Leam’s business, and at the time Wyn had his own demons to battle and little time to pursue his friends’ interests.
Miss Lucas swallowed a mouthful of roast, her throat working above the unexceptionably modest neckline of her gown. It was a movement so mundane yet so enticingly feminine that he removed his attention from the sight to the bottle by his hand. The jittering thirst in his blood had relaxed with the first glass and disappeared entirely with the second. He poured a third. He never resorted to carrying a flask, but the last hour of the coach’s swaying and rocking had driven his edginess unendurably high.
“She left four years ago, mere days before my fifteenth birthday.” She took a sip of tea. “It had something to do with my elder sisters and my brother, Tracy, but I don’t know precisely what, and everybody was glad to have her gone. She was not a nice person, if you will take my word for it.”
“I shall, if you wish it.”
She met his gaze for a moment, the lapis shining. “In any case, my stepfather never speaks of her now, nor does anyone else. It is as though she simply vanished into air.”
“Remarkable,” he murmured.
“Isn’t it?”
It would be, perhaps, if his own history did not bear out the believability of such a thing. In over fourteen years, since the sudden death of his mother, Wyn had not seen or corresponded with his father and brothers.
“But I know she has not.” Miss Lucas cut into her roast with greater force now. “When she first left, I asked after her. Papa—my stepfather—said she went off to live with relatives in the North.” Her thick lashes darted up. “She has not. Or at least if she did then, she is no longer there. You see, several months ago I broke into my father’s writing desk.”
“How intrepid of you.”
“Truly. I have done all sorts of wicked things in my life, things that made my governesses weep and pull out their hair, although not literally of course, except that once but really that was an accident. In any case, I have been troublesome, but I have never stolen anything. But she is my mother, and Papa will say nothing and frankly I am entitled to know something of her, don’t you agree?”
“You must wish it quite sincerely.”
“That was not an answer to my question, of course. I am not a hair-for-brains, Mr. Yale.”
“I would never say so.”
“And I didn’t actually steal the letters. I only read them.” Her slender brows cocked and a mischievous gleam flickered in the blue. “So I haven’t sinned. Really.”
The abrupt image of her actually sinning compelled him to reach for his glass again. “Where then is your mother?”
She set down her fork and a sweet smile slipped across her lips. “You are so refreshing to speak with, Mr. Yale. Papa never seems to know what I’m talking about and Mr. H allows me to go on and on without responding. But you are different. You seem to know.”
Yes. He knew it would be to his advantage to put this girl on a northbound coach and wipe his hands of her as soon as possible. The innkeeper appeared by their table, saving Wyn from being obliged to willfully remove his attention once again from her pretty neck.
“My best two chambers are ready upstairs for you and your sister, sir, when you wish. Will you be taking supper, then?”
“Bring him the roast. He will be in heaven.” She closed her berry lips around another forkful.
Wyn dragged his gaze away and stood. “My sister would like to retire directly. She is fatigued after the day’s travel.”
“But you really must eat some—”
“I will take supper in my room.” He gestured her toward the stairs.
Upon the landing the innkeeper proffered him two keys. “This is for the lady’s, sir, and this one is for yours there. I’ll have the maid pop in to assist the lady now, and I’ll send your supper up right straight.”
“Thank you.”
“Do thank your wife for her delicious roast and pudding, please, sir.” Her smile sparkled.
The innkeeper beamed. “I’ll do that, miss.”
She watched after him down the hall. “I suppose it was a good idea for you to tell him I am your sister. But anyone can see we look nothing like one another.” She met his gaze, her blue eyes clean and clear and without guile.
It was true. They were nothing alike, but far beyond the accidents of hair and features. She claimed to be wicked, but her face radiated honesty and goodwill. Her behavior mirrored it—taking the crying infant upon her lap for the afternoon’s journey, and offering liberal praise for a simple meal. How a mother could leave such a daughter upon the threshold of womanhood, he hadn’t an idea.
“Where is your mother, Miss Lucas?”
“Calais.”
Intrepid, indeed. “You intend to cross the Channel after her?”
“Yes. She seems to be living with a dozen or so young women. She would have my father believe they are Catholic nuns and that she needs money to help them do handicrafts to sell at the market, which is why she wrote to him. But I am not so naive as all that. I think she is running a school.”
He measured his response. “A school?”
Her lips twisted. “No. I said that to see how you would react, and I am really quite impressed. Of course I shouldn’t know about such things, but Teresa Finch-Freeworth is very helpful.” She smiled, gently now. “But you would never reveal your shock over my impropriety. You are a true gentleman, Mr. Yale.”
“Why hasn’t your stepfather gone after her?”
“Because he does not care for her.” Her gaze skittered away.
It was inconvenient. She was inconvenient, a pretty bundle of good intentions and old hurt, the latter which he could see quite plainly in her wide eyes no matter what she claimed. And now she had this indignity to bear of her mother’s new profession, if it could be believed.
“Miss Lucas, I cannot allow you to continue on this journey.”
Her gaze shot to him. “What?”
“I cannot—”
“No, no, I heard what you said. I am merely flabbergasted.”
“I know not whether to be flattered or insulted by your surprise, ma’am.”
“Oh. Of course. I beg your pardon, sir.” She seemed to recall herself, and rather swiftly at that. She studied him for a moment, then released a little sigh. But she had no air of crestfallen disappointment about her, a look Wyn had seen on the faces of females often enough in his work over the past ten years. This was no doubt a game to her more than anything else. Perhaps she’d wished only to have a brief adventure and even now secretly welcomed his intervention.
“I suppose you have learned which coach will return me to my friend’s house?” she asked quietly.
“It departs tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
“There will be time for breakfast then. I do so dislike traveling on an empty stomach.” Her voice had quieted.
“It is for the best, Miss Lucas.”
She seemed thoughtful for a moment. “The public coach is uncomfortable. I might not have been able to bear it all the way to Bristol, anyway.” She offered him a small sigh that lifted her breasts. “Well, then, good night, sir. Thank you for your assistance.” She held out her hand, he placed the key in it, and she went inside.
Wyn returned to the taproom and the remainder of the bottle of brandy.
Diantha leaned up against the inside of her door, a peculiarly empty sensation in her stomach. Her gaze scanned the little bedchamber without interest. She had traveled so rarely, she should be charmed to bits over this turn of events: a night in a real posting house after the most scrumptious dinner possible, in the company of a true gentleman.
And now she knew where she had gone wrong again. Not her plan this time, but her notions of what a man could be.
A true gentleman could not be a hero. A true gentleman would, before all else, care for propriety and
