Angel Rogue by Mary Jo Putney
As he opened the door, she gave him a glare that should have produced steam in the cold rain. "You have the most horrifying skills," she said through gritted teeth.
"But useful." He gave a beatific smile. "Wouldn't you rather be indoors by a fire instead of out in the rain?"
"It's a near-run thing," she muttered as she stepped inside.
The shuttered windows admitted enough light to show that the kitchen was neat and empty. Dully gleaming pans hung on the opposite wall, worktables stood scrubbed and ready, but of human occupation there was no sign. Apparently Robin's information was accurate. Nonetheless, she felt uneasy as she set her knapsack on the flagged floor and peeled off her soaking coat and hat.
As Robin headed for a door that opened to reveal a storeroom, he said, "I'll build a fire. In this storm, no one will notice a bit of smoke from a chimney."
Obviously he had been here before. Perhaps he had begged a meal from an indulgent cook in the days when the house was lived in? Or had he been a guest in his respectable youth?
Whatever the reason, it took him only a few minutes to locate and light a lantern, then build a coal fire and start water heating. Soaked to the skin and shivering, she was grateful to stand by the hearth and absorb the fire's warmth.
Robin disappeared again, then returned and draped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. "I found a cloakroom with a variety of old garments. While the bathwater is heating, shall we choose rooms for the night?"
She glanced around the kitchen. "To be honest, I'd rather stay here. It seems dreadfully intrusive to invade someone's home, even if it isn't regularly occupied."
"But this hasn't been anyone's home for many years." He lit a branch of candles, then smiled and beckoned with his hand. "Come see. We won't cause any harm."
She followed him from the kitchen, knowing that when he smiled like that, she would follow him to hell itself.
The flickering light showed a house that was handsome and appealing, with a human scale that Chanleigh lacked. Though most of the furniture was under holland covers, the shapes revealed timeless elegance. The satinwood tables needed only the brush of a hand to bring the waxed surfaces alive. Tall, shuttered windows waited to admit light, and rich oriental carpets muted the sound of their footsteps.
In the music room, she lifted the cover on the harpsichord to play a scale. The notes sang bright and true under her questing fingers. "Sad to think there is no one to appreciate all this."
"A manor house has a life span of centuries," he said pensively. "A decade or two of emptiness is a minor aberration. Ruxton has been a home in the past, and it will be again."
She hoped he was right. They went upstairs. At the top of the steps was a small, unshuttered round window, and she paused to admire the rolling hills. The landscape was less dramatic than Durhamshire's wild moors, but lovely and very welcoming.
Her mouth tightened. How could the owners not want to live here? Had they no impoverished relations who needed a home? Shaking her head, she went after her companion.
He opened a door and glanced in. It was large, with a wide four-poster bed and a rose-hued carpet underfoot. "Will this suit you for the night? I think it's the mistress's chamber. The master's room would be through that door."
She looked at him, remembering the Drover Inn. "In other words, a bed is more dangerous to share than a hedgerow or a haystack or a cargo of carpets?"
His blue eyes met hers, serious for once. "So it proved before. I think it best that I sleep in the next room."
Of course he was right. Damn him.
* * *
For the twentieth time, Maxie pushed up the flowing sleeves of her luxurious robe. It wouldn't do for the red velvet to trail in her dinner. Her mood had improved considerably in the last three hours. While Robin had bathed, she had stewed the ham and vegetables they had been carrying. Her principles about drinking alcohol didn't extend to cooking with wine, and a liberal addition of claret, along with dried herbs from the stillroom, had done wonders for the rather plebian ingredients.
During her turn in the tub—her rapturous, lavender-scented turn in the tub—Robin had pillaged the house's treasures to create a splendid setting for their meal. The formal dining room was too large for intimacy, so he had set the table in the breakfast room. Crystal goblets, silver utensils, and fine china gleamed in the candlelight, and delicate porcelain bowls held relishes and candied fruits from the stillroom.
