Masterson grinned as he returned to the comfort of his bed. Philip was obviously taken by the girl. If pretty little Nicole was what she claimed to be, she might turn out to be a more lasting Christmas gift than they had intended.
IN spite of his defense of Nicole's integrity, Philip found himself troubled by doubts as he made his way up the dim stairwell. He had believed without question everything the girl had said, but perhaps he'd been naive to do so. The fact that she had an air of refinement and spoke excellent French didn't mean she was honest; perhaps she was a deceitful little vixen who had been stealing his purse while he was talking to Masterson.
Frowning, he entered his rooms and glanced around, but saw no sign of his guest. He crossed the drawing room in half a dozen steps and entered his bedroom, but there was no sign of her there, or of his luggage, either. Cursing himself for a gullible fool, he spun on his heel and barked, "Nicole, where are you?"
He was so sure that she had fled that it was a shock to hear her voice floating from the narrow hall that led to the servants' entrance. "I am here, monsieur." She trotted into sight carrying a battered wicker basket in one hand. "I found this in a closet. May I use it to carry Merkle in?" Her expression became anxious. "You don't mind if I take her with me? I couldn't bear to abandon her to starve."
Her gaze was so transparently honest that Philip felt like six kinds of idiot for doubting her. "Of course she can come. Put a towel in the basket to keep her warm—it's going to be a long, cold drive."
Back in the drawing room he saw that Nicole had neatly stacked all of the luggage beside the front entrance. He'd been in such a hurry when he came in that he'd rushed right by it.
He was just congratulating himself that Nicole knew nothing of his doubts when her gentle voice asked, "Did you think I had robbed you and run, Sir Philip?"
He could feel hot color rising in his face. "The thought had occurred tome."
She nodded with apparent approval, then laid a folded towel in the bottom of the basket. "That is only natural. What do you know of me, after all?"
Deciding to cast his lot with instinct over logic, Philip said, "I know that you are entirely too perceptive, and you have honest eyes. That's quite enough for me. How do you know that I am not a murderer, or going to sell you to a slaver who will ship you to a harem in Arabia?"
She looked up at him and laughed. "Because you are not. I knew you were honorable as soon as I saw you." After which placid statement, she scooped up Merkle and put the cat in the basket, making soothing noises to allay feline protests.
After staring at her dark head for a moment, Philip decided that the girl was either a genius or a lunatic, possibly both, but amiable in either case. Hearing the sound of hooves and wheels outside, he went to the window and saw that the livery groom had brought his curricle right on schedule and now waited in the street below. "The carriage is here. Don't you have a cloak? If not, you'd better wear something of mine, though you'll be lost in it."
In answer, Nicole lifted a garishly scarlet garment that had been draped over the back of the sofa. Philip blinked in disbelief as she wrapped the voluminous folds around her. Eyeing the fluffy ostrich trim, he said, "I can see why Masterson and Kirby thought you were no better than you should be."
"It's a most vulgar garment, n'est-ce pas? But warm." Then, less confident than she pretended, she set out to meet her fate, cat basket in one hand, canvas bag in the other, and ostrich feathers trailing behind.
RELUCTANTLY Nicole left the warmth of the Saracen's Head Inn for the damp, bitter chill of the stable yard, where the curricle waited with a fresh pair of horses. As he held the door for her, Philip said, "It's getting colder. Do you think you'll be all right? I know this is not the season for a long trip in an open carriage, but this is the last stage—Towcester is less than fifteen miles from Winstead."
Nicole ached with weariness, but knew that Philip must be far more tired than she, for it took strength, skill, and continuous concentration to drive safely over the winter-rutted roads. "I'm fine," she assured him. "You have made the trip such a comfortable one. Fresh hot bricks every time the horses are changed—quelle luxury! And this is the third time we've stopped to eat."
"You need fattening up." Philip gave Nicole a teasing smile as he helped her into the curricle, then tucked a heavy blanket across her and the cat basket she carried on her lap.
As he climbed into his own seat, Nicole reflected that when he decided to marry, the girl he chose would be very fortunate, for his consideration made one feel cherished. She slanted a glance out of the corner of her eye.
