When Love Commands Page 9

  Count Orlov had paid the hackney driver in advance. He was already turning the carriage around. Horse hooves clattered loudly on the cobbles. Wheels screeched. The four Russians in their ill-fitting English attire stood grumbling, waiting for me to go inside. Excitement and apprehension mounted as I followed the servant into the cozy, shabbily furnished foyer. Candles glowed softly. A worn, flowered rug covered the floor. The bald, bespectacled proprietor sat behind his counter, idly perusing a newspaper. Looking up, he hastily put aside the paper and got to his feet, smiling a broad, welcoming smile as he recognized me from my earlier stay.

  “Miss Danver!” he exclaimed jovially. “We’re so pleased to have you back with us.”

  “I—my bags—”

  “All taken care of,” he assured me. “I had them sent up to your room. I took the liberty of assigning you to the same room you had before. It’s one of our most comfortable.”

  “Thank you. That was—that was very kind.”

  He frowned, examining me closely. Candlelight gleamed on his shiny dome. His spectacles had slipped down his nose. I smiled pleasantly, and I could feel the smile tight and forced on my lips. My legs seemed to tremble.

  “You—I say, Miss Danver, you look a bit peaked.”

  “The trip. It was a—a bit exhausting.”

  “We’d best get you right up to your room. A nice long rest is what you’ll be wanting.”

  “Mr. Bond—is—is he here?”

  “Bond?” The innkeeper looked puzzled.

  “Jeremy Bond. He took a room here.”

  “Oh! You mean that jaunty, good-looking chap who arrived when you did. Afraid he’s already gone.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “Left three days after you did. Tipped everyone lavishly, he did, gave our Tibby five whole pounds. I say, Miss Danver, are you—”

  The dizziness swept over me and the candlelight began to dance wildly as the room swayed. A dark cloud claimed me, shutting out the light, and I felt myself falling, floating. I drifted in a confused, chaotic void of misty darkness, yet I felt strong hands lifting me, felt myself sink against cushions. I could smell camphor and beeswax and an acrid odor I couldn’t identify, and then yellow-orange lights beodor I couldn’t identify, and then yellow-orange lights began to flash in front of my eyes and I heard the voices, one deep, worried, the other gruff but distinctly feminine.

  “—never know what to do, you men! Get back, give her room, let the poor thing have some air!”

  “She just fell into a swoon, right there in front of my counter. You could have knocked me over with a—”

  “Fetch my cologne and a handkerchief! Do it now, you blockhead! Don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open. Move!”

  The lights grew brighter, and I heard a low, moaning noise and realized I was making it. I tried to sit up. Firm, gentle hands restrained me. I murmured a protest. My eyelids fluttered, and I sank back into the misty darkness until something damp and cool bathed my temples. I could smell the strong, fragrant scent of flowers. I opened my eyes. The woman leaning over me was extremely plump with a round, bossy but amiable face dominated by a pair of vivid brown eyes. Her mouth was small, a bright cherry red, her cheeks powdered, and a black heart-shaped beauty mark rested coyly on her left temple. Girlish chestnut brown ringlets bobbed on either side of her face in thick profusion. The wig was slightly askew, I observed.

  “I—” My voice seemed to come from a great distance. “I must have—”

  “Now you just relax, lambie. Reckon you had a little faintin’ spell, nothin’ at all to be alarmed about.”

  She continued to dab at my temples with the scent-soaked handkerchief, and I frowned, my nostrils quivering at the overpowering fragrance. She stood back as I struggled into a sitting position, cushions shifting behind my back. I was on the sofa across from the counter. The candles seemed very bright. The proprietor was standing nearby, actually wringing his hands. Two guests moved down the staircase, pausing to stare. The plump woman snapped at them with a few choice phrases that sent them scurrying. She was wearing an old-fashioned gown of sky blue taffeta festooned with pink satin bows and rows of soiled white lace. The once sumptuous taffeta was shiny with age.

  “I’m Mrs. Patterson, lambie, Mrs. Pat to the regulars. I run the place with precious little help from my husband here. Get on about your business, Benjamin! I have things well under control. Feel better, lamb?”

  “I think I’m all right. I—I feel so foolish.”

