An Impossible Confession Page 2

  Helen glanced out in time to see a notice fixed to the wall. No horses, links, lanterns, or vehicles for hire. Her last hope faded away; now she had to stay at the inn. She looked at Mary. ‘One day out of Cheltenham, and already my reputation is to suffer. Unless….’ A thought struck her.

  ‘Miss Fairmead?’ Mary looked at her in concern, for she knew that note in her mistress’s voice.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something else Miss Figgis was fond of drumming into me. She said that single and married ladies only stayed at inns if escorted, but widows were allowed more latitude.’ She removed her gloves, transferring her signet ring to her left hand, and turning it so that only the band of gold could be seen.

  Mary watched in dismay. ‘Oh, Miss Fairmead, I don’t think you should….’

  ‘It’s inspired, Mary Caldwell. Widows are permitted to stay at inns, so I must become a widow for the night. I shall be Mrs er, Brown. Yes, that will do nicely.’

  ‘But….’

  ‘Don’t find fault, Mary, for I think it’s an excellent notion. No one need know my real name, and therefore my reputation will not suffer at all. No one will ever know that Miss Helen Fairmead stayed the night at the Cat and Fiddle Inn, Upper Ballington.’

  But it wasn’t going to be as simple as that, as she was going to find out to her cost.

  CHAPTER 2

  Two other vehicles were in the courtyard, a London-bound stagecoach that had been about to depart, but had at the last moment cried off because of Lord Swag, and the bright red curricle that had overtaken the chaise a short while before. The enclosed space seemed to amplify the noise of the rain, and it was a dark, shadowy place, in spite of the lanterns suspended beneath the gallery giving access to the rooms on the first floor.

  The stagecoachman was disgruntled at not being able to complete his journey to the capital, but the passengers, having heard in the inn about the advent of the nocturnal highwayman, had decided en bloc not to travel any further until the next day. Seated wetly on his box, the stagecoachman was engaged in an ill-tempered altercation with an ostler, and the very name Lord Swag was cursed roundly more than once. In the ticket office the clerk was dealing with an anxious man who wanted to reach Northleach that night to see a sick relative, and from the adjacent kitchen door a maid emerged to empty a bucket of water into the overflowing gutter. A thin black lurcher was tethered to an iron hoop in the wall next to some large water butts, and its attention was riveted on the maid, whom it evidently hoped was going to bring food.

  The gentleman with the curricle was standing in the shelter afforded by the gallery, instructing a groom concerning the precise care of his valuable vehicle and team. He was near one of the lanterns, and Helen could see him quite clearly. He’d removed his top hat and cloak, and was revealed as very much a man of fashion, tall, supremely elegant, and exceedingly handsome. There was something unmistakably aristocratic about his finely made profile, and something very arresting about the piercing blue of his eyes as he glanced briefly toward the chaise without noticing her face at the window. His tousled black hair was worn just a little longer than was the vogue, and it became him very well. He was dressed in the excellence only Bond Street could provide, his mulberry coat boasting a high stand-fall collar and a superbly tailored line that showed off his manly figure to perfection. His long legs were encased in extremely tight light-gray corduroy trousers, and his gray-and-white-striped Valencia waistcoat was partly unbuttoned to reveal the frills of his shirt. A jeweled pin glittered in the folds of his neckcloth, a bunch of seals hung from his fob, and he held the curricle whip in one gloved hand, tapping it against his rain-spattered Hessian boots. He certainly didn’t look as if a minute or so before he’d been driving like the devil through the torrential downpour; indeed, he could have just stepped from a drawing room.

  In those brief moments, as the chaise joined the other vehicles and the postboy dismounted, Helen found herself secretly appraising the gentleman, whom she thought devastatingly attractive.

  ‘Miss Fairmead?’ Mary hadn’t noticed the gentleman, and was looking curiously at her.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Shall we alight?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Please bring the little valise from the boot, the one with my jewelry. I’d rather have it with me.’

  ‘Yes, miss. I packed your night things in the brown trunk, shall I bring them as well?’

