Callie judged that it was best to remove him from the place, even if Trev had hidden himself. She gave a curt nod. "Then let us go. Lilly, you'll give my compliments to Madame, and please tell her that she needn't fear any further intrusion."
Outside, her judgment of the preferred course of action took a sudden turn. As she passed through the door ahead of the major, she glanced up at the landau, which had both of its canopies raised to make it a closed carriage in the inclement weather. The driver sat up on his perch with his back to them, hunched down against the mist, a shapeless hat pulled over his eyes.
She almost stopped in her tracks. Then she forced herself not to pause or stare at the driver, who had an all-too-familiar cut of black hair just barely showing under the hat. She made a great demonstration of being unable to lift her shawl over her hat to cover it, which required such aid from the major as kept his attention occupied until they reached the carriage door. He held it open for her and Callie stepped up inside.
As Major Sturgeon swung in beside her, he called out a command to drive on. The vehicle jerked into motion. He sat back on the seat and turned to her.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?" he said.
She sat bolt upright. "I beg your pardon."
"I understand you now." He gave a slight laugh. "You're carrying a torch for that French scoundrel. That's why you don't want me to touch you and asked me to call off the Runners."
In spite of the fact that it was nothing but the whole ghastly truth, Callie exclaimed, "Are you mad?" She sat away from him. "The poor duchesse is my friend. I don't want her to be tortured while she's ill."
"Certainly," he agreed. "I understand that."
He said nothing more but merely looked ahead at the black leather of the landau's canopy, a slight frown on his strong, handsome features. Callie was beyond any words. She kept expecting him to call off the engagement, but he did not. She stared out the window at the gray sky and slowly passing fields.
As the carriage turned in at the gates of the Hall, the major said, "You're better off with me, you know." His voice was not unkind. "I won't tell you what sort of man he is—I think you're well aware, or you would have run away with him already. But that's an ill way to win you, is it not? Disparaging my rival for your heart." He lifted her hand and kissed it lightly. "I'll strive to make my own place in your affections."
"I'm sure—there's no necessity—I do not require—"
He released her before she could pull away. "Do you say I must not make the attempt?" He gave a wry smile. "Will you be that cruel to me, my dear heart?"
Callie looked at him in astonishment. "Please, I would prefer that we—"
"That we go our own ways. Yes, I comprehend you. Completely. I only ask that, as you have been so generous as to say I may take any woman I choose, you allow me to choose you."
The carriage rolled to a halt beside the stairs. A Shelford footman stepped briskly forward, opening the door. He would have helped her out, but Major Sturgeon jumped down first and held up his hand. Callie had no choice but to take it or remain confined in the coach, which seemed like a promising course of action when she thought about it. She could just take up residence there and simplify her life. As she descended the steps, she took one sideways glance at the driver again, to make sure she hadn't been deceiving herself.
She hadn't. Trev sat holding the lines of a team of placid job horses, staring out ahead of him. The Antlers' postboy stood in front of the team, holding their heads, a vastly innocent expression on his face.
Major Sturgeon took her arm and guided her up the stairs.
The most dangerous moment for Trev wasn't getting out of Dove House, or exchanging places with the Antlers' grinning driver, or climbing into Callie's unlocked window in broad daylight. It was offering a bribe to the gruff old charwoman who first discovered him in her bedchamber.
In the old days, the Shelford servants had not been susceptible to bribes. The butler kept his staff firmly in line but looked kindly enough on Trev that recourse to sweeteners hadn't been useful or necessary. It was a risk now to assume that things were different under the management of Lady Shelford. The moment he heard the doorknob turn, he laid a stack of gold sovereigns in the middle of the f loor where it would be instantly noted and stood to the side, trying to look as harmless as possible.
The charwoman saw the coins first. She froze, holding her broom and ash bucket. Trev cleared his throat and said in a soft, easy voice, "They're yours, if you're a friend to Lady Callista."
She startled and looked up. The instant in which she saw him rated well up in the category of the longest in his life, along with sitting in the dock waiting for the judge to read his fate.
No expression f litted across her face, no recogniz able thought process. She leaned on the broom. It trembled a little in her blue-veined hand.
"I mean her no harm," Trev said. "I love her."
She took a slow step into the room. With a bang of her bucket, she closed the door so that they were alone. "Sir's the Frenchie gentleman," she said, jutting her chin toward him. It was not quite a question. "Outta Dove House."
Trev nodded. "Aye, my mother is the duchesse."
The old woman lifted her broom, indicating the cano pied bed. "M'lady's been weepin' of a night, sir. Even though her got bespoke to marry that officer, eh?"
That was a shaft directly to his heart, but he had no reply for it. He looked down at his boots and up again.
"Well, sir," she said after a moment, in her rough, old voice. "I reckon I ought to call up the hall boy and say there's a housebreaker, eh?" She peered at the coins on the f loor. Then she bent over and gathered them up, dropping them into her apron pocket. "If I find m'lady's been weepin' in her pillow in the morning, I will, sir," she said and went about sweeping the ashes from the hearth.