He was also kind, amusing, intelligent, good-natured, and handsome. Yes, when he was ready to marry, his chosen bride would be a very lucky woman.
A mile beyond Towcester, Philip swung the carriage from the main road onto a narrower track that led east. "This is a shortcut to Winstead. We should be home just before dark."
Nicole hoped he was right, for it was already midafternoon and the lowering clouds threatened to drop something unpleasant on the hapless travelers. Eh bien; there was no point in worrying about it, she decided philosophically as the curricle lurched into an unusually large rut. She wrapped her right arm around the cat basket and gripped the carriage rail with her left hand. "Will there be hot mulled wine when we reach Winstead?"
"If not that, something equally warming." The road was getting progressively rougher so Philip slowed the team's pace. "How did you come to England, or is that something you would rather not discuss?"
"It's not a dramatic tale. We had been in Paris and were returning to Brittany. A few miles from home, one of my father's peasants, who had been watching for our return, stopped our carriage to warn us that guards were waiting at the manor to arrest the whole family. We abandoned the carriage, and the peasant drove us to the coast in his cart. Then a fisherman took us across the Channel to England with no more than the luggage we had brought from Paris.
"I was only six, and everything happened so quickly that I didn't understand that I would never again see my playmates on the estate, or the nurse who raised me, or my pony. But we were fortunate—we had our lives. Others were not so lucky."
"Did you come to London?"
"Only for a few days. My mother had a cousin in Bristol, so we went there. Because there was hardly any money, my father found work driving a coach between Bristol and Birmingham, which paid enough to keep us in modest comfort for the next few years." Her voice wavered. "Then Papa's back was broken in a coach accident, and he never walked again. Since he could not work, my mother took in sewing. I was almost eleven then, so I helped her."
Philip hauled back on the reins to let a small group of homeward-bound cows amble across the road. "What a pity. It almost seems like your family was cursed."
"It sounds dreadful, and in many ways it was," Nicole said slowly. "Yet the next five years were the happiest of my life. The three of us were very close. Papa became my teacher, for he said that an informed mind was the true mark of gentility. A gentleman who lived nearby let us borrow any book in his library, so I learned Latin and some Greek, read the classics, debated the ideas of the great philosophers. Then Papa died of lung fever, and my mother's heart died with him."
Nicole used the icy rain as an excuse to brush at her eyes, which were disgracefully moist. "Maman survived another three years, mostly from a sense of duty to me, I think. Then when I was eighteen and she knew I was capable of taking care of myself, she just. . . faded away."
"And ever since, you've faced the world alone."
"It hasn't been so bad. I have friends in Bristol, and I had a good position there. But I was ambitious and wanted to work in London and someday have a shop of my own. That is how I came to Lady Guthries household." She made a face. "Going to work for her was the worst mistake of my life, but it seemed like a good opportunity at the time."
He gave her a quick, warm smile. "You are a remarkable young lady, Mademoiselle Chambord."
She laughed. "There is
nothing remarkable about making the best of one's lot, Sir Philip. Not when one considers the alternative."
After that conversation flagged, for the weather was steadily worsening. The mizzling rain froze wherever it touched, and the muddy ruts began to solidify to iron-hard ridges that rattled the curricle and its occupants to the bone. Earlier there had been a steady trickle of traffic in both directions, but now they were alone on the road.
The Northamptonshire terrain consisted of wide rolling hills that took a long time to climb. It was at the top of one such ridge that the curricle's wheels got trapped in a deep, icy set of ruts that ran at a tangent to the main direction of the road. Caught between the pull of the horses and the ruts, the curricle pitched heavily, almost spilling both passengers out.
"Damnation!" Using all of the strength of his powerful arms, Sir Philip managed to bring the carriage to a safe halt. "I'm sorry, Nicole. In a heavier carriage we could manage, but the curricle is just too light for these conditions. We've scarcely eight miles to go, and I'd hoped to make it home, but it's dangerous to continue. There's a small inn about a mile ahead. We can stop there for the night."