  ‘Yes. And remember, I’m Mrs Brown from now on.’

  Mary was unhappy about the pretense, but nodded.

  Helen opened the chaise door, and immediately the damp evening air swept over her. The noise of the rain was all around, and she could hear the stagecoachman and groom arguing loudly. The postboy had been inspecting the bridle of one of the horses, but as he heard the chaise door open, he came around to assist her. But the moment he stepped into view, his yellow jacket seemed to antagonize the hitherto quiet lurcher. With a savage volley of barks and snarls, it flung itself at him, coming up sharply because of the leash, but then hurling forward again, determined to somehow get to the object of its hatred. The postboy halted in alarm, backing instinctively away, and the sight of its prey moving further out of reach infuriated the lurcher still more. It was like something possessed, goaded beyond belief by the mere sight of a yellow jacket.

  The uproar frightened the various teams in the courtyard, that of the stagecoach particularly so, for they were facing the almost demented dog. They tossed their heads nervously, dragging the stagecoach forward a little and causing the stagecoachman to reach instinctively for the reins. For the postboy, discretion proved the better part of valor, and he decided to leave Helen to her own devices. Turning on his heel, he hurried away, and his departure drove the lurcher to further distraction. It flung itself after him with such force that it seemed it must tear the iron hoop from the wall. The horses were increasingly restive, and the stagecoachman was having a great deal of trouble calming his frightened team.

  Helen had no option but to alight unaided, and as she did so the stagecoachman lost his battle to hold his team back. They started forward, anxious to get away from the dog, and Helen stepped down right into their path. They surged toward her, and she turned with a frightened gasp, screaming as they towered over her, their eyes rolling as they fought against the bit.

  Mary screamed as well, certain she was about to see her beloved mistress trampled to death, but then, at the eleventh hour, Helen was snatched to safety, and pressed back against the wall by someone as the coach horses clattered past, so close that they splashed water over her hem. She closed her eyes, her heart pounding with dread as she clung fearfully to her rescuer. She heard the stagecoachman’s shouts, and the clatter of hooves as the team were at last brought under control, but she was still too afraid to open her eyes.

  All was confusion in the yard, with ostlers calling out in alarm, Mary bursting into tears, and the lurcher keeping up its wretched noise as if compelled to do so by some unseen force. Helen continued to cling to her rescuer, her face pressed against his shoulder. She was trembling from head to toe, only too aware of how close a scrape it had been.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Her deliverer gently relaxed his hold, looking anxiously at her.

  She opened her eyes then raising her head to look into the vivid blue gaze of the Bond Street gentleman.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked again, more than a little concerned.

  She managed to nod. ‘Yes, I – I think so.’

  But she swayed a little, and he tightened his hold immediately, glancing across the courtyard at the main doorway into the inn. The door was ajar and he could see a bright passageway where tables stood against the wall with the bowls of water and fresh handtowels always put out for newly arriving guests; he also saw a settle, which was the very thing for a lady in distress. He steered her quickly across to the doorway, ushered her inside and seated her carefully on the settle. ‘Shall I have someone bring you a glass of water?’ he asked, glancing around for a sign of a waite
r or a maid.

  ‘No, thank you. I just need a moment.’

  ‘Of course. That was a little too close for comfort, I think.’

  ‘It was indeed.’ She looked up at him. ‘I believe I owe you my life, Mr…?’

  ‘Lord Drummond of Wintervale.’ He inclined his head and made a gesture of bowing.

  ‘Oh. Forgive me, I didn’t realize.’

  ‘Why should you? I don’t wear a sign around my neck.’ He replied, a little amused. ‘Actually, I happen to be Adam Drummond – Lord Drummond of Wintervale, my family name and title being one and the same, a distinction I share with a number of my peers, including Earl Spencer of Althorp.’ He smiled.

  It was a smile that devastated her defenses, arousing all manner of thoughts that no young lady fresh from Miss Figgis’s Seminary should ever think. Helen was caught off guard by her own reaction, and had to look away in some confusion.

