Unlacing Lady Thea Page 2

  ‘I can see it would be tiresome,’ he continued, confirming her belief in his lack of understanding. ‘But running away...’ He frowned at her. ‘I do not have time to deal with this now. I am about to leave for a Continental tour.’

  ‘I know, Papa told me. He considers it shows a commendable enthusiasm for culture he had hitherto not recognised in you. Please listen, Rhys. I am twenty-two and of age. I am not running away, I am taking control of my life.’

  ‘Twenty-two? Rubbish. You don’t look it.’ It was not a compliment.

  Thea gritted her teeth and ploughed on. ‘All I need is the approval of two of my three trustees in order to take control of my money and be independent.’ It wasn’t a fortune, but it would give her freedom, give her choice. ‘If I do not get consent, then I will receive nothing unless Papa approves my marriage.’

  ‘One of the trustees is your father, I presume.’ Rhys picked up the decanter, studied it for a moment then put it down. ‘Tempting as complete oblivion is at this moment—’

  ‘He is,’ she interrupted. ‘And Grandmother was quite well aware of what he is like.’ There was no point in feigning filial piety. Her father had been a distant, shadowy figure throughout her childhood, only taking any notice when she was of an age where she could not be relegated to the nursery. A girl was bad enough. A girl without a glimmer of her mother’s legendary beauty and charm was worthless unless she made a useful marriage. Thea felt she hardly knew him, and, regrettably, felt no desire to do so.

  If this stratagem failed and Papa realised what she was about and put pressure on the third trustee, Mr Heale, then she was trapped. She shivered at the memory of her cold, loveless childhood home. The Season had been an escape, but now that had been snatched away the walls were closing in.

  ‘Grandmother had to name Papa as a trustee, for it would have seemed very strange if she had not, but she put in the clause about me only needing the permission of two of them for major decisions in order to get around him.’

  She poured another cup of tea, ravenous and thirsty now that her immediate worries about finding Rhys at home were laid to rest. ‘One of the others is the younger Mr Heale, the son of Grandmother’s solicitor. I have spoken to him and he is perfectly agreeable to my taking control. I have his letter to that effect. So long as Papa does not realise exactly what I am about and try to influence him...’ She touched the packet over her heart and felt the crisp, reassuring crackle of parchment. Surely her father’s bullying could not negate that letter? ‘My other trustee is Godmama Agnes.’

  ‘Godmama. Now, she would approve of you having control of your fortune.’ The brandy seemed to be having no serious effect on Rhys’s understanding, or perhaps the fumes were clearing. ‘Although what you’ll do with it at your age...’

  He was paying attention, even if he still seemed to believe she was sixteen, or incapable of making decisions. Thea took a sustaining gulp of tea, then reached for another scone. It had been a long time since breakfast at Longley Park and a snatched bun at the midafternoon change of horses.

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you how fortunate we have been in our godmother?’ Rhys asked. The thought of Lady Hughson was enough to curve his lips into a smile.

  ‘Daily,’ Thea agreed fervently. ‘When we were all children I never gave it a thought, but now I see how lucky we were that she turned her unhappiness into pleasure in caring for her godchildren.’ Godmama’s home had been the only place she had experienced love and warmth.

  ‘The fifteen little lambs in Agnes’s personal flock?’

  ‘Exactly. She must have loved her husband very much, then she lost him so young, before they could have children.’

  Rhys gave a grunt of agreement. ‘But that is history and if you ran, sorry, left, home to go to her, she’s not in London. Have you just discovered that? Is that why you came to me?’ The sleepy blue eyes studied her over the rim of his glass.

  ‘I knew she was not in town and I dared not write and risk her reply falling into Papa’s hands. She’s in Venice. That is why I came straight here. As soon as I discovered where she was and what you were planning...’ This was the tricky part. Would it help that Rhys was castaway?

  He was not drunk enough to miss her meaning or perhaps he just knew her too well. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. You are not coming with me to the Continent. It is impossible, impractical, outrageous.’

