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My Lady's Honor
My Lady's Honor

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Ever since her father had declined to remarry after her stepmother’s death, her cousin had been living on the expectation of one day taking control of Southford and all its resources. His self-professed “refined” tastes in clothes and furnishings were expensive, as were his gaming habits, and she would not be at all surprised to learn he was heavily in debt. Perhaps he owed Edgerton, and had decided to use Gwen and her dowry as a means to repay the baron, at no cost to himself.

Yes, that would appeal to Nigel: not only getting rid of his detested cousin, but using her money to pay off his obligations.

If her suspicions were correct, he would not view with equanimity the double insult of being embarrassed in front of his friend and losing his free means of repayment. She’d also had a glimpse this afternoon of Nigel’s relish for exercising his power as Baron Southford. Even were there in actuality no financial considerations involved, having Gwennor flout his new authority before his friend and her former household was certain to enrage him. He’d probably be angry enough to pursue her, if only to drag her back and impose an equally public punishment.

So, how to make a swift and clean break? Were they to make haste to the nearest posting inn, Nigel would likely catch them either while they awaited the next mail coach or once they’d transferred to that slower conveyance. If they traveled by horseback and she used precious coin to hire new mounts at each stage, as a single lady traveling with no maid in attendance, she would be singular enough that most innkeepers or stablemasters would remember her, making them all too easy to trace.

It was imperative they get far enough away for Nigel’s anger to cool and to make further pursuit sufficiently expensive and bothersome that he might choose to simply let them go. Of equal importance was finding a haven that offered some unimpeachable reason for her to withstand his efforts to force her back to Southford, if he did succeed in tracking her.

Harrogate! the answer suddenly occurred to her. They could make their way to her stepmother’s Aunt Alice in Harrogate. Gwen had not seen the lady since her stepmama’s funeral a number of years previously, but they still corresponded, and she had no doubt the sweet, frivolous Lady Alice would be delighted to receive her.

Not only was the mineral spa in which she resided fortuitously distant, many of its residents and visitors were elderly widowers come to take the waters. Among them, perhaps Gwennor could find a kindly gentleman who’d be willing to wed a young, strong, hardworking lady of good family prepared to run his household and care for him in his declining years—at the negligible cost of also housing her brother.

She could claim Aunt Alice’s assistance in her matrimonial quest—what lady could resist the chance to play matchmaker? With luck, she might find an acceptable candidate quickly, perhaps even be wed before Nigel could trace her.

If the new baron found her still single and insisted she marry the suitor he’d chosen, Lord Edgerton could just as easily travel to Harrogate to claim her.

Gwen would wager her mother’s entire collection of jewelry that Edgerton would not.

So she now had a destination, but there remained the problem of how to traverse that long distance undetected.

She had reviewed the alternatives over and over, unable to decide which one offered the best chance of successfully evading pursuit, when suddenly another idea occurred, so far-fetched and outrageous she nearly rejected it out of hand.

But, she decided, the advantage lay in its very outrageousness. Cousin Nigel might scour the roads, make a sweep of the posting inns, and question every innkeeper and livery stableman within a hundred miles of Southford and never locate them.

She scrambled to her desk, jerked open the top drawer, and began tossing out the objects in a disordered heap on the desktop. After rooting through each of the drawers in turn, she’d accumulated a trove of small coins and one golden guinea.

Hardly a fortune, but, she hoped, enough to tempt a king.

Quickly she changed into her riding habit and stuffed her findings into a small leather pouch. Tying the strings around her wrist, she tucked it under her sleeve and summoned her maid.

Jenny arrived so speedily Gwennor suspected the woman had been anxiously awaiting a chance to learn the results of Gwen’s interview. Sure enough, with the familiarity of one who had been first her nurse and then her maid practically since Gwen’s birth, as soon as she hurried in, Jenny asked, “So what was it the new master be wantin’?”

“Cousin Nigel feels it is time for me to marry.”

“Saints be praised!” Jenny replied. “’Tis the very thing I’ve wished for ever since your papa took so sick. Now that the new baron’s here, and being how he is, ’tis best ye git a household of yer own, with a husband to protect you. So, when be we goin’ to London?”

“We are not going to London. Cousin Nigel has already chosen my husband. In fact, he arrives tomorrow.”

