displeased that she’d raised the topic.

‘I’m going to settle the shot... Pack your things, sweet, we’re leaving...’

Becky watched him exit the room, a sulky twist to her lips. In her opinion it was her concern. She might not be genteel, like Harriet, but she had plenty to offer a gentleman as his wife. Becky wanted to join the number of other ambitious courtesans who had dragged themselves up by their bootstraps to marry rich and influential men and bear them legitimate heirs. Harriet Ponting had already turned Luke down once and didn’t deserve another chance at being Luke’s wife, Becky thought.

* * *

‘Oh, it’s too much to bear!’

‘Now, now, calm yourself, my dear,’ Peter Jackson soothed his wife. He drew her closer to him beneath the tree so they might get some better shelter from the driving rain.

Fiona had huddled with the Beresford sisters beneath the dripping skeleton of another oak, but as a loud clap of thunder sounded she glanced up warily, through rain-clumped lashes, at groaning overhead branches.

‘Perhaps we might be safer out in the open,’ Fiona said, pulling the hood of her cloak further forward to protect her face.

‘But we will look like drowned rats,’ Ruth and Valerie Beresford chorused, shrinking back to the bole of the tree.

‘Better that than get struck by lightning,’ Fiona pointed out.

She suddenly made a dash towards the coach, which was tilting precariously to one side. The driver and groom were making a valiant attempt to repair the broken front axle, while hampered by the violent elements. The storm had seemed to spring up from nowhere just as they hit a particularly isolated stretch of road. Toby Williams put down his hammer as Fiona stopped by his side. Wearily the coach driver pushed to his feet and patted at the nearest horse, murmuring comfortingly to the sodden beast. The team had bowed their heads beneath an onslaught that was sending rivulets of water dripping down their flanks and manes.

‘It’s no use, miss, I’ll have to return to the Fallow Buck and get help. It’s beyond my skill to get this accursed thing again up and running.’ The driver indicated his young apprentice. ‘Bert here will stay by you all. He can take my blunderbuss for protection. I think you will all be safe enough in the coach—it’s stuck firm in the mud so shouldn’t tip over. You can’t remain out in the open or you’ll catch your deaths—’

‘Do you think Bert might need the blunderbuss?’ Fiona interrupted, suppressing her alarm. The lad had not looked too happy on hearing he was about to be abandoned by his senior and put in charge of protecting the coach’s drenched, vexed passengers. Never had Fiona felt quite so out of her depth amongst these country folk and the eerie alien environment they inhabited. She’d only rarely in her life travelled outside London and its bustling, clamorous streets. Then it had been to stay with friends who lived in a quaint cottage in a Hertfordshire village. She wondered if in these parts ferocious animals living in the woods might prey on them, so asked the driver though fearful of his answer.

‘Well...you never know, better to be safe than sorry,’ Toby Williams prevaricated. He knew very well that any predatory vermin were human, not animal. The Collins gang infested the area from Kent to Cornwall, all along the coast. That group of marauding criminals would think it their lucky day if they stumbled across a party of defenceless people. Jeremiah Collins would relieve them all of their valuables, and the ladies of their virtue, if what Toby had heard about the vile blackguard was accurate.

What really worried Toby though was that his apprentice, Bert, might be relieved of his life. The lad was only eighteen, but already had a wife and child relying on him. Collins was suspected of murdering a Revenue Man in Rye, but he was a wily individual and had been on the run, keeping one step ahead of the law for more than a year.

It was said that Jem Collins felt he had nothing to lose. He knew the noose awaited him and so was on a spree to create havoc and rake in as much profit as he could before judgement day came, as it must in the end.

‘I’ll tell the others to return to the coach,’ Fiona spluttered through the icy rain pounding her face. As she bolted back towards the copse it ran through her mind that the little group would be bitterly disappointed—as was she—to hear the vehicle couldn’t be repaired so they could get quickly under way.

