Page 22 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

“Oy, well done. An ’ere I thought you the veriest mouse.” Bess gave Inez a frank smile, bestowing her appreciation, and again Inez wanted to snap at her. She wasn’t a violent person! Seeing Wigsby, being nearly choked to death at his hands, then watching Joseph so valiantly defend her had set up a roil of emotions she didn’t know how to tame.

“How did you find me?” she finally thought to ask.

The blood had turned to a slow seep at his temple, and Inez dabbed the wound one more time, not caring if the blood never washed out of her linen. She’d carry the scrap as a kerchief beneath her dress if it held a part of Joseph Illingworth, she was that much a fool.

Her knees were as liquid as a chocolate cream. Her belly sloshed with dread and desire. And that place deep within, that place Joseph Illingworth had awakened—after his kiss it burned bright as the morning star, shining through the fog of everything else, a brilliant, true beacon to guide her.

“The costermonger.” His steady gaze was a snare, and she would never be free. He studied each line of her face as if she were a priceless painting on exhibit by the Royal Academy. As if he had never seen her before, in all the days and months she had moved in his orbit. Her heart slowed and swelled to one enormous throb of longing. She wished his body were pressed against his once more.

“Tamara,” he added, as if Inez wouldn’t recall the little costermonger who regularly visited George Court, bringing news from the Big House—what she called Hunsdon House, the ducal townhome—or from other parts around town. “She heard you say something once, apparently, that made her guess you knew this…area. It seems she knows it as well, for her directions were quite accurate.”

Inez still held her hand to his temple. She didn’t want to stop touching him. The gesture lifted her breasts to his awareness, and his gaze swept there again, but then back to her throat, where the imprint of Wigsby’s fingers burned into her skin.

“Gather your things, Inez. We are leaving.”

The command did something strange to her insides, turned them to melting wax. She didn’t even care that he had used her real name, in this place where all went veiled.

“With you?” Instead of activating her stubbornness, as would a command from everyone else, she found herself cravenly eager to comply. If he’d held out a leash, she might very well slip it around her wrist. Anything if it meant she might follow him. Be tethered to him.

When had she lost her mind for this man?

“Yes. We’re going home.”

His home. With her in it. As if they belonged in the same place.

“You’ll come see us again, won’t ye?” Bess called. “Wee Inanna. And bring yer great gorger along, if ye wish.”

The ruddy glow in Joseph’s cheeks as they descended to the kitchens told Inez he wasn’t accustomed to invitations or flattery from women. He blushed as if he’d never been valued, appreciated, sought after by a girl. But how could he not, a man who looked as he did? Whole, unscarred, with his well-cut visage and well-knit frame. He had to have had maids throwing their caps at him from the days he exchanged his boy’s gown for breeches. Inez could hardly be blamed for falling victim.

“Leaving so soon, are ye? A right shame, that is.” Ceres winked from her place turning the roast on its spit. “But yer gravy is doing up fine, and we’ll drink to your health tonight, dearie. Not every day a girl gains herself a fine protector.”

Now it was Inez flushing with embarrassment, but she only mumbled a quick thanks as Joseph, with a courteous salute to the cook, drew her out the door. If only he wanted to be her protector. If only.

Mother Vesta waited in the courtyard, the afternoon breeze stirring the heavy arrangement of feathers and flowers on her hat. She held the cloth stocking bag, and for a moment Inez’s heart forgot to beat. Did Mother know?

“You certainly didn’t stay long.”

Mother’s shrewd stare evaluated Joseph, but not as the other Vestals had. Mother was placing his age, his station, his means, and his temperament in a glance, deciding what kind of john he would make. “And I’m to trust him with you, Inanna, when you came here fleeing him?”

“It wasn’t him, Mother,” Inez admitted. “He would never hurt me.”

At least not deliberately. Joseph Illingworth caught mice and spiders and transferred them out of doors when he found them. He couldn’t take the life of an insect, much less a person.

Though he had defended her rather splendidly against Wigsby, and Inez wanted to ask where he learned how to fight.

“And what am I to say when his lordship comes back with the watch?” Mother spoke to Joseph, still taking his measure.

“You will tell the watch he laid hands on a woman in your employ. That he accused her of crimes without due process, and attempted murder by his own hand.” With a finger he lifted Inez’s chin, showing her bruised throat. Inez sucked in her breath at the silken touch. The contact was a small coal, branding her.

“And you have witnesses. Your bully backs. Several of your girls. Your chambermaid, if they’ll take her testimony.” Likely they wouldn’t, nor that of the Vestals, for the word of women and servants counted less in a court of law than the word of a man, especially a lord or a gentleman, even in this enlightened age.

But Mother was not without her own resources. She simply nodded and held out the bag. “I’ll find a way to soothe Wigsby. A free night or two with his favorites, or one of my special banquets. I’ve never allowed him one before.”

Her gaze snared Inez’s as their fingers touched. “But you’ll come again if you’ve need, child. You are safe here.”

Her breath caught on her reply, so Inez simply nodded. Wax melted about her insides again. She’d known she would find refuge here, but to have it stated so frankly, as if she were welcome—the words meant more than she could say.

Joseph slid an arm around her waist. Her waist. Inez went entirely still, as if the gesture were accidental and, were she to remind him, he might withdraw the caress.

“She is safe with me also,” he said firmly.

Inez felt the bottom of her bag, seeking the familiar weight and bulk with her fingers. Mother might have searched it—would have searched it—but the jewels were there.

Mother knew what she’d done, if Joseph didn’t. Yet she handed the spoils back as if the bag and its contents belonged to Inez.

“Your horse is in the mews.” Mother pointed. “That way.”

And Joseph pulled her away as if Inez belonged with him. As if she were his in truth, and his home was hers also.

It was possible Wigsby had killed her, and this was all a dream. If so, Inez didn’t want to wake up.