  ‘Have you become such a conventional prude that you cannot help an old friend?’ she demanded. The old Rhys would rise to that lure.

  ‘I am not conventional.’ Rightly taking her words as an insult, Rhys banged the glass down, slopping brandy onto the highly polished mahogany. The smell was a physical reminder of what she was dealing with. ‘Nor am I a prude. Revolting word. Like prunes and...’ He shook his head as though to jerk his thoughts back on course. ‘You cannot go gallivanting about Europe with a man you are not married to. Think of the scandal.’

  ‘A scandal only if I am recognised, and who is going to do that? I will be veiled and anyone who sees us will assume I am your mistress.’ He rolled his eyes, as well he might. She was hardly mistress material, veil or no veil. ‘Frankly, I do not care if I am ruined. It can’t make things any worse. Rhys, I am not asking to be taken about as though I was on an expedition of pleasure, merely to be transported. I cannot go by myself, not easily, although if you do not help me then I will hire a courier and a maid and attempt it.’

  ‘Using what for money?’ he demanded. ‘Or do you expect me to lend you the funds to ruin yourself with?’

  ‘Certainly not. But my life will be wrecked if I have to stay.’ He looked decidedly unconvinced. ‘I have eighteen months’ allowance with me.’ The bundles of notes and the coins sewn into her underwear had kept her warm and comforted her with their solid presence throughout the long journey.

  ‘I suppose your father handed it over without question?’ There was the faintest hint of a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It gave her some hope that the old Rhys, the carefree, reckless boy who was up for any lark, was still lurking somewhere inside this rather formidable man.

  ‘Of course not. I have not spent more than a few pounds of my allowance for three months. The rest I took from the money box in Papa’s study. I left a proper receipt.’

  ‘And who taught you to pick locks, madam?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘The devil! I can’t deny it.’ He did grin then. ‘You were very good at it, I recall. Remember the day when you opened Godmama’s desk drawer and rescued my catapult? And I had a perfect alibi, clearing up under the nose of the head gardener after I broke three windows in the conservatory.’

  ‘You said that you would be for ever in my debt.’ She did not make the mistake of smiling triumphantly.

  ‘I think I was thirteen at the time,’ Rhys said. ‘That is a very long time to remember a debt.’

  ‘Surely a gentleman never forgets one, especially to a lady.’ His eyes flickered over her appalling clothes, but he refrained from comment. ‘You have three choices, Rhys. Take me with you, leave me to my own devices in London or send me back to Papa.’ Thea smiled to reduce the bluntness of her demand. ‘Think of it as one last adventure. Or don’t you dare?’

  He shook his head at her, then winced as his eyes crossed. ‘Do not think you are going to provoke me that way. I am twenty-eight, Thea, much too old for that nonsense.’

  Rhys was not too old for anything, she thought as she concentrated on keeping her face open and ingenuous. He looked perfect for one last adventure, one last dream. ‘Please?’

  It had never failed before. She had no idea why, of all the group of godchildren who had spent their long summers with Lady Hughson, she was the one who could always wheedle Rhys into doing anything she asked. Her, ordinary little Althea, not the other boys, not even Serena, the blue-eyed beauty he had fallen in love with.

  ‘I must be mad.’ She held her breath as he took a long swallow of brandy, his Adam’s apple moving in the muscled column of his throa
t. ‘I’ll take you. But you had better behave, brat, or you’ll be on the first boat home.’

  Chapter Two

  Rhys might have been foxed, but he could still organise his affairs with an autocratic authority. Hurrying upstairs to get changed, a sleepy maid at her heels, Thea recognised the development of the charm she remembered from years before. Then he would smile, explain, persuade—and things happened as the young Earl of Palgrave desired them. Everything except his marriage.

  As an adult he still smiled, but he had no need for persuasion, it seemed. What his lordship ordered, happened. Now a travelling carriage was waiting behind the chaise in which she sat, clad in the plain, crumpled gown and cloak she had pulled from her portmanteau. A startled housemaid had received an unexpected promotion to lady’s attendant and was chattering excitedly with Rhys’s valet, Hodge, while the remainder of the luggage was packed into the carriage.