Struggling to keep her teeth from chattering, Nicole nodded with relief. "Whatever you think best, monsieur."
He urged the nervous horses forward again. "What a polite answer when you would probably rather curse me for risking your neck."
"I'm in no position to complain. Two days ago I was this cold, but then I had no prospect of finding a warm fire at the end of the day."
The road down the hill was steep and dangerous, so icy the horses sometimes slipped. The light was failing and visibility was only a few yards, but with Philip's firm hands on the reins, they made it almost to the bottom without incident.
Then they reached a bare spot where the wind had turned a wide puddle into a treacherous glaze of ice. As soon as the curricle's wheels struck the slick surface, the vehicle slewed wildly across the road.
The horses screamed, and one reared in its harness. Philip fought for control, and Nicole clung to railing and cat basket for dear life, but to no avail. The curricle tipped over, pitching both occupants onto the verge. Nicole struck the ground hard and rolled over several times, coming to rest in an ice-filmed puddle, too stunned to speak.
While she struggled for breath, a piercing cry split the air. Immediately Philip shouted, "Nicole, where are you? Are you hurt?"
Another shriek came from the vicinity of Nicole's chest and she wondered dizzily if that was her own voice and she was too numb to know what she was doing. Then she realized she was still clutching the cat basket in her arms. Poor Merkle had been tossed and rolled as much as her mistress and was now protesting in fierce feline fashion.
As she pushed herself to a sitting position, Nicole gasped, "I'm all right. At least, I think I am. Merkle is the one carrying on."
"Thank heaven!" Sir Philip emerged from the gloom and dropped to his knees beside Nicole, then pulled her into his arms, basket and all. She burrowed against him, grateful for his solid warmth.
"You're sure you're not hurt?" he asked anxiously, one hand skimming over her head and back, searching for injuries.
Nicole took careful stock. "Just bruised. A moment while I check on Merkle."
She would have been happy to stay in Philip's embrace, but conscience made her sit up and lift the lid of the basket. Merkle darted out and swarmed up her mistress's arm, crying piteously until she found a secure position on Nicole's shoulder, claws digging like tiny needles.
"Merkle can't have taken any injury either or she'd not be able to move so quickly," Sir Philip observed as he got to his feet. He helped Nicole up. "Just a moment while I see if the curricle is damaged."
Nicole tried to brush away mud and crushed weeds with one hand while soothing the cat with the other. The puddle had finished the job of saturating her cloak, and the bitter wind threatened to freeze her into a solid block of ice.
Sir Philip muttered an oath under his breath. "The horses seem to be all right, but the curricle's left wheel is broken."
"Surely it can't be much farther to the inn you mentioned," Nicole said through numb lips. "We can walk."
"Up one long hill and down another," he said grimly. "That's too far on a night like this. Luckily there's an old cottage just a few hundred yards from here. I don't know who lives there, but it's always well kept so I'm sure it's occupied. Just a moment while I get the curricle off the road and unharness the team."
To reduce her exposure to the wind, Nicole hunkered down beside the road and returned an indignant Merkle to the basket. The baronet undid the leather harness straps, tending the job horses as carefully as if they were his own. Nicole's father would have approved; he always said that how a man treated his beasts was a good guide to his character.
When Philip had freed the team from its harness, Nicole stood and joined him, the basket handle slung over one arm. "Which way, monsieur?" she said with a hint of chattering teeth.
"Just along here." Taking the reins in his right hand, Philip put his left arm around his companion, wanting to warm her. He felt her slim body shaking under her damp cloak, but she did not complain. She really was the gamest little creature.
The lane had a surprisingly smooth surface, which meant that it was now treacherous with sheet ice. Even with Philip's arm to support her, Nicole was skidding with every step. After she had barely survived several near-falls, he turned and scooped her up in his arms, cat basket and all.
When Nicole gave a little squeak of surprise, he explained, "Like the curricle, you are too light for these conditions."
She gave a gurgle of laughter, then relaxed trustingly against him. Between carrying her and leading the placid horses, progress was slow, but ten minutes of trudging through the dark brought them to the cottage, which was a small thatched building of undoubted antiquity.