Twenty
BY THE TIME CALLIE MANAGED TO EXTRICATE HERSELF from Major Sturgeon's suddenly ardent turn of mind, and Lady Shelford's strong rebuke over vanishing from Miss Poole's shop without warning, and Hermey's delighted description of the discovery of the perfect butter-spotted sarcenet for spring at a bargain price, she wanted nothing more than to sit alone in her room with a cup of tea and stare stupidly out the window.
Her excuse of a headache was no exaggeration— she was long over the effects of the bump on her skull, but the events of the morning had brought on a splitting pain in her temples. She sat down beside the window and requested the maid to close the door gently behind her after leaving the tray. Outside, the rain had come on to pour. Callie sipped her tea, staring with grim satisfaction at the cascades of water beating against the windowpanes. On the assumption that Trev was not going to be arrested, tried, and hung—not in the next half hour, at any rate—she hoped he drowned.
She indulged in a small reverie in which she piloted a rowboat, saving puppies and kittens and the occasional lamb from a raging f lood, ferrying them to warm safety while Trev and Major Sturgeon clung to trees, forced to await her aid, which she was in no hurry to provide. She finally got round to them, fighting wind and torrents in her oilskins, as she was stirring sugar into her second cup. Her headache receded as she treated herself to this fantasy. She disposed of Major Sturgeon in some vague but laudable manner and then found herself wrapped in a blanket with Trev, with water dripping from his hair onto his bared shoulders as he held her in his arms and kissed her fiercely…
She took a slow breath, dreaming. A sensation grew on her: a feeling of his presence, now that she brought the mute awareness to the forefront of her mind. A scent below perception, a still sound of life and breath—the things that the animals knew, and she knew too when she gave them the proper attention.
She looked up and saw the note placed on her pillow.
Abruptly she put the cup aside and strode to the bed. Don't be alarmed, the paper said, in familiar black strokes made from her own inkpot. It wasn't signed. It hardly needed to be. She dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. The space
was empty. Callie glanced toward her wardrobe, but that was far too full of the hopeful contributions Hermey had made to her growing trousseau. She looked toward the door to her dressing room.
Irrational pleasure and rational consternation warred for a moment. Rationality won out and was all the more enraged by the moment of foolish weakness. She stood up and snapped, "Show yourself this instant."
There was no reply. Callie glared at the door. She refused to go over and peer into it as if she were looking for a mouse that had escaped round the corner.
"If you don't come out, I shall scream," she threat ened, her voice taut.
After a long moment, Trev appeared in the doorway. He didn't move into the room, but put his hand against the frame and looked at her under a sullen lowering of his lashes. "You wouldn't scream," he murmured. "I've never heard you scream in all your life."
He was, of course, perfectly correct, but that gained him no prizes in her estimation. "I beg you will explain to me, sir, precisely what you're doing in my bedchamber."
"Raiding your jewelry casket, of course. I already have a Runner after me and a price on my head, why not actually commit a crime?"
"Oh, have you a price on your head too?" Her eyebrows arched. "I hadn't heard that much."
"Courtesy of Colonel Davenport. There are broad sides pasted up in town. Seven guineas for my capture."
"Seven guineas! How unfortunate that I missed them. I might have turned you in and spared myself this visitation in my room."
He appeared a little taken aback at that. "I'm sorry—I know it's awkward, but my mother's taken it into her head that I must leave Dove House."
"I see," Callie said coldly. "And therefore naturally you felt my bedroom was your obvious destination."
"It's ridiculous, of course. I won't leave her again, though, and I need a safe place. Hide in plain sight, you know. I didn't suppose you would…" He stopped, looking as if he couldn't quite discover the tail to his own sentence.
"You didn't suppose I would object? Why should I? A gentleman in my bedroom—how handy. Perhaps you'll discover the cause of this chimney smoking when the wind is in the south. Or you might inves tigate the way the f loorboard creaks under the ward robe. Do you plan to stay indefinitely? I must inform you that I'm engaged to be married, and must leave you to your own devices if you're to be ensconced here after Boxing Day."
"I know you're engaged," he said, his voice going harsh and icy. "How could I not? You're the talk of the town."
Callie grew stiff. She turned away. "That is unkind."
She felt him come to her and stand close behind her. "I'm sorry." He touched her hair and slid his fingers down to her throat gently. "I'm sorry, Callie. For everything."
"Quite," she said, trembling. But she did not move away as she should have. "Do you never simply ring the bell and hand in a card?"
He put his arms round her and turned her toward him. "Are you all right?" He drew a breath against her hair and then passed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "God forgive me, I've done nothing but worry about you after what happened."
She clenched her hands together, pushing away. "If you mean, was there any unfortunate result, no," she said, turning her back to him. "I can confirm that. So you need not concern yourself about it further."
She wanted desperately to turn back and cry out her anger and bewilderment, that he was married, that he had let her fall in love with him all over again and never told her. But then she would have betrayed herself wholly. Between him and Major Sturgeon, what silly vestige of pride she had left had been lacer ated enough. The one thing she would never admit was that she hadn't known all along. While she stood frozen, aching with the loss of his touch, she heard him move away.