  Thea twitched the side blind to make certain it was securely down, although there was no one in the dawn-lit street to see her inside the vehicle, let alone recognise her with the thick veil that covered her face. She yawned and wriggled her toes, relishing the thick carpet and the comfortable squabs after the Spartan stagecoach. Her new maid—Molly, Polly?—would join her in the chaise and Rhys would travel in the carriage with his valet, she assumed.

  That was a good thing. She had not realised quite what a shock to the system this fully grown Rhys would be. Other than some distant glimpses when their paths had crossed while she was doing the Season, her last memories were of a youthful, trusting twenty-two-year-old standing white-faced at the altar as his world fell about his ears. After that he had been in London and, even when she was there, too, following her come-out, the paths of a wealthy, sophisticated man about town with no interest in finding a bride did not cross those of a young lady in the midst of the Marriage Mart.

  The door opened and a footman leaned in. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but shall I put your seat into the sleeping position?’ As he spoke he tugged a section of the padded facing panel away to reveal the darkness of the compartment that jutted out at the front of the vehicle, then he fitted the panel into the gap in front of the seat. She had heard about sleeping chaises, but had never travelled in one before.

  ‘No, thank you.’ She felt too tense to lie down. The maid deserved some rest after being dragged from her sleep to attend to her so she could use the facility.

  The door opened again, the chaise dipped to the side as someone put their foot on the step. ‘Rhys?’

  ‘Not sleeping?’ Shaven but heavy-eyed, he climbed past her, shrugged out of his coat and slid down the bed the footman had created, his booted feet disappearing into the void. ‘Wake me when we stop for breakfast.’ He closed his eyes and curled up on his side. ‘Or for highwaymen.’

  Without his coat Thea had an unimpeded view of the back of his head, his broad shoulders, the quite admirable lines of long thigh muscles and—she made no effort to avert her eyes—a firm, trim backside.

  She stared for a long minute, being only human and female, then fixed her gaze on the postilions as the chaise lurched into motion. Oh, yes, indeed, her childhood friend had grown up. She felt rather as if she had whistled for a friendly hound to come to her side and had found instead she had summoned a wolf. He might be Rhys, but he was also a male. An adult male. With, she recalled, a reputation.

  She brought to mind the sight of him in a box at Covent Garden Theatre, plying a beautiful woman with champagne, and hearing the whispers of the married ladies in her party. He had snatched that ladybird from the keeping of Lord Hepplethwaite and the displaced lord had blustered about calling him out—and had then recalled Rhys’s reputation with a rapier.

  After a few minutes Thea lowered the blind. It was easier on her nerves to see where they were and, if she was looking out of the window, then she was not watching the man slumbering by her side. He was snoring a little, which was not surprising after all he had drunk, she supposed. The sound was oddly comforting.

  A glint of water showed her they were crossing Westminster Bridge, the new gaslights disappointingly extinguished. But the view downriver was as dramatic as when Wordsworth had written about it. ‘The City now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning...’ she murmured.

  Beside her Rhys sighed as if in protest at the sound of her voice and turned over, his eyes tightly closed in sleep. His hair was fashionably cropped, but one dark lock fell over his forehead, a vivid reminder of the youth she had known. Thea reached out to brush it back, then stopped, her ungloved hand a fraction above the slightly waving strands. They rose to meet her fingertips like the pelt of a cat that had been stroked until its fur crackled.

  Thea folded her hands in her lap. Some things were better left as dreams and memories. Some things were safer as girlhood follies. After a few minutes she drew the road guide from her reticule, where she had placed it in case she had needed to set out by herself, and unfolded the map.

  They were heading into Southwark. As she had since she had begun this journey, she began to count off milestones in her head. Gathering everything she needed, undetected. Escaping from the house to the King’s Head—not the closest inn, but one where she would not be recognised, despite the extra hour’s walking it added to her flight. Taking the stage. Finding a hackney carriage to Rhys’s house and then, the most difficult part of all, persuading him to take her with him.