  “Fah! We all get a mite faint sometimes, myself included. It’s this world we’re livin’ in, so much noise, so much clatter, tries a person’s nerves. Think you can stand now?”

  I nodded. She took my hand. I got to my feet, still feeling rather shaky. Supporting me with an arm around my shoulders, Mrs. Patterson helped me climb the two flights of stairs and led me down the hall to the room I remembered so well. A fire was burning low in the fireplace. The bedcovers were turned down. A bowl of snapdragons sat on the low table beside the overstuffed, flowered blue chair. Less than three weeks had passed since I was last here, yet it seemed a lifetime ago. I thought of Jeremy. Tears sprang to my lashes. I brushed them away while the innkeeper’s wife watched me with shrewd, compassionate eyes.

  “I know it ain’t none of my business, lambie, but you ain’t expectin’, are you?”

  “No, it isn’t that. I—it was a very long, weary trip, and I just felt a bit—”

  “Reckon I know what you felt, lambie. I’ve been there before. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, but I’ve had my share of affairs of th’ heart. ’Fore I met Benjamin an’ nabbed him, I was quite a co-kette. He ran out on you, didn’t he?”

  I didn’t answer. My lashes were still moist.

  “I got eyes in my head, lambie, and I reckon I know what’s what. I’d be in a slew-a trouble if I didn’t, runnin’ an inn an’ all. I observed the two of you when you checked in last month—knew you were head over heels in love with him, even if you did take separate rooms.”

  I removed my cloak and dropped it across the back of the chair and stared at the window. He was gone. He had promised to wait a week, yet he had left three days after I had. He hadn’t even waited out the week. I couldn’t blame him. It was all my fault. Mrs. Patterson fussed with one of the pink satin bows on her bodice.

  “Them handsome, cocky devils are always the worst, all charm, all glib promises. Don’t I know it! Had my poor heart broken more times than I care to remember. Charmin’ scamps!” She shook her head, the ringlets bobbing. “Give me a clod every time. At least you know where you stand with ’em.”

  “He didn’t run out on me, Mrs. Patterson. He just—just left.”

  “Sure he did. Don’t they all? The fascinatin’ ones, that is. Took me a long time to learn that lesson, then I grabbed myself a dull, steady, sweet-natured clod. Let me help you get undressed, lamb. You still look pale and weak as a kitten, shadows under your eyes.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I said.

  “Sure you will, lamb. Sure you will. It hurts at first, don’t I know it, but somehow we manage to get over it. No man’s worth that kind of pain.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  I was speaking by rote. My voice seemed to belong to someone else, someone completely detached with no emotions. Mrs. Patterson looked at me, deeply concerned, and then she took my hand and gave it a tight, reassuring squeeze that communicated compassion and age-old sister-hood.

  “I’ll leave you be now,” she said gently, “reckon you’d like to be alone, but I’m havin’ a bottle of my special remedy sent up. A glass or two before you go to bed’ll work wonders. Never fails me when I’m feelin’ glum.”

  She left with a rustle of old taffeta, closing the door quietly behind her, and I remained where I was, as though in a trance. The fire crackled pleasantly, filling the room with cozy warmth. Disappointment I could take—I had already faced the fact that he might well be gone—but the doubt was tormenting. Three
days. He had left after only three days. He hadn’t waited out the week. He had broken his word. He … he had every reason to do so, I admitted that. I had treated him wretchedly, wretchedly. I had rejected the love he offered so freely, so frankly, and yet … and yet all the while he had known I loved him. He had known long before I acknowledged it myself. Why had he left so soon? He must have known I would come back. “I’ll be waiting,” he had promised. Yet he hadn’t waited even a week.

  There was a knock on the door. A servant came in with a tray. He set it down, left silently. Several long moments passed. I forced myself to undress, put on a nightgown, brush my hair. The candles had burned down and were beginning to splutter. I poured a glass of Mrs. Patterson’s special remedy and took a sip. It was straight gin. I detested it, but I drank it anyway, poured another glass. I blew out the candles and moved over to the window to stare out at the night, the room behind me illuminated only by the pale rose-orange glow of the dying fire.