With a blithe unconcern for property rights, he had also found two velvet robes for them to wear while their own clothing dried. Donning the sumptuous garment after her bath had made her feel like a princess.
She swallowed the last of her stew and leaned back with a contented sigh, pushing up her sleeves again. The robe was far too large and its hem dragged on the floor, but it was perfect for this lunatic occasion, when her freshly washed hair was loose as a child's and wool stockings warmed her feet.
She had decided to relax and enjoy the eccentric luxury. She had the odd feeling that the house welcomed them. Perhaps it was glad to have inhabitants, even transitory, illicit ones.
Surreptitiously she studied her companion. His robe fit him well and was a shade of blue that matched his eyes. The color set off his gilt hair and made him unreasonably, dangerously, attractive.
As he reached for his wineglass, the garment fell open at the throat. She was interested to note that there was a faint, reddish tint in the light matting of chest hair revealed. She supposed that went with a beard that grew out red.
As she poured herself more water from a silver ewer, she remarked, "Times like this, it would be nice to loll back in the chair with a glass of brandy in my hand."
"You can anyhow. Nothing in that picture says you actually have to drink the brandy." He raised his goblet, which contained the last of the claret he had appropriated to season the stew. "Shall we drink a toast to the future?"
She laughed and raised her cup. "Is a toast drunk in tea binding?"
"With symbolism, intent is everything, the details unimportant," he assured her.
She hesitated a moment, feeling a strange, deep longing. It was getting harder and harder to imagine parting from Robin, with his careless charm and quixotic humor and tranquil acceptance of her mongrel background. But a future with him came under the heading of dreams rather than of possible outcomes. Trying to hold him would be like trying to capture the wind in her hands.
Smiling wistfully, she raised her cup and emptied it in one quick swallow. She was an American, which meant that she should not accept that anything was impossible.
After pouring more tea, she selected a piece of candied ginger from a Chinese bowl. "Sometime in your checkered past you must have been a butler." She indicated the elegant table. "You do this so well."
"As a matter of fact, you're right. I have had a stint or two as a butler, as well as being a footman and groom on occasion."
She was taken aback, not having meant the comment seriously. "Is that true, or are you teasing again?"
"Quite true." He grinned. "Is it so hard to imagine me holding a real job?"
"It's not easy." She rested an elbow on the table, propping her chin on her palm as she studied his cool patrician countenance. She really shouldn't be surprised. Even wandering gentlemen with a rooted distaste for honest employment must sometimes have to work to keep food in their bellies.
"I'm sure you were a successful servant. You have the chameleon's ability to blend into any setting." She tried to define the impressions she had gathered in their travels. "Yet, though you talk easily with anyone of any station, you always seem apart, with the group but not of it."
His hand stilled around his wine goblet. "That, Maxima, is entirely too perceptive a comment." Before she could pursue the subject, he continued, "We'll be in London soon. Where do you plan to begin investigating your father's death?"
"The inn where he died. Surely there are servants who can tell me something. I also have the names of old friends he intended to vi
"After you have learned what you can, and acted on it, what then?" His blue gaze was intense.
She shook her head and toyed with the silver tongs, trying unsuccessfully to decipher the intricate engraved initial. "Go back to America and find work in a bookshop, I suppose. I haven't really thought about it. The future seems too far away."
She used the tongs to drop a chunk of sugar into her tea. "No, that isn't quite right. Usually I have a vague idea of what the future holds. Nothing so grand as prophecy, just a sense that actions will be completed. For example, when my father and I traveled, I always knew when we would reach our destination, and when we would not. When we sailed for England, I didn't doubt that we would arrive safely, and I knew that I would meet my father's family. For that matter, when I left my uncle's house I was confident that I would reach London."
Intrigued, he asked, "Did you sense that you would have so many adventures along the way?"