  Would he have agreed if he had not been drinking or if he had recognised that she was a grown woman now? She glanced down at his face, pillowed on his bent arm. Those blue eyes were closed, the veiling lashes a dark fringe. The bend in his nose was more visible from this angle and his lips moved slightly with his soft snores. There was a small scar just below his ear. That was new.

  Thea wrenched her attention back to the map and the view from the window. Houses were thinning out; ahead was Deptford, full of history. According to her guidebook, it was where Sir Francis Drake was knighted and where Tsar Peter the Great stayed when he visited England. She watched eagerly for signs of the glamorous past and was sadly disappointed by crowded, dirty streets. They rattled over cobbles, the chaise jerked to a halt several times but Rhys slept on, much to her relief. When he woke, sobered and doubtless with a crashing hangover, would he change his mind about her?

  The road began to climb towards Blackheath. Wake me for highwaymen, Rhys had instructed. Well, if they were to find any, this was a likely spot. She found she could not become very apprehensive, not on a clear June morning. More worrying was wondering where he had given the order for the first change. If it was too close to London, then there was the risk he would send her back. They rattled past the Sun in the Sands, the Fox under the Hill and the Earl of Moira as the road kept climbing. Shooter’s Hill, she supposed, and relaxed a little.

  Now they were slowing. Ahead she could see buildings, swinging inn signs. The postilions turned into the Red Lion’s courtyard and ostlers ran out to make the change as the landlord strode across the yard towards them, attracted no doubt by the coat of arms emblazoned on the carriage doors.

  Thea dropped the window. ‘Shh! His lordship is sleeping,’ she whispered to the man. Hodge appeared beside him and she murmured, ‘Please have something if you need to, but don’t wake his lordship.’

  Hodge showed no surprise, but then, he must have been aware of the state his master had been in when he boarded the chaise. He nodded and went into the inn, her maid on his heels. Thea closed the window and sat on guard, her veil in place, jealously watching for anyone who might disturb Rhys’s sleep. But after the arrival of a stagecoach, an altercation between two stable dogs and the shrill laughter of a kitchen maid flirting with an ostler all failed to do more than make him bury his head more firmly in his arms, she began to think he might sleep all morning, and began to doze herself.

  Hodge opening the door woke her with a start. He passed her a mug of coffee and a napkin wrapped around a bread roll stuffed with bacon and glanced at his unconscious m
aster.

  ‘Does he always sleep like this?’ Thea whispered.

  The valet shook his head. ‘No, my lady.’ He took the mug when she had gulped the cooling coffee and closed the door softly, leaving her more than a little disturbed. Did Hodge mean he always drank that much and therefore slept heavily?

  It had shocked her to find Rhys castaway and to see him toss off brandy as though it were lemonade. The rumours immediately after the fiasco of his wedding day were that he was a man who did not care, who had been glad to lose the responsibility of a wife and that he had plunged into a life of rakish dissipation.

  He had cared, of course. She had seen his face in that first shock of betrayal; she had felt his fingers shake as she had pressed her pocket handkerchief into them, had felt his body rigid with pain when she had risked a brief hug. But then he had turned from the altar rail, a rueful smile on his lips, confessed that he had suspected the impending elopement all along and that he wished the scandalous couple happy.

  For a man not given to falsehood, it was an impressive performance. It confused the gossipmongers, deflected some of the opprobrium from Serena and Paul and, she supposed, it salved Rhys’s pride not to appear a victim, someone to be sorry for.

  When she had been in London for her first Season the only news she could discover of him was that he had steadied, taken his seat in the House of Lords and was managing his estates with a firm hand—but that he had a shocking reputation with women. Far from seeking a new bride, he flirted as if it was a form of elegant warfare, while keeping a string of mistresses who were, she gathered from the whispers, both beautiful and expensive. He was either not invited to the entertainments thought suitable for innocent young ladies, or he chose not to attend them.