The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston
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In that lovely Season, when she and Eliza had been so full of hope, she’d begged Wexin to present them to the handsome marquess. Wexin refused, although she and Eliza had been undaunted.
“Who were these people who employed you?” he asked.
“I cannot tell you,” she replied truthfully again. “For all I know, the son may be one of your close companions.” Like Wexin had been. “You would believe them and not me.” She fixed her gaze on him again. “Let me go, I implore you. Let me disappear. Let them think I am dead.”
He stared back at her, not speaking, not moving. Panic spread inside her like a wild weed.
“You have no money. How will you get on?” he asked.
She took a breath. “I would beg a little money from you.”
He gave her a long look before speaking. “First wash and dress and eat. We shall both leave this place, then we will decide what to do next.” He opened the door and walked out.
Her nerves still jangled. He had not precisely agreed to help her, but he had not sounded as if he would turn her in, either. She had no choice but to wait to see what he would do.
Marlena washed and dressed and managed to get her hair into a plait down her back. When she walked out of the bedchamber in her stockinged feet, the smell of the porridge drove all other thought and emotion away. She sat in a plain wooden chair across from Tanner at a small table. The old woman set a bowl of porridge in front of her. Marlena’s hand shook when she dipped her spoon into the steaming bowl. The first mouthful was too hot. She blew on the next spoonful and the next and ate as quickly as she could. Tanner ate as hungrily as she.
The old farmer and his wife watched their every move.
When they finished, Tanner turned to them. “Bring the rest of my clothing, my boots and the lady’s shoes. The lady also needs a cloak. You will undoubtedly have a cart. I should like you to take us to the nearest town.”
“Holyhead?” the farmer asked. “You’ll need a ferry to reach it.”
Tanner reached into the sleeve of his shirt where he had tucked his purse. He opened it and took out a sovereign. “Very well.”
The farmer’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the coin. Both he and his wife sprang into action, leaving Tanner and Marlena alone.
Marlena gave him an anxious look. “I will not go to Holyhead. Just leave me, I beg you. I will not even ask you for money.”
He shook his head. “I’ll not leave you.” He leaned closer to her. “But I have no intention of going to Holyhead either. Let them think that is where we are bound.”
Warmth spread through her, and she did not think it was from the porridge. She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude. Instead she composed her emotions. “Mrs Davies told me Cemaes is five miles from here in the opposite direction from Holyhead.”
“Then we shall go to Cemaes.” He smiled.
Mrs Davies brought Tanner’s coat, waistcoat, boots and Marlena’s half-boots. She rose and took her shoes from the woman’s hands. They were still damp and the leather tight, but she did not care. Tanner was going to help her to get to Cemaes.
Arlan Rapp sat in front of the fire in the inn at Llanfwrog, sipping hot cider, waiting for his clothes to dry through and through. He puzzled what he should do next.
All he really wanted was to return to London and get paid for his work, but he’d better not do that until he discovered if the Viscountess Corland had been lost with most of the other passengers and crew, or if she had by some miracle survived.
The Vanishing Viscountess had vanished again. That would make a good story for the newspapers, he’d wager, but he’d rather it not be widely known he’d been the one to lose her.
He stared into the fire and pondered the choices he’d made. He refused to feel guilty about taking her place in the last boat. She’d been as good as dead from the moment he first put her in shackles. He would have taken her back to a hangman’s noose, nothing less. The Vanishing Viscountess had killed her husband in a jealous rage. Everybody knew her husband rutted with any female he could find. The Viscountess had been caught red-handed. Her cousin had discovered her standing over Viscount Corland’s dead body, bloody scissors in hand. There was no doubt that she’d committed the murder.
She had escaped, however. The guilty always ran away if you gave them half a chance.
She’d escaped again, Rapp thought, rubbing his face. He hoped drowning was an easier death than hanging by the neck.
He took another gulp of cider. A log sizzled in the fireplace. He glanced around for the serving girl, who seemed to have disappeared. Rapp’s stomach growled, ravenous for breakfast. He was also bone weary from being up all night, pulled out of the sea by local folk and sent to this inn in a wagon with the handful of other survivors.
Rapp bowed his head, thinking of the women and children in his boat. They had not been strong enough to hang on when the wave washed over them.
Rapp suddenly wanted to hurry home to his wife and children. He wanted to kiss his wife, hug his two sons, hold his baby girl. It was only right that he’d seized the chance to survive. His wife and children needed him.
Only eight passengers survived, as far as he knew, and a few more crewmen. The Vanishing Viscountess was not among them. If her body lay at the bottom of the sea, it might never wash up on shore. Rapp cursed the storm. Wexin would not pay him without proof that the Viscountess had perished.
He’d have to investigate, make absolutely certain she was among the dead. He was a Bow Street Runner. It should be a simple matter for him to discover who survived the shipwreck.
The serving girl finally set down a plate with bread and butter and thick pieces of ham.
He nodded his thanks. “Bring me paper, pen and ink,” he asked her.
He’d pen a letter to Wexin, reporting the shipwreck, and one to his wife, as well, telling her he loved her, but that he must delay his return to London until he had searched up and down the Anglesey coast.
Chapter Three
By the time Mr Davies’s old horse pulled the cart to the front of the cottage, Tanner was more than ready to leave this place. He had no wish to tarry until the son returned.
Tanner pressed a hand to his still-aching ribs, remembering the strength of the man’s boot. He had no wish to meet young Davies again.
He stepped aside for Miss Brown to walk out ahead of him. The red cloak the old lady had found for her was threadbare, but Tanner supposed it would keep her warm enough. His lack of a top coat did not worry him overmuch. The temperature was not that harsh and would keep him alert.
Mrs Davies trailed behind him. “You promised us payment, sir.”
He turned to her. “I will pay when your husband delivers us where we wish to go.” He strode on.
She skipped after him. “How do we know you will pay? Your lady is walking away wearing my clothes. We can’t afford to give our possessions away. Times are hard.”
He stopped again and the old woman nearly ran into him. “You will have to trust my word as a gentleman, will you not?” He walked over to where Miss Brown waited next to the cart.
He did not know how much of her story to believe, but he’d be damned if he’d turn her over to a magistrate. No matter what she had done, she’d paid for it by what that deuced Bow Street Runner made her endure, leaving her to die while he saved himself. As far as Tanner was concerned, that alone should give her freedom.
Saving her life absolved him, in part, for the other deaths that weighed on his conscience. He would see her safe to help repay that debt.
He touched her arm. “I will climb up first, then assist you.”