  He watched her. ‘You now have the advantage of me, I think, for although you know who I am, your identity remains a mystery.’

  For a moment she was in danger of blurting out the truth, but she remembered just in time. ‘My – my name is Mrs Brown, my lord.’

  ‘Mr Brown is indeed a fortunate man to have such a lovely wife.’

  She colored at the compliment, but was regaining her composure with each passing moment. ‘My husband is dead, my lord,’ she replied, feeling horridly guilty as she uttered the words, but all she could think of was the harm that would be done to her reputation should her real identity be known.

  He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I beg your pardon, I trust my remark didn’t cause distress.’

  ‘Of course not, my lord.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me that you might be a widow, for you wear no hint of mourning.’

  ‘I’ve been a widow for some years, sir.’ Oh, dear, the fibs were coming one after the other.

  She was spared from having to tell further untruths by the sudden appearance of the landlord, who’d been drawn at last from his comfortable chair in the kitchens by the noise and disturbance in the courtyard. He’d ordered, the lurcher to be taken away to the stables, and had learned of the miraculous prevention of a terrible accident. He came reluctantly into the passage, for he knew full well he was going to receive a sharp rebuke from the owner of the curricle. A large man with a pot belly and jowls that bulged above his tight collar, he came unwillingly toward them. He was wiping his hands on his starched apron, his eyes meeting theirs for as brief a moment as possible.

  ‘I trust the lady is unharmed, sir.’

  ‘She is, but that’s not thanks to your thoughtlessness. What on earth possessed you to leave that black brute in the courtyard, it’s quite obviously untrained.’ Lord Drummond’s blue eyes were cold, and his tone was sharply clipped.

  ‘The dog was once badly beaten by a postboy, sir, that’s why he behaved as he did.’

  ‘Indeed, and is it also why you tied him up in a place where he’s almost certain to see postboys?’ inquired his lordship dryly.

  The man shifted guiltily. ‘We don’t get many postboys here, sir.’

  ‘You’re on the London road,’ came the somewhat acid response.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So I think it reasonable to expect the occasional postboy to appear in your yard. In future, I trust you’ll show more basic sense, and keep that damned cur well away from innocent travelers.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will, sir.’

  Lord Drummond looked at Helen. ‘Are you intending to lodge here for the night?’

  ‘The weather and Lord Swag leave me no choice in the matter, sir.’

  ‘We’re both in the same predicament, I fancy, for it’s too important that I reach London for a meeting in the very early morning for me to risk an encounter with a gentleman of the road. I’ll have to leave at dawn,’ He smiled, turning back sternly to the landlord. ‘I expect you to make some restitution to this lady for the terrible distress your carelessness has caused.’

  ‘Restitution, sir?’ The man’s face fell.

  ‘Yes. I expect you to provide her with your best room for the night.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘And then I expect you to provide me with your next best room.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And I certainly expect your kitchens to provide something more palatable than the usual fodder you undoubtedly place before your unfortunate guests.’

  ‘The Cat and Fiddle has always provided a good table, sir,’ replied the man, drawing himself up proudly.

  ‘I trust that doesn’t prove an idle boast. Now, see to it that Mrs Brown’s chaise is properly attended to, and then have her postboy present himself to me, for I intend to have words with him concerning the way he deserted his duty.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The man hurried thankfully out again, just as Mary came timidly in, still sniffing a little tearfully and clutching the valise containing Helen’s jewelry, as well as a discreet bundle of night attire wrapped in a shawl.

  Helen smiled at her. ‘I’m all right, Mary.’

  ‘Are you sure, miss?’

  ‘Quite sure, but please try and remember that I’m Mrs Brown, not your previous mistress.’ Helen eyed her warningly.

  ‘Yes, madam. Forgive me.’ Mary met her gaze a little guiltily.

  Lord Drummond saw nothing untoward in the exchange, and looked at Helen again. ‘I take it you’re traveling with just your maid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then would you do me the inestimable honor of dining with me? Fate has conspired to halt our journeys in this odious establishment, and so it seems to me that we could make the stay much more agreeable by enjoying each other’s company. At least, I shall enjoy yours, and I trust you will feel the same about mine.’ He smiled again.

