The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(62)

“Truly,” Javan said shortly. “And you needn’t look so pleased about it because—”

She threw out her hand, effectively silencing him and his fingers closed around hers. “I’m so sorry about the engagement sham. I didn’t know what to do for the best and everything seemed wrong.”

“It was,” Javan said ruefully. “It was I who should have claimed the betrothal.”

“Yes, you should,” Richard said frankly, “considering you were the one who was kissing her.”

“I didn’t want to be pushed,” Javan muttered. His fingers tightened. “More than that, I didn’t want you to be pushed. I don’t want you to marry me to save your blasted reputation.”

“Is it really that bad?” she asked.

A breath of laughter escaped Javan. “Your reputation? Hardly. I don’t believe the Tamars or the Grants would have blabbed. I suppose we should care that no one realizes you are now travelling alone with two male Benedicts, but—”

“Actually, that doesn’t seem to be strictly true,” Richard said from the window. “Come and see this.”

“Not you,” Javan said severely to Caroline as he strode across the room to join his cousin. It seemed to her that his limp was less noticeable than when she’d first arrived at Haven Hall.

“Good God,” Javan said in awe. “How the devil did she know? And she’s brought Rosa!”

“Who has?” Caroline demanded. She really was very sleepy.

“Marjorie,” Javan said. “It seems your reputation is saved. Although it will still seem odd, no doubt, when you return engaged to the other Benedict cousin.”

Caroline frowned. “Neither of you ever considers asking.”

“I’ll ask,” Javan said softly. He was standing by the bed again, leaning down to stroke her hair, and she couldn’t help smiling through the waves of sleepiness. “When you’re awake and well. Now, before you fall asleep, where exactly does your family live?”

She blurted out the direction, just as she finally recalled the odd taste in the water. “Laudanum!” she exclaimed, “You gave me laudanum…”

“You need to sleep,” he said softly. “So, sleep.”

She did.

*

Javan crossed into Scotland before nightfall and rode straight through Gretna Green, travelling a few miles east, off the main Edinburgh road, to the Rose and Thistle. This was a smaller inn he’d been told about by the landlord he’d just left. The two innkeepers were apparently related, and the English one was very proud of his Scottish cousin, who apparently had a business on the side, marrying people according to peculiar Scots law. More to Javan’s immediate purpose, the inn was closer to the village of Ecclerigg, where resided Caroline’s mother, sister, and nephew.

Although the taproom was busy, the innkeeper gave him a choice of bedchambers for the night and brought him a hearty dinner.

After a disturbed night—he worried too much about Caroline to sleep well—he ate an early breakfast and rode on to Ecclerigg. This turned out to be a small, picturesque village at the foot of two hills. The blacksmith was happy to direct him to Mrs. Grey’s cottage.

The cottage was not large, but it looked well-cared for and had a neat garden. A child of around four played in the garden while a maid hung up washing and hummed to herself.

Javan dismounted and looped the reins around the fence before he opened the gate and closed it again behind him.

“Good morning,” he said civilly to the maid. “Is Mrs. Grey at home?”

The maid, her humming cut off, showed a tendency to stare with her jaw dropped. It was the child who stopped galloping around the garden to say, “Yes, she is. Is that your horse, sir?”

“Yes. You can stroke him if you like. He’s very well mannered.”

Grinning, the boy ran at the horse, who eyed him disdainfully across the fence.

“Give him this,” Javan advised, taking a lump of sugar from his pocket. “Flat on your palm like so. He will love you forever. Are you Peter, by any chance?”

The boy nodded absently, watching with awe as the horse lipped the sugar gently from his hand.

“And who might you be?” the maid demanded with a hint of aggression that might have been her way of protecting the child from a stranger.

Javan gave her a slightly crumpled card. He hadn’t had any printed for some time. “Be so good as to take this to Mrs. Grey. She will know my name as her daughter’s employer.”

The maid’s eyes widened. “Peter, come in,” she ordered, seizing the boy by the hand. “You’d better come too, sir.”

She showed him through the narrow hallway and into a pleasant parlor, then, taking Peter with her, she left him. He heard the clumping of her footsteps on the stairs.

Peter, clearly, was not at death’s door. He was doubly glad he’d left Caroline on the other side of the border.

After several minutes, when he could hear voices upstairs, a flurry of feet coming down heralded the arrival in the parlor of a middle-aged lady in a cap, and a young and very beautiful lady who held Peter by the hand.

“Mr. Benedict,” the elder lady said, curtseying. “I am Mrs. Grey. This is my daughter, Mrs. Dauntry.”

Javan bowed civilly.