Page 10 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 3

Margaret had made a terrible mistake. In her shock and panic, she’d wildly miscalculated. Running away in the middle of the night had made perfect sense at the time. Now, looking at it through the lens of good sense, Margaret had taken a foolish and dangerous course of action. Why, oh, why hadn’t she gone straight to Cole in London? For that matter, she could have gone to any of her brothers. With them, she would have been safe—from both the unscrupulous night watchman and the murderer who’d vowed to silence her. She’d thought she was protecting them from the killer, but they were fully capable of defending themselves, and her, from anyone. They’d proved that in the past.

No doubt her family worried for her safety and likely searched for her. Now, alone and nearly penniless, she must go back to London. Somehow, she’d clear her name and, more importantly, be reunited with her family.

Sitting on a wooden bench in a rustic country posting inn, Margaret kept as far into the corner as possible. Gripping her few coins, she closed her eyes. She lacked the funds to buy passage back to London—not to mention purchasing meals. Smells of chicken and savory herbs taunted her growling stomach. She put a hand over her midsection.

What to do now? She’d been raised to manage a household and move among the ton. She spoke French and German and Italian, played the harp and the pianoforte, sketched lifelike portraits, sewed fine needlepoint, and organized balls and dinner parties with the efficiency of a general—everything an accomplished young lady should know. Nothing in her upbringing prepared her for finding adequate food while fleeing all manner of dangers.

Gently bred ladies who found themselves in need of an income usually served as ladies’ companions or governesses or nursemaids, but Margaret was a fugitive with no references and no time to make inquiries.

She still wore jewelry, and her cloak was of high quality. Perhaps she could sell them for stage fare. Christian would take her in. Once there, she’d send word to Cole who, as an earl, had enough power to sort the mess and demand justice.

Discreetly, she wrapped her few remaining coins in her handkerchief and tucked it into her reticule, careful to keep her cloak wrapped about her to conceal the bloodstains on her evening gown.

The door of the inn swung open, and a stagecoach driver announced, “Repairs are takin’ longer than expected. Should be ready to go in about ’alf an ’our.”

Half an hour. That might give her enough time to sell her valuables before taking this stagecoach back to London. Her grumbling stomach spurred her on to make the attempt.

As a serving girl passed, Margaret hailed her. “Is there a village merchant who trades with used goods, such as a pawnbroker?”

The girl ran a curious eye over Margaret. “Aye. There’s one what buys old clothes and furniture and things over yon.” She gestured out the front door.

“Thank you.” Margaret went out into the fading afternoon light and headed in the direction the girl had pointed. The bustling town off the main highway boasted a number of shops, taverns, a silversmith, a blacksmith, and—she let out her breath in relief—a pawnshop.

Upon entering the shop, Margaret stared at the wide assortment of strange artifacts. An eclectic collection of clothes, linens, bed curtains, jewelry, hatboxes, writing desks, a stuffed bird, and more, all crowded together in haphazard disarray.

“Looking for anything special, ma’am?” An older lady with a gap between her front two teeth smiled.

Margaret toyed with the sapphire and pearl bracelet on her wrist. A gift from her sister. How she hated to part with such a sentimental gift. Moreover, if she pawned it, she’d leave clues that she had been here. Perhaps she could misdirect anyone who might be hunting her.

After positioning herself so a counter blocked her gown’s bloodstains from view, Margaret removed her bracelet and cloak and laid them on the counter between them. “I would like to sell this. And my cloak.”

The shopkeeper ran a hand over the cloak. “Trade for something here, or sell straight up? You get more for your baubles and finery if you trade.”

A gown to replace her stained clothes would be wise and would help make her less conspicuous. “Perhaps a simple gown and petticoat for trade and the rest for money—I need to buy passage to Ireland. Could you give me enough for that?” Margaret let the lie roll off her tongue. If anyone pursued her and found the pawnshop, perhaps it would prove a useful misdirection.

The shopkeeper nodded. “Aye, I can do that. You can browse to see if’n you find anything you like. Over by that music box are a few apron-style gowns and a petticoat or two. Pretty worn and yellow, though.” After taking the bracelet into the light of a grimy window, the woman placed a jeweler’s monocular to her eye and examined the stones through the lens. “Ahhh… verra high quality.”

Indeed it was. Rachel had excellent taste. Margaret relived the moment when Rachel had given her the bracelet. Knowing she’d been melancholy about the absence of children, Rachel had put it on Margaret’s wrist, telling her to think of it as a sisterly embrace when they could not be together.

Margaret swallowed her sorrow and rummaged through the gowns. After holding up several to herself, she found one with a satisfactory fit—a simple muslin gown in faded blue. Nearby she located a petticoat, yellow with age but in good condition.

She carried them back to the woman. “I’d like to trade for these, please, and have the rest in coin.”

The woman nodded, and they negotiated for the price of the bracelet. The trader, a professional accustomed to looking out for her bottom line, and Margaret, desperate for enough money to pay her coach fare and have food for her return trip to London. In the end, they settled on a sinfully meager price and made the exchange.

“Do you have a place where I might change?” Margaret held up her new frock.

“There’s a curtain just there.” The woman jabbed a thumb behind her at the back of the store.

The door opened, and a man walked in.

“Be right with you, sir.” The shopkeeper placed Margaret’s bracelet into a glass case on a folded scrap of red velvet.

Margaret barely glanced at the newcomer, but something about him caught her eye, and she looked a second time. As tall as her brothers, but leaner where they were muscular, he had the commanding presence of a man accustomed to giving orders. However, his coat and boots belonged to men far below her usual circle of acquaintances. The leather bag he carried over one shoulder bore scuff marks from years of use. His dark hair bordered on black and framed a face that was too handsome for its own good. She sniffed. He was probably an arrogant roué.

Margaret had no use for such men, nor indeed any men at all. She hadn’t looked twice at a man in years, not since she’d fallen for Lord Hennessy and then learned how he’d played her false. Repeatedly.