And fat lot that would have done, she thought, staring into the fire as she awaited her own carriage. Lucien de Malheur didn’t strike her as the kind of man who accepted refusal any more than Miranda was the kind who meekly did as she was bid. They would have a fiery marriage. Full of adventure, Jane thought dismally. She had Mr. Bothwell.
She availed herself of her crumpled handkerchief, dabbing her eyes and her nose. It and she were in fairly bedraggled condition by now, and the thought of climbing into another carriage was her personal idea of hell. She loved to travel, but she definitely preferred a more leisurely pace, and this time she’d simply be heading back home. She had watched as the earl’s carriage pulled away, and slow tears began to slide down her cheeks. When next she saw Miranda she’d be a married woman, while Jane had little doubt that Mr. Bothwell would take one look at the huge diamond on her finger and promptly renounce her. Perhaps she’d be ruined. Miranda’s house on Half Moon Street would be vacant—she could take up residence there and become eccentric.
Or so she could only hope. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get the diamond off her hand. Once she did so, and disposed of it, then Mr. Bothwell would have every right to kiss her with his hard, dry mouth. He could continue to criticize her dress and her behavior, and even if he gave her children he would doubtless be the kind of man with strong opinions on child-rearing, ones that were ridiculous and the opposite of her own.
Two extremes stood before her: the life of an outcast or the life of Mrs. George Bothwell. It was little wonder the diamond wouldn’t come off.
She brought her handkerchief up to her eyes again, not sure if she was crying for herself or for Miranda as she disappeared on her strange bride trip. All she knew was that she hurt, inside, and her tears, instead of abating, were flowing more freely, and her disgusting handkerchief was useless against the flow….
A snowy-white handkerchief appeared in her blurred vision, and she took it gratefully, wiping her streaming eyes and blowing her nose before looking up at her savior. And for a moment she froze.
It was one of the earl’s servants—she could recognize the deep black livery. Though, he was quite tall for someone who worked with horses. Most people preferred their grooms to be small but strong, keeping the burden on the horses light. This man must weigh fourteen stone at the least.
Before he could say anything he stepped back into the shadows, replaced by the plump, cozy figure of a woman dressed in neat black clothes with a dark blue shawl around her shoulders. “Miss Pagett, I’m Mrs. Grudge. The Earl of Rochdale has hired me to escort you home. I promise Jacobs and I will take good care of you while we’re on the road. ”
Jane wanted to crane her head around, to look at the man who’d given her the handkerchief, but he was gone, and she tried to school her reaction. “Who was that?” she found herself asking, when she should have been much more polite.
But Mrs. Grudge clearly didn’t live up to her unfriendly name. She smiled at her. “That? Oh, that’s Jacobs, our driver. He’s one of the grooms. Quite the likely lad, isn’t he? All the servant girls are mad for him, of course. I believe he’s married to Cook’s daughter, but that doesn’t keep him from looking about, if you know what I mean. ”
“Yes,” Jane said in a hollow voice, thoroughly appalled. What was wrong with her? She’d barely had a glance at him and yet she’d felt this instinctive leap inside her, an odd sense of recognition. As if she’d recognize some womanizing servant of a man like the Scorpion.
“We only just arrived, miss,” the older lady continued, “and the horses need a rest. I’ve ordered you a good breakfast. I gather you’ve been sick, and I promise you we’ll take our time getting back. ”
“We’re not that far from London, are we? I think I would prefer to return as soon as possible. ”
“Bless you, miss, we’re up near the Lake District, a good two and a half days away from London. ”
“We’ve only been gone overnight!” she protested.
“His lordship travels very fast, with the best horses. We’ll be needing to be a bit more careful. But not to worry, miss. Jacobs took your note to your parents himself and they were unalarmed. You needn’t fret if it takes us a few days to get back. ”
And if she didn’t eat anything for those days the ring was bound to come off. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
No, it wasn’t. She wanted rashers of bacon and coddled eggs and toast and butter, she wanted thick cream and strawberry jam, she wanted hot chocolate and biscuits to nibble on.
And she wasn’t in the mood to face her fiancé, who doubtless would be less likely to accept her absence than her indulgent parents. Her parents knew their daughter and trusted her intelligence. Mr. Bothwell seemed to think she had only half a brain and needed to be led around like a prize calf, lest she get lost.
She yanked at the ring again, but her knuckle was getting red and swollen, so she let it be.
“Oh, what a pretty ring! May I see it?”
It was a surprisingly impertinent question from little more than a servant, but Jane would have been more than happy to have given her the damned thing. “It won’t come off. I don’t suppose you have any remedy for that, do you?”
“Duck grease!” the woman said triumphantly. “I’ll go ask the kitchen …”
“Tried it,” Jane said flatly. “Also soap, butter, hot compresses, cold compresses, yanking, pulling. It won’t come off. ”
There was a speculative expression in Mrs. Grudge’s eyes. “We’ll see about that, miss. In the meantime, what can I get you for breakfast? The cook’s just made up a fresh batch of muffins, and there’s the usual—bacon and eggs, beefsteak and fried sausage and tripe. ”
“Just dry toast and tea, thank you,” she said, ignoring the lovely smells wafting from what was probably the taproom.
“That’s not enough to keep a mouse alive!”
“I’ll be fine. Please see to it, Mrs. Grudge. ” She could feel the tears welling up again, and she dabbed the wicked groom’s handkerchief to her eyes.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Grudge had left that she stopped to look at the cloth in her hand. It was of a finer weave than a servant usually carried, and she expected to see Lucien’s initials in one corner. Instead the man had his own initials there—J. D. Except that his last name was Jacobs. He must have stolen it from someone.
What a bold, wicked man, she thought dismally. Why had she suddenly become attracted to the saucy, totally inappropriate ones? Like the jewel thief who’d effectively married her with this damned ring. And now the cook’s womanizing son-in-law.