Jenny’s enthusiasm chilled abruptly. “Already chosen? Who…who is it to be, my lady?”

“Lord Edgerton.”

Consternation extinguished the remaining traces of Jenny’s gladness. “Lord Edgerton! Why, that gentleman is twice your age or more! With a pack of unruly brats as would try the patience of the Virgin Mother herself, so the story goes! Surely your cousin—”

“My cousin is fixed upon it, Jenny, and will brook no opposition. Indeed, he’s threatened to lock me away if I resist. So there’s no purpose to be served in repining. Lord Edgerton arrives tomorrow and the wedding is to be the end of the week. A simple affair, cousin Nigel said. Given the circumstances,” she finished dryly, “you may dispense with the traditional wishes for my happiness.”

“My poor chick,” Jenny said, distress on her face. “’Tis a dastardly thing for the new baron to do, and I can’t help if I think it!”

Gwennor gave the maid a quick hug. “Bless you, Jenny. But you and the rest of the staff must be circumspect in what you say. I’m not sure who among you, if any, I’ll be able to take with me when I wed, and those who remain will have to work for my cousin.”

“Probably turn us all off without a character and fetch in some jumped-up London toffs,” Jenny muttered.

“I hope he will value you all as he ought. Now, would you tell Cook and Hopkins to make a room ready for Lord Edgerton and ask them to begin considering preparations for a wedding breakfast? I shall consult with them tomorrow about the details, but for now…” Gwen let her sentence trail off and tried to look mournful, not a difficult task. “I believe I shall ride.”

“Well, and I don’t wonder at it!” Jenny said. “Settin’ you up with a man old enough to be your papa, and marryin’ you off all havey-cavey, without even time to buy bride clothes! You go on, Miss Gwen. A ride will do your spirits good, and I’ll get Hopkins movin’ on the preparations.”

“Oh, and Parry will not be joining us for dinner. I told him I’d bring him a tray later…and I—I think I shall stay out late, helping him with the animals. I shall not be able to do so much longer, after all.”

“Bless me, Miss Gwen, whatever is to become of that poor boy with you gone? I worry about it, I do!”

“You know I would never allow anyone to harm Parry—no matter what I must do to prevent it. I shall think of something, Jenny.”

“You bein’ so clever and all, I suppose you will. Now, get you off ridin’, and leave the rest to Jenny.”

Gwennor gave one last hug to the woman who’d been more mother than servant to her for the last ten years. “Thank you, Jenny. You’re an angel!”

“If’n I was, I’d be spreadin’ out my wings and carryin’ you off to London,” the maid declared, still shaking her head in disapproval as she walked away.

Gwennor picked up her pace and sped to the stables. She must complete her mission and return with enough time to rifle the strongbox before cousin Nigel rose to dress for dinner.

Firefly, her ginger mare, whinnied a greeting as she approached the hay-fragrant stall, and Gwen felt a pang of regret and anger. Another dear friend, along with her home, she’d soon be forced to abandon.

Sending the stable boy back to his other chores, she saddled the mare and headed off at a trot, letting the horse stretch her legs in a gallop once they reached the open fields near the Home Woods, and then continuing on at a canter to the far south meadow.

“Please,” she prayed. “Let them still be there.”

When at last she saw the gaily-painted wagons beside the stream that formed the border of Southford land, she let out a gusty breath of relief.

Slowing Firefly to a walk, she proceeded to the end wagon. Before she’d even dismounted, a dark-eyed urchin with a thatch of black hair ran over to catch her bridle.

“A copper for you if you’ll take her to drink at the stream—but not too much water, now!”

Gwennor smiled as the lad trotted off, Firefly in tow, and turned to the old woman who sat by her campfire regarding her gravely.

“So, you come to have your fortune read, now that the Evil One descends upon your home?”

“No, Jacquinita. I’m afraid I know what you’d find in my palm,” Gwen replied with a grimace, not at all surprised the most revered of the gypsy soothsayers already knew of her cousin’s arrival. “I came to ask a favor.”

With a jangle of her many bracelets, the gypsy motioned her to sit. “What favor?”

“Parry and I must leave Southford immediately, but we must depart in a way that my cousin cannot trace. I want to ask Remolo to allow us to travel in your train, disguised as Rom. I will pay in coin and in jewels for this boon. Will you plead my case for me?”

