Read an Excerpt

'So, you are happy to be travelling all alone, then, Miss Chapman?'

'I am, ma'am,' the young lady answered through lightly gritted teeth. She had been asked the same question, in the same scandalised tone, about five minutes previously. Even before then two other women, and a gentleman, had made similar enquiries, couched in a slightly different way. Each interrogator had in turn professed a concern for her welfare rather than an interest in her business. In the close confines of the mail coach Fiona Chapman could not escape the ladies' judgemental eyes or the fact that they were whispering about her behind their gloved fingers. Only the middle-aged farmer had not returned to the subject of her lack of a companion after his initial remark.

A triumphant blast of the driver's horn proclaimed the rattling contraption to be approaching a watering hole. Miss Chapman's fellow passengers stirred excitedly at the prospect of stretching their legs and having some refreshment. A few minutes later, from under the brim of her chip-straw bonnet, she watched them all alighting. The farmer, who had introduced himself and his wife as the Jacksons, had sat opposite Fiona, accidentally banging his tweedy knees against hers every time the coach leapt a rut. Now he kindly held out a hand, helping her to alight onto the cobbles of the Fallow Buck public house. Fiona gave him a rather wistful smile because he reminded her of her late papa with his wispy salt-and-pepper hair and rotund girth straining his waistcoat buttons. But Anthony Chapman had been older, Fiona guessed, than this fellow. Her father had died of a heart attack a few years ago at the age of fifty-two and the sad occasion had been the catalyst to Fiona making this journey.

'Don't be paying heed to my wife, miss.' Mr Jackson patted Fiona's hand before letting it go. 'She's a worrier and not only on her own account. We've two daughters, you see, so know a bit about what girls get up to.' He slid Fiona a startled look. 'Not that I think you're up to anything, my dear Miss Chapman,' he burst out. 'Oh, no… I wasn't suggesting…or prying…'

'I understand.' Fiona gave him a kind smile, taking pity on his blushing confusion. Of course he thought she was up to something…just as the ladies did. And they were right to be suspicious; well-bred young ladies did not as a rule travel unaccompanied on public transport.

'Our two girls have settled down with their husbands. Good fellows, both of them, and Dora and Louise have each got a brood round their ankles.' He gave Fiona an expectant smile, perhaps hoping to hear that such a blissful ending might be on the cards for her before it was too late.

Fiona knew that it was clear to all but a blind man that she was not in the first flush of youth and remaining on the shelf was thus a possibility. She'd no claim to beauty, either, and looked what she was: a spinster in her mid-twenties, with a pleasant rather than a pretty face and hair a disappointing shade of muddy blonde. She spoke in an educated way and that together with her neat attire proclaimed her to be not poor, but not rich, either, holding a status somewhere in between the two.

Mr Jackson poked an elbow in Fiona's direction, offering to escort her into the tavern. While they had been conversing his wife and the Beresford sisters had gone ahead and disappeared inside the open doorway. 'Mrs Jackson is alarmed in case any harm is done you, you see. And I have to admit I share my good lady's worries.'

'I'm sure I shall arrive in Dartmouth in one piece,' Fiona returned with a smile that concealed the fact she wasn't as confident as she sounded. She had left London in good spirits despite her mother begging her not to act so rashly. But the further west she journeyed the stronger grew her doubts over the wisdom of her impetuous decision to take up gainful employment in a strange and remote place.

She'd read about Devon and Cornwall in books and studied pictures of wild seas crashing against rugged coastlines. She'd seen images of country folk dressed in plain coarse clothes and shod in clogs. It was all a far cry from the sophistication of the capital city in which she'd been reared. But then Fiona had never really been part of that life, either, preferring to read or paint than attend society parties with her mother and sister. She'd been sure she was ready for a change, even before change had been forced upon her by her papa's demise and Cecil Ratcliff's arrival.

'You're an innocent, my dear, not used to country ways, I'll warrant,' Peter Jackson broke in on Fiona's deep thoughts. 'There are nasty individuals about these parts who'd rob blind a lady…or worse…' he mumbled. 'So you be on your guard every minute. Before we go our separate ways we'll give you our direction just in case you might be in need of assistance. If your business doesn't go the way you want you might need a friend.'

Fiona knew the man was keen to know what her business was, but she'd no intention of elaborating. She'd been reared to guard her tongue and her privacy in case the ton's gossips concocted something out of an innocent remark. The fact that her destination was the home of a widower was sure to set tongues wagging; she'd thought carefully about it herself before accepting the post of governess to two motherless children at Herbert Lodge.