* * *

‘Shall we keep our spirits up by playing a game? We could sing a song?’ Fiona suggested in desperation as the weather outside continued to batter and shake the coach. Despite the drumming of the rain on the roof Fiona could hear Valerie Beresford snuffling in one corner of the vehicle. In the other, Mrs Jackson was crying with more abandon while her husband patted alternately at her hands and her shoulders to try to quieten her.

‘Well...this is an adventure...’ Ruth Beresford said and gave Fiona a nervous grin.

‘Indeed...and one I’d sooner not have experienced.’ Fiona sighed wryly. She was determined to keep buoyant. She was the youngest woman in the party so should be the strongest, mentally and physically, she’d reasoned. She lifted a corner of the leather blind at the window and peered at poor Bert marching forlornly to and fro, the blunderbuss up in readiness to be aimed. It was getting dark and Fiona feared that before too long nightfall would overcome them, hampering their rescue team and also throwing her companions further into the doldrums.

‘How much longer will that wretched man be?’ Mrs Jackson wailed. ‘I’m frozen stiff and will catch my death of a cold.’

‘Hush, my dear, I’m sure Toby is doing his best. He will be back before you know it.’ Mr Jackson again rubbed his wife’s sleeve in comfort. When he turned a glance on Fiona his expression showed his deep concern. His wife was likely to take a chill from the soaking, as she regularly suffered from such ailments, but it was the vulnerability of their predicament that was frightening the life out of the farmer.

Beneath his breath he was castigating himself for not bringing along a weapon of his own. But he’d taken this route in the past and was aware that Toby Williams always kept a couple of loaded guns on the vehicle as protection for himself and his passengers. An hour or more ago, Toby had unharnessed the youngest horse and taken his pistol with him as his own protection on his gallop back to the Fallow Buck. So now they had just a young apprentice and a single weapon to protect them all.

‘A rider is coming!’ Bert had whipped open the coach door to yell that news over the cacophony of wind and rain.

‘Close it before we are awash in here, you stupid boy,’ Mrs Jackson screeched, beating away a torrent of raindrops with her hands.

Mr Jackson had grown pale at the news of a stranger approaching, but said manfully, ‘Let me sit at the front, by the door.’ He surged forward, pushing his wife’s quivering figure behind him. ‘Hold up that gun, young man,’ he ordered Bert. ‘I take it you’re familiar with how to use it and reload it if the need arises?’

Bert wobbled his head in agreement, looking terrified.

‘How many riders?’ Mr Jackson croaked. He realised it might be Toby Williams returning, but doubted it was; insufficient time had passed for their driver to have reached the Fallow Buck, let alone return with help.

‘Just the one, I think, and I only glimpsed him in the distance, through the trees.’ Bert swung about at the unmistakable thud of hooves. The lad had sensed that the farmer shared his fears about what might be about to happen: with a whistle, the approaching stranger might bring the rest of his gang swarming out of the undergrowth once he realised how vulnerable they were. Or it could be a lone highwayman, who’d chanced upon them...

* * *

Luke slowed to a trot and cursed beneath his breath on seeing the calamity before him. He was only a short distance from his destination and for a split second felt tempted to ride on towards it. He was cold, wet and hungry, but he knew he could not leave the wretches stranded. The least he could do was offer to fetch help, while hoping to hear that it was already being summoned. A horse was missing from the harness and he guessed one of the coachmen had ridden off on it. The young fellow with the blunderbuss looked trigger happy so Luke supposed he ought to quickly declare himself friend rather than foe. But he understood why these folk would be nervous of strangers; since Thornley’s daughter had told him of smuggled spirits coming ashore, he’d heard from other sources, too, that the Collins gang were busy.

At the window of the coach he could see a round male face and a woman’s pop-eyed stare beaming cross the fellow’s shoulder. Dismounting, Luke gave a friendly salute, then tethered his stallion to a low branch and squelched through mud to the far side of the lopsided carriage to assess its damage.

As soon as the rain had started hammering down, he’d rued his decision to travel, but he’d set out in fine weather that afternoon, travelling west, with the intention of visiting Drew Rockleigh who had a hunting lodge in the neighbourhood. He’d visited the place before, then under far more pleasant circumstances than drew him there now. But if a fight between the two men were unavoidable, then Luke would as soon get it over with than it hung over them both like the sword of Damocles.