Fortunately a light was visible inside. Philip set Nicole on her feet and looped the reins around the gatepost, then guided his companion to the cottage's front door. A knock produced no results, so after a moment's hesitation he tried the knob.
The door swung open with a creak, and Philip ushered Nicole into the cottage's large main room. A fire burned in the hearth, and the air was warm and rich with the scent of simmering soup, but there was no one in 1 sight.
As he looked around uneasily, a soft female voice with only a trace of country accent came from the chamber behind the main room. "Emmy, what kept you? I've been expecting you all day."
A moment later the owner of the voice appeared. A small, elderly woman with straying white hair, she was dressed plainly, but with neat propriety. Seeing the unexpected visitors, she stopped still, her eyes widening with alarm.
Nicole said reassuringly, "Your pardon, madame, but we are travelers who had a carriage accident on the road outside. The wheel is broken, and to walk to the next village in this weather would be dangerous. I know this is a great imposition, but may we spend the night here?"
The woman went to a window and pulled the curtain aside with one gnarled hand, knitting her brows at the sight of the icy rain beating against the thick old glass. "I was napping and hadn't noticed how beastly the storm is. That must be why Emmy didn't come." She dropped the curtain and turned to her visitors. "Of course you and your husband can stay."
Philip asked, "May I put my horses in your shed?"
"By all means. It's no night to be traveling." After Philip went outside, the woman turned to Nicole and smiled apologetically. "You must think me a poor hostess. I'm Mrs. Turner. Let me take your cloak, my dear."
"I am Nicole Chambord," Nicole said as she handed over the mantle. Even soggy, it caused Mrs. Turner to raise an eyebrow, but the older woman made no comment as she hung the garment on a peg by the door.
Nicole continued, "My companion is Sir Philip Selbourne. He is not my husband, but"—she hesitated fractionally—"my cousin. We were on our way to his home, Winstead Hall."
Mrs. Turner's eyes brightened wit
h interest. "So he's the squire of Winstead. I know of the family, of course, they're important folk hereabouts. His father died last winter, didn't he?" She gave an appreciative smile. "I didn't know Sir Philip was so young. He's a handsome lad, isn't he?"
Nicole nodded agreement. Sir Philip was handsome, not with the flamboyant, Byronic dash of Lord Masterson, but he had a pleasing aspect that was more appealing every time she looked at him.
Knowing it was not her place to say any such thing, she asked, "May I let my cat out? Poor Merkle has had a difficult day." She lifted the lid of the basket.
Pushed beyond the limits of patience, Merkle instantly scrambled out and jumped to the floor, then swung her head back and forth as she suspiciously examined her new surroundings.
Before the little calico could take a step, a menacing feline growl sounded from a shadowy corner by the wood box. The growl was followed by a large, bristling tabby who slunk into the center of the room with flattened ears and a dangerous gleam in its green eyes.
Judging discretion to be the better part of valor, Merkle raced across the flagged floor and darted under a low chest of drawers, the tabby flying in hot pursuit. "Oh, dear!" Nicole said unhappily. She took a step toward the cats, but Mrs. Turner put her hand up.
"Don't worry," the older woman said. "Moggy won't hurt your puss. She just wants to make it clear whose house this is."
Sure enough, Moggy didn't follow the smaller cat under the chest, instead, the tabby crouched down, tail flicking, in a waiting position that effectively trapped the calico under the furniture, but offered no real threat.
With crisis turned to stalemate, Mrs. Turner said, "I'll make you and Sir Philip a nice cup of tea. You must be freezing."
As the older woman hung a kettle on the hob so that the water could be brought to the boil, Nicole drew her chilled self closer to the hearth. "Forgive me, madame, for this is none of my business, but who is the Emmy you were expecting? A member of your family who has been caught away from home by the storm?"
"No, she's a girl from Blisworth, the nearest village. She helps out sometimes," Mrs. Turner explained. "My son is coming for Christmas tomorrow and bringing his new wife, Georgette. Robert is a solicitor in London and doing very well for himself."