"It was simply a… a f ling out, is that what they call it now?" she said to the opposite wall. The steadiness of her own voice surprised her. "I suppose I'm not the sort of person one would expect to f ling, but really, one must have one's moment before marriage, don't you think? As the horses have a kick before they're put in harness."
The dull, rushing sound of the rain drummed on the windows. She forced herself to unclench her fingers and turn toward him. He stood looking out at the down pour. His profile was silhouetted against the window so that she couldn't see his expression in the dusky light. As she looked at the straight, brooding lines of his face, she bit her lip. She could not expel him into the rain, at the mercy of Runners and broadsides. But she had no intention of allowing him to see her true heart.
He looked at her sidelong. "Will it be a harness?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow. "Marriage to him?"
"Certainly not," she said instantly. "That was merely a figure of speech. Now that I've come to know him better, I believe that we shall be excessively happy together. He's developed the greatest admiration for me. He—" She searched quickly for some evidence of the major's affection. "He brings me any number of posies and is forever kissing my hand."
"I see," Trev said. She glared at him suspiciously, in case he should be inclined to laugh, but he main tained a perfectly sober countenance. "Very gallant of him."
"Yes, and he said it would be cruel of me if I wouldn't allow him to make an attempt to win my heart," she added, to seal her case. "Just now, in fact, in the carriage, he said so."
"Oh?" He turned to face her, his features darkened by the light behind. "Then it isn't won already?"
"Very near," she lied stoutly. "I believe I can come to love him."
He made a small, taut motion, something between a nod and a jerk of his chin.
"I'm sure that once we've begun our own family," she added, expanding on her theme, "we'll be excep tionally devoted."
"Doubtless," he said in a clipped voice. "I'm charmed by this vision of connubial bliss. I assure you that I'll do all in my power to stay out of sight, so that you may continue to enjoy his attentions to the full."
"I suppose you've bribed the servants?" she asked dryly.
"Of course."
Callie expelled a deep breath. "You may remain for the night." She pointed and then crossed her arms. "In the dressing room."
He walked away to the door of the adjacent closet. "Certainly. Just toss me a biscuit now and again, like the rest of the dogs."
Trev closed the door behind him with something just short of a bang. He stood in the small dressing room, contemplating his many options. He could sleep on the bare f loor, as he'd done the night before in his mother's room, or prop himself against the wall next to the chest of drawers, padded by a pillow of clean rags that were neatly folded in one corner—their use was uncertain, but he thought it likely she was more concerned to polish some heifer to a high sheen than to have her footwear buffed. For entertainment, he saw that he could avail himself of any number of books, starting with CATTLE: Being a Treatise on their BREEDS, MANAGEMENT, AND DISEASES, Comprising a FULL HISTORY OF THE VARIOUS RACES; Their Origin, Breeding and Merits; Their Capacity for Beef and Milk; The Nature and Treatment of Their Diseases; THE WHOLE FORMING A COMPLETE GUIDE for the FARMER, THE AMATEUR, and VETERINARY SURGEON, with 100 illustrations. If that didn't put him to sleep, he could turn to THE COMPLETE GRAZIER, or Farmer's and Cattle Breeder's and Dealer's Assistant, and get an overview of neat cattle, sheep, horses, and swine, the present state of the wool trade, and an appendix on Prize Cattle, Farm Accounts, and Other Subjects Connected with Agriculture, all courtesy of A Lincolnshire Grazier, assisted by Several Eminent Agriculturalists.
He sat down on a stool and looked at her stockings instead. They were of the practical sort, plain white, knitted with warmth and not style in mind. But they hung over a wooden rack, along with her petticoats, and showed the shape and outline of a feminine leg very well. He gazed at them, indulging himself in some highly provocative thoughts, until his imagina tion was stimulated beyond the point of comfort.
It wouldn't be easy remaining here. At first, when his mother had seized on the idea, he'd mocked it, but on finding that he had to make a quick escape he'
d snatched at the first opportunity that presented itself—a pair of postboys from the Antlers who were more than willing to indulge in a lark for a few coins. That had taken him as far as Shelford Hall. Once here, the scheme had shown some advantages.
He was, for the moment, as safe in Callie's rooms as anywhere else. With a little care, he could come and go by the branches of the ancient yew to Dove House. He wanted to look into his suspicions regarding her fortune, and a glance at any account books he could manage to find might be illuminating. That would require some prowling about the house and offices in the wee hours, and perhaps a lock picking or two—not a harmless prospect, but it would give him something to do besides sit here and bleat to himself about the torture of sleeping a few feet away from her.
It would keep other thoughts at bay too. Thoughts about how he'd deserted her after he'd made love to her and about killing Sturgeon for any excuse he could come up with. The sort of thoughts that had kept him drinking in a gin house until he'd missed his ship sailing. He surprised himself. Usually he was more successful at such things as leaving his past and all its strings behind him.