'Thank you for you kind advice, sir, I will remember it,' Fiona promised, while holding on to her bonnet as a stiff breeze lifted it away from her crown.

Mr Jackson had introduced himself and his wife to Fiona earlier, when they had set out from the staging post in Dawlish. He'd told the assembled company that he and his dear lady were returning home having attended the nuptials of a niece. Miss Beresford and her sister Ruth had also boarded the coach at Dawlish but were due to alight first. Fiona and the Jacksons were travelling further on into Devon.

On entering the tavern Fiona and Mr Jackson found the trio of ladies already ensconced in comfy chairs around the blazing logs and the landlord dancing attendance upon them.

'Now you must come and sit with us close by the fire, Miss Chapman,' Mrs Jackson called from her cosy position, waggling her fingers to draw Fiona's attention.

'The coffee is very good in here…or I could recommend a hot toddy to warm you up?' Peter Jackson suggested, solicitously drawing closer an armchair for Fiona to sit in. 'We stop here quite often, don't we, Betty, and find the fare very acceptable. I had a beef and oyster pie on the last occasion and very tasty it was, too.'

Mrs Jackson sanctioned her husband's review by nodding vigorously. 'I'd take the rum, Miss Chapman,' she gave her verdict on the beverages. 'I'm having a nip. The way that wind is howling down the chimney the afternoon is sure to turn colder.'

The younger Miss Beresford slid forward on the worn hide of her armchair to whisper to Fiona, 'Pardon me, but are you absconding to elope?'

'No! Indeed, no…' Fiona choked on a half-laugh, glancing urgently about to see if anybody had overheard. Only a serving girl was behind, clearing tables of used glasses, and she seemed more interested in gazing through the window and flirting with the stable hand out in the yard. 'Do I give the impression that I might be a runaway bride?' Fiona whispered.

'I just thought it would be exciting if you were… What an adventure that would be.' Ruth Beresford gave a giggle that sounded odd coming from a woman who seemed at least thirty years old.

'The Duke of Thornley's daughter is getting married.' Mrs Jackson had caught the gist of the young ladies' conversation and thought she'd take up the challenge of prising some information from Miss Chapman. 'His Grace is rumoured to be generous and will doubtless treat his estate workers to a feast during the celebrations.'

'Let's hope he serves pheasant, then,' Mr Jackson said drily. 'The Thornley estate is overrun with the creatures—they're a blasted nuisance, squawking and wandering on to the roads,' he explained when Fiona looked mystified.

'A society wedding!' Ruth Beresford breathed, and gave Fiona a wink as though they shared a confidence.

'I shall see if our host has a pie kept warm,' Mr Jackson said, changing the subject. He could tell that Miss Chapman was becoming increasingly embarrassed at Ruth's hints she might be eloping. A similar thought about Fiona's lone journey had run through Peter Jackson's mind, but he would never have aired it. 'Would you like to eat something?' Peter asked his wife while traversing the room to the bar.

'Oh, yes, indeed,' Mrs Jackson said.

'I fancy a beef sandwich if the landlord can rustle up such a thing,' Ruth Beresford told her elder sister. 'Might I have my coins?' Valerie Beresford delved into a pocket and drew forth a little pouch she'd been keeping safe.

Fiona was also feeling hungry. She put her reticule on her lap and opened the strings to find some money. The thought of a beef sandwich, with horseradish, was making her mouth water. She decided to add her order to her companions and take up Mrs Jackson's idea of a rum toddy to wash it down and keep the chill at bay. Now out of the coach and relaxing with her travelling companions, she felt her misgivings about her new life fading away. Everything would be fine as long as she kept her mettle.

'What in damnation are you doing here?' The gentleman's harsh demand suggested an imminent display of anger, but he remained lounging at ease in his chair. A slight hardening in his handsome features was all that attested to his annoyance.

Oh, but he was furious… Becky Peake knew that very well. He hadn't shouted at her, although she knew she deserved it. His voice had been stone cold and so were those eyes that resembled chips of charcoal.

'Don't be cross with me, Luke,' she begged. The landlord of the tavern had shown her to the back room and Becky now skipped over the threshold, closing the door behind her. 'I don't want to be left behind in town when you're so far away.' Approaching his chair, she attempted to perch provocatively on his lap.