The woman fingered a pleat of her full red skirt. “He means to harm you, your cousin, yes?”

“He wishes to marry me to his friend, but that is not why we flee. He intends to lock Parry in the attics and not allow him to roam free. The Rom, of all people, should understand what this would do to my brother.”

The old woman nodded. “He has the gift, your brother. Such a spirit should not be caged. Your father was a good man, for a gadjo. Every year he allowed us to camp in his fields. That one—” she spat in the direction of Southford Manor, then made a sign of protection against the evil eye “—will call the magistrates on us soon, so have I warned the people. Therefore we leave at dusk. I will speak with Remolo.”

“Dusk!” Gwennor cried with alarm. “If I am to depart undetected, I cannot leave the manor until near on midnight. Please, tell Remolo I will pay him well if he will wait and take us!”

The old woman stood, adjusting her full skirts and the multicolored head scarf. “I will tell him. You follow.”

Gwennor removed the small leather pouch and held it out. “Take him this. ’Tis a token and pledge. Tell him I will bring twenty more gold pieces when we come tonight.”

The old woman snatched the leather pouch from her fingers. “So will I say.”

Gwennor followed as instructed, praying a merciful God would intercede with the gypsy overlord. Swarthy, handsome, mercurial and unquestioned master over his band, Remolo’s decision—like her cousin’s, she thought with irony—would be final and irrevocable.

As she had only a very basic knowledge of the Romany language, Gwennor could not follow much of the conversation that ensued. The old woman offered the money pouch, which the gypsy lord accepted with a short bow in her direction. But after Jacquinita spoke for several minutes, with gestures and dark looks toward Southford Manor, Remolo’s face creased in a frown and he shook his head in vehement negative.

Though it would avail her little to beg, Gwennor was on the point of throwing herself at the gypsy’s knees when, after another rapid-fire speech by the soothsayer, Remolo paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face, and then gave a slight nod. After an elaborate curtsey, the old woman returned to Gwennor.

“He will take us?” Gwennor demanded.

The old woman smiled. “For your small gold, he thanks you. But he did not wish to bring along so heavy a burden. I told him you would work for us, playing cards and telling fortunes for the gadjo who come to the wagons where we stop. He said we have women and children enough for those things. Then I reminded him that Parry had cured his stallion—and that his favorite mare is due to foal soon. So, he will let you come for the sake of your brother’s skill and the money you promise—but he will not wait until midnight.”

Gwen’s initial exhilaration faded rapidly. “We cannot go before then! Or rather, I cannot.” A heart-wrenching choice that really was no choice confronted her. Deciding rapidly, she said, “Parry can. If I pay Remolo as promised, will he take Parry? And will you watch over my brother and keep him s-safe?” Her voice broke at the awful thought of sending Parry away alone.

The old woman came over to touch Gwen’s face. “Child of my soul, you know I will. But you would send your brother from harm and not yourself?”

Gwennor nodded. “For myself I do not care, I will figure out something. But I cannot protect Parry from Nigel if he stays.”

“You have the heart of the wildcat, my child,” the woman said approvingly. “So have you been since I met you as a little girl—brave, strong and fierce. Ah, if you had been Rom, I would have made you my mulkini, that you might carry on after me. Do not think I, Jacquinita, drabarni of the Remali Rom, will leave you to that Evil One. Come to the clearing at midnight. My grandson Davi—” she nodded toward the boy holding Firefly by the stream “—will wait for you and lead you to us. Go in the spirit, child.”

Gwennor threw her arms around the old woman’s neck. “Thank you, dya!”

Jacquinita released her, chuckling softly. “We will dress you in skirts and the kishti, with bracelets and earrings and a scarf in that dark hair. Ah, leibling, what a gypsy you will make!”

Chapter Three

Three weeks later, Gwennor dropped the last load of firewood beside Jacquinita’s wagon and brushed off her hands. With a now-expert eye, she calculated she had another half hour’s daylight to return to the stream, draw water and wash.