He squatted, saw the axle was in two pieces and stood up almost immediately. It would be quicker and simpler to get another coach out to rescue these unfortunates than try to repair the sorry contraption. He sensed he was under close scrutiny and through a blur of water dripping off the brim of his hat saw a woman’s indistinct features.

‘Where were you heading?’ A hand swiped the worst of the wet from his face as he walked closer and got a better view of her. She was younger than he was by some years, although not as youthful as Becky, and her severe expression made her look plainer than she probably was.

‘Dartmouth...’ Fiona knew to be careful with her answers. They didn’t yet know anything about this fellow to be able to trust him. Mr Jackson’s instinctive alarm at knowing a stranger was in their midst had made Fiona suspect the area was populated with criminals. ‘Where were you heading?’ she countered, blinking to get a better look at him. When she did focus properly on his lean, rain-sleek visage her breath caught in her throat. He was the most disturbingly handsome man she’d ever seen.

‘Lowerton...a village a few miles distant,’ Luke explained hoping to put her at ease. One of her hands was holding the open window ledge and he could see the tension in her grip.

‘Has somebody gone to fetch help?’ Luke angled his head and included the others in the coach in his request for information.

‘Our driver has and is expected back at any moment. Would you introduce yourself, please, sir?’ Mr Jackson insisted, peering across Fiona’s shoulder at him.

‘My apologies... Luke Wolfson...at your service...’

‘I am Peter Jackson, and this is my wife and these two ladies are the Misses Beresford, and the lady nearest to you is...’

‘Miss Fiona Chapman,’ Fiona quietly introduced herself as Mrs Jackson’s coughing drowned out her husband’s voice.

Fiona was feeling more relaxed than she had moments ago. Mr Wolfson had spoken just a few sentences, yet there was something about his tall, imposing presence that now seemed reassuring rather than threatening. He spoke in a calm, cultured way and was dressed in expensive clothes, so would indeed be an odd highwayman—although she’d heard that wily miscreants sometimes garbed themselves in stolen finery to mislead their victims as to their true characters.

She sensed that her fellow travellers were becoming equally glad that Mr Wolfson had happened by. Another man—especially one of Luke Wolfson’s age and muscular stature—could only be of help, if he stayed around. Fiona wondered if he might soon bid them farewell now he knew help was on its way.

Bert had trotted around the coach to stand by the newcomer’s side and gaze at him deferentially, the blunderbuss pointing at the ground.

‘Are you cold?’ Luke had seen Fiona huddle into her cloak and pull the hood forward over a bonnet.

‘Very cold, sir. We all left the coach earlier so the driver might better attempt to mend it...alas, to no avail.’ She gave a small shake of the head. ‘Toby Williams has given up on it and returned to the Fallow Buck for a wright with better tools. The trees gave us little shelter from the storm and we all got drenched through.’

‘I’d say this one’s beyond quick repair and out of action for a while. Your driver should bring out a fresh vehicle.’

A groan of dismay from Mrs Jackson met Luke’s bad news about their transport. Fiona nodded acceptance of his verdict, she’d come to a similar conclusion herself.

‘I hope that Toby will return very soon.’ She glanced in concern at Mrs Jackson as the woman again started to cough.

‘I’ll light a fire—you could gather around it and dry your clothes while you wait for your man to show up.’ Luke frowned at the nearby copse as though assessing its suitability as a shelter.

‘Fire?’ Peter Jackson left off thumping his wife’s back to bark an incredulous laugh. ‘I’d like to think he might manage it, but I doubt it somehow.’ He gazed at Luke’s retreating figure. ‘He’ll not find a stick of dry kindling about anywhere.’

‘It’s good of him to try,’ Fiona murmured, also watching Mr Wolfson’s impressively broad back.