  The spires and steeples of London were silhouetted in stark black against a starless night sky. Heavy clouds roiled, gray tinged with purple, and there was a wind. The treetops in the park across the way trembled, limbs shaking nervously as though fearing the onslaught. It was going to rain. I could see the dome of St. Paul’s, gleaming like polished jet in the darkness, and Tower Bridge was visible far to my right, an inky black sketch against the lighter sky. London, the city of so many dreams, a prison to me now that Jeremy was gone. I finished the second glass of gin, staring at the night, and I felt no warmth, no comfort, no easing of pain.

  I couldn’t sleep, I knew that, yet I set the glass down and climbed into bed and watched reflections of the firelight dancing on the ceiling, pale rose shadows skittering, skipping, growing paler. The crisp linen sheets were lavender scented. They were cool to my touch. I lay very still, watching the light disappear. The rain came. I heard it pattering heavily on the roof with a monotonous staccato. He was gone. I had lost him. I had lost my one chance for happiness. I closed my eyes, seeing his face before me, those vivid blue eyes full of merry mockery, the mouth curving in a half-smile beneath the slightly twisted nose. Desolate, I gazed at it until it, too, melted into the black.

  The sound of bells awakened me. They were ringing all over the city, it seemed. A pigeon cooed, prancing on the windowsill outside. Bright rays of sunlight streamed into the room, making a warm yellow-white pool on the faded pink and blue rug spread in front of the fireplace. The bells chimed ten. I sat up, amazed that I had slept so long. Mrs. Patterson’s remedy had done its job after all, I thought, climbing out of bed. My bones ached, but my head was surprisingly clear, and as I performed my ablutions and dressed I knew exactly what I had to do.

  I would go down to the shipping office. I would find out what ship he had taken—they were bound to have a record of it—and I would book passage on the very next ship. I would follow him to America. I would follow him to the ends of the earth if necessary. My money had been deposited in the Bank of England, Jeremy had handled the transaction himself, so there would be no financial worries. Moving to the mirror, I adjusted my deep garnet silk skirt. My face was still drawn, thinner, it seemed, and there were blue-mauve shadows on my lids. My lips were a paler pink than usual, too, but I wasn’t going to bother with cosmetics. There wasn’t time.

  Smoothing my hair back, I put on the garnet velvet hat with its cascade of curling black ostrich plumes that spilled over one side of the wide, slanting brim. I had never been one to cry, to mourn and bewail my fate. I had always been a fighter, and, by God, I was going to fight now for the man I loved. A steely determination had replaced the pain and disappointment that had tormented me last night. It was still there, locked tightly inside, but I wasn’t going to let it deter me. I could stay in this room and grieve, I could make myself ill, or I could press on. Pulling on a pair of long black lace gloves, I went downstairs, asked one of the servants to hail a hackney for me and, less than ten minutes later, was on my way to the shipping office.

  Splashed with sunlight, the air clean and clear after the rain, London had a sparkle this morning, everything brighter, colors sharper. As the hackney moved slowly through the traffic, I watched a muffin man selling cakes to neatly dressed matrons at the edge of the park, the trees bright green, the flower beds vivid patches of color. Shop windows gleamed. Majestic marble edifices looked stately in the sunlight, and a variety of spires reached above the multilevel rooftops to touch a pale indigo sky brushed lightly with wispy white puffs of cloud. A jaunty street-sweeper dashed in front of the horses to sweep a steamy mound out of the way. A baker’s apprentice sauntered along the pavement with a tray of freshly baked rolls held aloft. The city had a lively air, the clamor a merry ring. Sun-bright days like this were rare, and everyone seemed to respond with a burst of good-humored energy.

  The shipping office was a rather dreary gray brick building near the river. I could see the forest of masts as I neared it—traffic on the Thames was every bit as congested as it was on the streets—and as I alighted, asking the driver to wait, I could smell salt and hemp and rotting wood and that strong fishy odor that hung over this part of the city. A clerk leaped up to assist me when I entered the dimly lighted front office with its framed maritime prints on the paneled walls. A spruce young man in a cheaply made yet neat gray suit, he smoothed a thick wave of blond hair from his brow and gave me a polite, businesslike smile, my elegant attire informing him that I was a person of some means and entitled to every courtesy.