She flexed her tired shoulders as she trotted back to the small river near which Remolo had ordered them to make camp this afternoon. Jacquinita had promised the gypsy lord that Gwen and her brother would work, and work they had, Gwen carrying water, foraging for firewood, and assisting with the cooking, while Parry helped the men hunt for game and care for the horses. Though Gwennor had supervised her Southford staff in performing a wide variety of household tasks, she had done little of the physical labor herself. Most evenings, she was so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment she rolled into her blankets in a corner of Jacquinita’s wagon.

During the day-long rides, the soothsayer instructed Gwennor in the reading of palms, the rolling of dice and the playing of the various card games with which the gypsy entourage would entertain—and win money from—the people of the towns who came to their encampment. Around the fire on several evenings she had even, at Jacquinita’s urging and much to the amusement of the rest of Remolo’s family, joined the women in dancing to the plaintive music the men coaxed from their violins.

Her escape from Southford Manor had been almost ridiculously easy. After returning from her interview with Remolo, while Nigel slept, she’d simply walked into the estate office and, without a qualm of conscience, removed from the strongbox a sack containing almost forty golden guineas.

When she explained at dinner that Parry had remained at the barn to tend his animals, her cousin merely shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate that her brother’s behavior proved he was the incompetent Nigel claimed him to be. The new baron also seemed satisfied with her terse assertion that everything was in train for the arrival of Lord Edgerton, and happily monopolized conversation for the rest of the meal, expanding on his plans for the modernization of Southford.

Leaving him to his brandy and cigars, Gwennor had been able to creep out of the manor several hours earlier than expected, to the delight of the waiting Davi, who informed her that Parry had departed with the rest of the family at dusk, as decreed by Remolo.

She’d feared at first that her brother might resist leaving Southford. But though he was sorrowful at abandoning his animals, he seemed to sense without her attempting to explain it that with the coming of their cousin, life as they knew it at Southford could not continue. With the sweet-natured trustfulness she found so endearing, he merely inquired where she wanted him to go, and seemed delighted to learn they’d be traveling with the gypsy band.

After much internal debate, Gwennor had decided against leaving Jenny a note. Though she hated to worry her dear friend, she was more concerned about the consequences should Nigel suspect the maid had abetted her flight. This way, Jenny’s alarm and worry would be too genuine for the new baron to suspect her former nurse had any foreknowledge of her mistress’s plans. As soon as it was safe to do so, she’d vowed, she would write to her.

Reaching the swiftly flowing river, Gwennor quickly performed her ablutions. Shivering against the chill and thinking longingly of the hip bath full of hot fragrant water back at Southford, she filled two buckets upstream to bring back to the encampment. She hoped the stew would be ready when she arrived, for Gwennor was starving, and eager to practice her card tricks for the night ahead.

By now she was quite skilled, and not nearly so nervous as she’d been the first night the gypsies had welcomed curious farmers and townspeople to their camp. She rather enjoyed leaving her curly hair long and free, unencumbered by pins or braids, she thought as she tied it back again with the multicolored scarf. Accustomed to long, straight gowns fitted only at the bosom, at first it had seemed shocking to don the low-cut peasant blouse and long skirt that hugged her waist. But now she was as comfortable in her gypsy clothes as she was with the telling of outrageous fortunes and the deft shell games at which she won farthings from gullible young farmers.

If her time with the gypsies had given her a new appreciation for the comforts of living in the Manor, still she had found appeal in their simpler life, the camaraderie of the band and the esteem with which Parry was treated for his skill.

Only one aspect of the experience made her uneasy, she thought as she hefted the buckets and trudged back to Jacquinita’s wagon. Though she’d never tasted passion first-hand, she recognized the hungry look in the eyes of the visitors as they watched the gypsy girls tell fortunes or ply the dice, a look that intensified later when the girls danced. Their steady, openly appraising stares while Gwennor dealt them cards or read their palms had at first shocked her, and often still made her cheeks redden beneath the scarf with which she masked her face.

No matter how hot their glances grew, though, most visitors were wise enough not to try to touch where their eyes lingered. Remolo permitted no carnal transactions with the women of his family, and few wished to risk the wrath of the gypsy men who watched and waited, vicious curving blades tucked casually in waistbands or boot tops. Still, Gwennor could read in the attitude of their male customers the opinion that the gypsy women were merely an exotic variety of lightskirt. Should the society to which Gwennor belonged ever discover she had traveled in a gypsy caravan, worn gypsy dress and read the palms of clerks and farm boys, all Southford’s wealth would not be sufficient to buy her a respectable husband.