* * *

Twenty minutes later the farmer was eating his words. The driving rain had slowed to a drizzle and meekly Mr Jackson followed the ladies towards the trees where a welcoming blaze could be seen. In a clearing, further into the wood than the little party had previously ventured, a fire was steadily taking hold, protected by a tent of evergreen branches that Luke had propped over the flames. Intermittently there was a hissing sound as raindrops slithered through ivy on to glowing embers.

‘I should get out of these wet things—I will be laid up for weeks, I know I will,’ Betty Jackson grumbled through chattering teeth.

‘Stand close to the fire, my dear, to keep warm.’ Mr Jackson took off his greatcoat and used it to shield his wife from view as she shed her sodden outer layers. The Beresford sisters took up position on the opposite side and performed similar tasks for one another, Ruth giggling the while.

Fiona moved away to allow them some privacy while they juggled their coats and shawls and attempted to pat dry their damp bodices. She held out her hands to the flames, but now being a distance from the fire she gained scant benefit from it.

‘You’re soaked, too—take off your cloak and wear my coat while it dries.’

Startled by the mild command, Fiona stuttered, ‘Thank you...umm...for the...kind offer, sir. But it would hardly be fair—it is still drizzling and your shirt will get wet.’ She gave Luke a fleeting smile, averting her gaze as his dark eyes bored into her. She turned up her face to the heavens, shivering as a chill mist bathed her complexion. ‘I will take this off, though,’ she added lightly, removing her bonnet and giving it a thorough shake by the brim to remove rain that had settled in the straw.

Her heart had begun to pound at an alarming rate and confusingly she was uncertain whether she wished he would go away. Yet he’d been unfailingly polite and helpful. Without turning to check if it was so, she was sure their Good Samaritan was still watching her while he removed the long leather riding coat he wore.

‘Here...take it... I’m used to braving the elements,’ Luke said firmly, settling the garment around Fiona’s shoulders before walking off.

With no time to properly protest Fiona pressed together her lips and held on to the garment by its lapels. It trailed on the ground, so long was it, and she tried to hoist it up a bit to prevent the hem collecting mud. The leather held a scent redolent of her dear papa’s study. Once the room had been crammed with cracked hide sofas and cigar smoke, but all had been removed and sold since Cecil Ratcliff had married her mother.

Jerking her mind to the present, Fiona quickly slipped out of her soaked cloak and, with Mr Wolfson’s replacement garment about her narrow shoulders, she gave her own a good shake to dislodge water from the woollen surface.

The two gentlemen and young Bert were hanging the ladies’ outerwear on sticks they’d rammed into the ground about the perimeter of the fire, creating a humid atmosphere as steam rose from the clothes.

Luke returned to Fiona and took her cloak to hang it up.

‘I’m famished,’ Valerie Beresford moaned, fiddling with the pins in her straggling hair. ‘I hope that Mr Williams will bring us back some food.’

‘He will,’ the absent fellow’s nephew assured the company. ‘He’ll turn up with every possible thing to make you comfortable.’

‘A refund on the fare would make me easy,’ Mr Jackson snorted. ‘The contraption could not have been roadworthy to sustain such damage. I took a look at that pothole that overset us. It was not so great an impediment for a vehicle in good order. Highway robbery indeed! These coach companies charge a ransom for inferior transport.’

Mrs Jackson joined her husband in carping about the cost of their tickets and Valerie Beresford added to the debate, making poor Bert sidle off into the shadows, looking chagrined.

Having found a low tree stump that might serve as a seat, Fiona dusted a pool of moisture from it with a gloved palm, then sat down with a sigh to wait for Toby to return.

Chapter Four

‘Whereabouts in Dartmouth are you headed, Miss Chapman?’

Having stretched Fiona’s cloak over two staves to aid its drying, Luke had strolled closer to her to ask his question.

After a slight hesitation Fiona told him. She realised there was no reason not to. Mr Wolfson didn’t seem a person given to gossiping. Besides, they would never meet one another again after today so it was unlikely that any confidence she bestowed would be of note to him. Even were it to be repeated, who would care—apart from a few people dear to her—that Fiona Chapman, spinster, had left home, so unpleasant had her life become, to take up employment as a governess.