But he got up from the table with a muttered oath and walked away.

Becky, always pragmatic, looked at the appetising plate of food he'd abandoned. 'I'm famished…might I tuck in if you've finished?'

He flicked a hand. 'Help yourself.'

Becky untied her bonnet strings, allowing her dark curls to bounce to her shoulders. Loosening the cloak fastened at her throat, she settled down to enjoy the cold meats, springy aromatic bread and cheese piled on to the plate. Suddenly aware that her lover was gazing thoughtfully at her, Becky used the snowy napkin to dab her pout. 'What is it?' She dimpled. 'Do you forgive me? You look as though you do.'

'Well, that depends,' he said with a fractional smile.

'You always overlook my peccadilloes when I'm attentive to you.' Becky sounded confident and got up to sashay towards him, then coil her arms about his strong neck.

'Your impertinence is not a peccadillo and I won't forget it, sweet, but now you're here perhaps there's a way you could make up for it.'

Becky unhooked a few more of her cloak fastenings and shrugged out of the garment. Beneath it she wore a flimsy lemon gown that clung to her curvaceous figure. 'I'll do whatever you say…' she purred suggestively.

'Good…' he growled, removing her arms from about his neck. 'Let me put a proposition to you…'

Chapter Two

I'm not set against your plan, Your Grace. I simply think that it is too soon to implement it.'

'Pray, why is that?' Alfred Morland, Duke of Thorn-ley, was not used to being gainsaid, especially by persons of vastly inferior rank. But this was no ordinary man. Major Wolfson was a veteran of the Peninsular Wars and had a catalogue of commendations attesting to his military expertise and bravery. The Duke of Wellington, a mutual acquaintance, had recommended the major's services when Thornley outlined his predicament. Since His Grace was in great need of somebody possessing Wolfson's qualities, he was repressing his temper as best he could while glaring at the tall figure standing opposite. He was a fine figure of a man, Thornley inwardly sniffed, and he could believe Wellington's boast that no sane fellow would cross his former aide-de-camp without good cause and serious consideration. But having invested much time and thought in this intrigue the Duke of Thornley very badly wanted to see action as soon as possible. Since Napoleon had been defeated, Major Wolfson had been hiring out his talents; not that he needed the money—Wellington had let on that the fellow had banked an inheritance from his late grandfather that would make Croesus envious. Apparently, Luke Wolf-son liked the life of a soldier and had no interest in settling down as a country squire in Essex. Such a thrill seeker had seemed a prime candidate to carry out the mission, but Thornley could see that the fellow was not at all impressed with his brainchild to outwit a local villain.

Luke took a hearty swallow of the brandy the duke had given him when feeling affable, then placed the glass on the mantel. 'There is a risk to a young woman's life which surely makes rigorous checks imperative before the point of no return.'

'I have engaged you, sir, in the hope that you will deal with any dangers facing the doxy. If you find the task onerous or beyond your capabilities, you have only to say and I will employ another mercenary.'

'In which case you will certainly need to delay while you find someone willing to take on the job and infiltrate the Collins gang.' Luke's lips slanted in a subtle smile as the older man brooded on those salient points, like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

'The woman is being paid handsomely for her trouble…as are you,' His Grace sourly reminded.

'Indeed, and I have promised Miss Peake she will be back in town by next week spending her earnings. I would not want to be arranging her funeral instead.'

'Well, tell the chit she might have a bonus if she agrees to expeditiously get this over with.' Thornley gave the major a dour glance. 'No doubt you expect a similar favour even though you have already negotiated a princely sum for yourself.'

Luke gave an easy shrug. 'If you want to offer an inducement to accelerate matters, I will, of course, accept it. But the risks remain the same and I would urge you to think carefully before pelting headlong into this. If Collins smells a rat, you might gain nothing and tempt the gang to persecute you and your daughter. Her welfare is paramount, is it not?'

'It is!' Wolfson's last remark had touched a nerve. The Duke of Thornley adored his daughter. He knew she got bored in Devon confined to the house. But Thornley was loath to let her out much, even with her maid, to enjoy the local markets and emporiums because of the gang of ruffians infesting the area. 'If the blackguard smells a rat it will be because Wellington has overdone your praises. I'm paying you to ensure that Collins suspects nothing.' His Grace thumped down his brandy glass on the desktop, shoving himself to his feet. 'You forget yourself, sirrah, to be lecturing me!'