  Her defenses were reduced to tatters. His smiles rendered her totally vulnerable, and made her want to throw caution to the winds. She’d already broken a cardinal rule by staying in this place; she’d be breaking another if she went so far as to dine with a gentleman she hardly knew, even if he had just saved her life. She hesitated, feeling Mary’s horrified gaze upon her.

  He misinterpreted the hesitation, thinking he’d appeared more than a little forward. ‘Forgive me, I meant nothing improper by the invitation, Mrs Brown. I merely think that dinner is much more enjoyable when taken in company. I loathe dining alone.’

  She looked quickly at him. ‘So do I, my lord. I gladly accept your invitation.’ She felt rather than heard Mary’s dismayed gasp.

  He was smiling again. ‘Excellent. Shall we say in one hour’s time wherever mine host directs? I understand from the groom that there’s to be a rather rowdy reunion dinner in the main dining room, which will make it crowded and exceeding disagreeable for those not involved.’

  She nodded. ‘In one hour’s time.’

  He took her hand to kiss it, and she had to suppress a frisson of wayward pleasure, for it was as if she wore no gloves and his lips touched her bare skin.

  As he walked back out to the rainswept courtyard, Mary came closer, still clutching the valise and night things. She looked unhappily at her mistress. ‘Oh, Miss Fairmead, you really shouldn’t have accepted, you don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Miss Figgis said….’

  ‘I’m well aware of what Miss Figgis said.’ Helen gave a rather reckless smile. ‘I know I shouldn’t feel like this, but I’m really beginning to enjoy myself.’

  ‘But he might be really wicked!’

  ‘He might be, but I’m sure he isn’t. Besides, I’m not Miss Fairmead, I’m the widowed Mrs Brown. She’s the one who’s staying here, and she’s the one who’s going to dine with Lord Drummond.’

  ‘But he’s a stranger, miss.’

  ‘Mary Caldwell, if you say one more word I shall make you sleep in the chaise. I know I’m behaving improperly, I know I shouldn’t have even thought of accepting his invitation, but I have, and now I intend to enjoy
myself to the full.’

  ‘But, what if…?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as “what if,” not tonight,’ declared Helen firmly.

  Mary sighed and fell silent. This was all the height of madness, and nothing good was going to come of it, nothing good at all.

  CHAPTER 3

  One hour later, Helen was almost ready to keep her dinner appointment. She sat before the candlelit dressing table while Mary put the finishing touches to her hair.

  Outside, it was still raining heavily, but in the Cat and the Fiddle’s best room it was dry, warm, and very comfortable. The room occupied a prime position at the front of the inn, with windows facing the London road, but was so large that it also had a window and door opening onto the gallery above the courtyard. It was a handsome chamber, beamed and paneled, and in view of the terrible weather, which made the night unseasonably cool, a fire had been lit in the immense hearth.

  Apart from the dressing table, the room boasted a particularly fine old four-poster bed hung with pale blue damask, and there was a vast wardrobe with enough space for the clothes of half a dozen ladies of fashion. A table stood in one corner, with a porcelain jug and bowl, and a chest of drawers occupied another corner, so far beyond the arc of candlelight that it was barely visible in the shadows. At the foot of the bed there was a pallet, brought in especially for Mary, and it looked rather small beside the great four-poster, which was so high there were steps to climb into it.

  Helen’s reflection looked back at her from the mirror on the dressing table. She wore the same white gown she’d traveled in, it hardly being practical to unpack and press another one just for this evening, but she wasn’t displeased, for the gown was one of what Madame Rosalie called her ‘amiable creations,’ because it could be dressed up or down to suit the occasion. Tonight she’d chosen to wear her mother’s diamonds with it, and they glittered and flashed as the candlelight moved. Her hair was twisted up into an elaborate knot from which tumbled several heavy ringlets, and there was a froth of little curls framing her face.