Mercifully, the visitors she’d encountered seemed to accept Gwennor as the gypsy girl she appeared, for which she thanked heaven daily, grateful the Lord had created her dark rather than blond. After the first week, when she’d listened night and day for the pounding of approaching hooves, her fear of pursuit or discovery lessened, though she alone of the gypsy women still wore a scarf over her face when strangers came to the encampment.

She trudged back to Jacquinita’s wagon and deposited her twin burdens, mouth watering at the spicy scent emanating from the cooking pot.

The fortune-teller had already spooned her out a large bowl. “Eat quickly, my heart,” the old woman said. “Remolo has ridden into the town. We’ve camped here before, and many will come to have their fortunes told and bet at cards.” She smiled at Gwen. “You must help them leave their money behind when they depart.”

Gwennor laughed and took the bowl offered. “I shall do my best,” she replied.


“I think it’s a terrible idea,” Gilen de Mowbry, Viscount St. Abrams muttered to his brother, frowning at the noisy group of friends preparing to ride out.

Alden de Mowbry grinned at his sibling. “Don’t be a dead bore, Gil. Chase tells me the gypsies camp here every year, and ’tis very amusing to have one’s fortune read, or dice with their pretty wenches. Half the town comes out, as well as nearly all Lord DeLacey’s servants. The masculine contingent, anyway.”

“The females have more sense,” Gilen retorted. “Certainly, visit the gypsy camp—if you wish to have the watch nabbed from your pocket while some dark-eyed charmer tells lies about your future.”

“Come on, Gil!” Alden coaxed. “Remember, you’re bound soon for Harrogate. No amusement to be had in that rubbishing town full of half-pay soldiers and octogenarians. Best find some enjoyment while you can.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Gilen said with a sigh. “Jeffrey nursing a broken heart is devilish grim, and dancing attendance on his sick grandfather will scarcely be more entertaining.”

Alden shuddered. “Sounds appalling! Why go at all? Stay here a while longer. Between billiards and cards, Chase has gone down to you by nearly five hundred pounds. I’m sure our host’s son would welcome the opportunity to win back some of his blunt.”

Gilen chuckled. “Given his level of skill, he’d likely only lose more. And I really must go lend poor Jeff my support. Damn that Battersley chit! I tell you, Alden, there’s nothing so perfidious as a woman! Leading Jeffrey to a declaration, when all the time what she really wanted was to make the Earl of Farleigh’s chinless cub jealous enough to pop the question himself.”

“Abandon old Jeff after he did, eh?”

“As fast as it took to slip Farleigh’s emerald on her deceitful finger.”

“You know Jeffrey, though,” Alden countered, “Ten to one, by the time you arrive he’ll have fallen for someone else. Too easygoing by half, and always fancying himself in love with some chit or other.”

“Who’s he to fall in love with in Harrogate?”

Alden nodded. “Point taken. I suppose you shall have to go cheer him up. Best friend since Eton, and such. Which,” he added, pushing his brother toward the door, “is all the more reason for you to come along with us and enjoy yourself tonight. Mayhap you’ll catch the eye of some fetching gypsy wench.”

“And then catch the edge of her father or brother’s blade? Thank you, no!” he replied, laughing as he gave up his resistance and followed Alden.

Lacey’s Retreat was only a day’s ride from Harrogate, but Gilen had broken his journey here with the ostensible excuse of spending time with his brother before Alden, Chase and their Oxford classmates returned to school. He had, he knew, been putting off the moment when he must confront Jeffrey’s sorrowful face—a sight which would only further inflame his temper against Davinia Battersley in particular and matchmaking females in general.

Thank heaven that, not yet ready himself to become a tenant for life, Gilen confined his attentions to bits of muslin who performed zealously for the high wages he paid them. No fraudulent shows of devotion, no false sighing over his wit, strength, masculinity—just an honest exchange of mutual passion that left each party satisfied. And if the parting was sometimes a bit…tempestuous, he mused, recalling the shrieks and breaking of glass that had accompanied his giving that delectable but fiery-tempered opera singer her congé, such uproar occurred infrequently.

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