  Did I wish to book passage to India, to Australia, to Canada? The office could provide the very best first-class accommodations. I shook my head, and his enthusiasm abated somewhat when he realized he was not going to sell passage and, no doubt, make a nice commission. He began to shuffle papers on his desk, his manner that of a very busy young bureaucrat who hadn’t time to waste on idle inquiries. Very well, I would try another approach. I smiled a helpless smile and lowered my lashes, exuding an aura of feminine appeal that rarely failed to pierce the male ego. He gave me another look, his chest swelling. I touched his arm lightly with lace-gloved fingertips, my eyes telling him that I would be utterly lost without his help.

  “I—I have a problem,” I said. “You look so—so very strong and capable. I told myself a nice-looking young man like you would—would perhaps be able to help me.”

  My eyes were full of open admiration of his masculine charms, and the subtle compliment hadn’t hurt, either. He was now willing to leap to the aid of a lady in distress who liked the way he looked and—who knows?—might even give him a special kind of reward. Spurred by visions of a clandestine rendezvous in some discreet waterfront room—for that is what my manner seemed to promise—he smiled a knowing smile and said he was at my service. As he helped me into a chair, his hand lingered for a moment on my arm. I looked up at him, totally overwhelmed by those clear gray eyes and that thick blond hair. Men can be such simpletons, I thought.

  “I—I’ve just come up to London from Bath,” I said, looking distressed. “I was to meet a cousin of mine, Mr. Jeremy Bond, but when I arrived at the inn I discovered that he was gone. The innkeeper told me that my cousin had booked passage on a ship.”

  He didn’t for a moment believe the man I was looking for was my cousin. I couldn’t fool him, oh, no. I wasn’t a demure provincial come up to the city to see a relative. My clothes, my deep sapphire eyes, my slightly parted lips told him I was both worldly and experienced and looking for a lover who had abandoned me—precisely what I intended to convey. He smiled again, his gray eyes openly assessing my charms.

  “Do you know the name of the ship?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Destination?”

  “I—I don’t know that either.”

  Feeling a fool, I gazed at him with admiring eyes that made him feel manly and superior. Like a peacock strutting before a peahen, he began to play the strong, capable male. If a Mr. Jeremy Bond had booked passage on a ship, any ship, during the past
month, there would be a record of it, and he, George Randolph, would find it. I smiled my gratitude, my deep garnet skirt rustling as I crossed my legs. Young Mr. Randolph began to go through ledgers with admirable zeal. He frowned, closing the last ledger, left the room to consult another employee. When he returned, his gray eyes were puzzled and his brow was moist from his exertions, wisps of blond hair plastered to it.

  “I can find nothing,” he told me. “I’ve checked every possible source of information. No Mr. Jeremy Bond has booked passage on any ship during the past month.”

  “You’re certain?” I asked.

  “Positive. If he did book passage, it was under an assumed name.”

  “There—there would be no reason for him to do that,” I said.

  Puzzled, I stood up, a frown creasing my brow. Could Jeremy possibly still be in London? Perhaps … perhaps he had left The White Hart to go stay with a friend. I knew that he had a great many acquaintances in London, but how was I to locate him if … if he was still here? Moving toward the door, I forgot all about Randolph. He called to me. I turned. He looked absolutely crestfallen, his dreams of intimate coupling shattered. I took pity on the attractive youth whom I had so shamelessly used.

  “You’ve been absolutely marvelous, Mr. Randolph,” I said kindly. “Thank you so much for your time.”

  “I thought—”

  “I may well be booking passage myself in the next two or three weeks. If so, I shall call upon your help again.”

  Frustrated, resentful, and rightfully so, he gave me a terse nod and returned to his desk. Outside, I hesitated on the steps for a moment, wondering what I should do next. London was so vast, so crowded. How did one go about locating someone who might or might not be here? It seemed utterly hopeless, but I refused to let go of that slim ray of hope. If he was here, I was going to find him. I would place notices in every newspaper and journal in the city. I would go to Bow Street and ply the constables and runners with lavish bribes and seek their assistance. First I would go to the bank. I was going to need quite a lot of money, and I had only a few pounds at the moment.