"No, and I could never have imagined meeting someone like you." She gave him a fleeting smile. "But now when I look ahead, I can't project what will happen. It's like one summer when we planned to pass through Albany. There was no reason to suppose that it wouldn't happen, yet I couldn't see us there. As it turned out, my father fell ill. We spent several weeks in a village in Vermont and ended up missing Albany that year. It's rather like that now."
His brows drew together. "What do you feel?"
"A kind of blankness. Perhaps the future will take a turn I can't envision because it is too different from the past," she said slowly. "I've always known I wouldn't spend my whole life as a book peddler, though I didn't know how that part of my life would end. Yet as soon as my father said we were going to England, I knew I would never go back to the peddler's life."
"I've run across many different forms of intuition in my life, and I've learned not to discount them," Robin said, his expression intent. "If you consciously try, do you think you could get a better sense for what might happen in London? If there is danger, it will help if we are prepared."
"I don't know if that's possible, but I'll see what I can do," she said doubtfully.
Closing her eyes, she relaxed back in the chair and visualized a map of England. A silvery road coiled south from Durham, its brightness increasing in Yorkshire, where she had met Robin. What about London, the complex, pulsing heart of England? She let her mind drift.
Blackness, chaos, pain. The unthinkable...
With a cry, she jerked upright in the chair, a convulsive movement of her hand sweeping her teacup and saucer from the table to smash on the parquet floor. She stared at the scattered fragments, her heart hammering. "I broke it," she said stupidly.
"To hell with the china," Robin was already there, his arms circling her. As she hid her face against him, he said quietly, "Did you feel that something dreadful will happen there?"
She tried to look at the black, terrifying vortex that had almost consumed her, but her mind sheered away, as balky as a nervous pony. "It... it was literally beyond my imagination. Something too awful to understand."
His embrace tightened. "Could it have been your own death?" he asked quietly. "If so, I'm going to take you in the opposite direction tomorrow if I have to tie you to a horse."
She shook her head. "I've never feared death, so my own end would not be so upsetting." A horrifying thought struck her. Could she have been dimly sensing danger for Robin?
As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she dismissed it. Her fear had nothing to do with Robin. "It wasn't your death, either. I... I think it had to do with what happened to my father." She swallowed hard. "Even though I've mentally accepted that my uncle might have arranged Max's death, in my heart, I haven't really believed it. But if my uncle was responsible, it would explain why thinking of the future is so upsetting. A murder trial would have hideous repercussions for the whole Collins family. Innocent people will be hurt."
"And you don't want that, even if your relatives haven't been particularly kind to you." He put his finger under her chin and raised her face so that she was looking at him. "I suppose it's foolish to ask if you want to leave well enough alone."
Her jaw hardened. "That's out of the question. I may fail to discover the truth, but if I don't try, I'll never forgive myself."
He nodded, unsurprised. "You're wise to proceed. The truth is seldom as bad as our fears." He smoothed her hair back from her temple, then moved away. "I'm going to make another pot of tea. Then I'll tell you every absurd story I can think of so that when you go to bed, you'll sleep well." He smiled. "And I know a lot of absurd stories."
After he headed off to the kitchen, teapot in hand, she whispered, "Thank you, Robin."
Their future together might be limited, but as long as he stayed by her side while she investigated her father's death, she could face whatever waited in London.
Chapter 21
The Marquess of Wolverton had estimated that if Robin and the Sheltered Innocent decided to stop at Ruxton, it would take them three or four days to get there from Market Harborough. Giles headed south, making routine inquiries, but with a singular lack of success. The pair had evaporated like summer mist.
He had intended to spend the third night at Ruxton, but a violent storm turned the roads to mire and slowed his carriage to the pace of a walking man. Irritated, he chided himself for spending too much time on futile searching. If he had given up a few hours earlier, he could have reached Ruxton. Now he must take his chances at the nearest inn, It was a gloomy prospect.
As his carriage lurched through the mud, he found himself thinking about Desdemona Ross, who had an alarming tendency to invade his mind, both waking and sleeping. He wasn't sure what to do about her, but he certainly wanted to do something.
His pleasant daydreams ended when a sharp crack sounded below his feet. The carriage jolted to a stop, the whole vehicle tilting precariously. He sighed as he stepped into the downpour; a carriage breakdown was a perfect end to the day. Outside, he called to his coachman, Wickes, "Shall we see how bad it is?"
Wickes handed the reins to Miller, a young servant who was acting as guard, groom, and part-time valet. After he clambered from the box, they slogged through the mud to survey the damage. "Axle's broken beyond repair, my lord," Wickes said glumly. "We'll have to send Miller to find a blacksmith."
Giles tugged his hat lower, trying to stop rain from running down the back of his neck. "We're within a mile or two of Daventry. There will be a smith there." He was about to dispatch Miller to town when he heard the jangling harness and rumbling wheels of another traveler behind them.
"Here's a bit of luck," Wickes said as he stepped into the road to flag down the approaching vehicle.
It wasn't a wagon, but another private coach—a carriage with distinctive yellow trim. A smile spread across Giles's face. Whoever had said that it was an ill wind that blew no good was right; this storm was definitely blowing well.
As he headed toward the coach, a tall female form stepped out into the deluge and started toward him. His step quickened, and as they drew together he exclaimed, "Get back inside, Lady Ross. There's no reason for you to get wet, too."
"Don't worry, Wolverton. I shan't melt." She gave him a wicked smile, her long lashes clumping from the rain and water dripping from the edge of her bonnet. "This is my chance to rescue you for a change. How could I pass up such an opportunity? I presume you have a broken wheel or axle."
He nodded. "I'd appreciate it if you would send someone from Daventry to help us."
"Why don't you come with me? Your men can look after the carriage perfectly well. I was planning to stop at the Wheatsheaf, which is quite a decent inn. You can get a room there also." She pulled her sopping cloak closer around her. "This is no weather for traveling."
The thought of spending time with her splendid ladyship was too appealing to refuse. Giles told his men to wait in the carriage until help arrived, retrieved a small bag that carried a change of clothes and a few other basic items,
He climbed inside and settled squishily on the seat. Seeing that they were alone, he asked, "What happened to your maid?"
"The silly wench came down with a streaming cold so I sent her home." She cocked her head to one side. "Obviously I didn't take your advice about meekly going to wait in London. I came across one or two possible sightings of our fugitives, but I don't feel any closer to finding them. How was your luck?"
"About the same." Deciding there was no reason to keep Ruxton a secret any longer, Giles said, "Robin owns an estate near Daventry. I'm on my way to see if they might be staying there for a day or two. Care to go there with me tomorrow?"
"Definitely." She smiled wryly. "There are obvious advantages to being together when we find them."
Together. He liked the sound of that.
* * *
In Daventry, they found a blacksmith who was willing to go immediately to Giles's carriage in return for a payment that was only mildly extortionate. With that accomplished, they went on to the Wheatsheaf Inn.
Giles asked for a tea tray when they entered. The landlord gave the orders, then bowed them into a private parlor.
As Giles removed his cloak, his companion went to stand by the fire. "This seems very familiar," she remarked. "We always seem to be meeting at inns." She removed her dripping bonnet and shook her head. Her red hair tumbled in a vivid mass about her shoulders, curling wildly from the moisture.
Giles watched with pleasure as she absently combed her fingers through her fiery tresses in a vain attempt at straightening. He was definitely pro-redhead.
He started to make a light comment about the effect that meeting at inns could have on a reputation. Then rational thought fled as his companion removed her sodden cloak.
He had wondered what her appearance would be if she wasn't swaddled in layers of shapeless clothing. Now he learned the answer, and the knowledge was lightning in his veins.
He had thought her rather stout, in an attractively feminine way. Stout, however, implied being large all over.