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She stared through the tavern window at the moon, nearly full now. A great, golden orb that her lit her journey towards safety in the past. She mustn’t be frightened. She’d escaped with her life before when the odds had been slim.
It’s just that she’d paid a price no lady should have to pay.
Wearily she covered her face with her hands.
Lord Deveril would have been searching for her for two days. So would Lord Griffith? But what of Lord Ruthcot? What did he know about her? Had Lord Griffith claimed Jemima was a thief and imposter. Did Deveril call her a whore who’d fled in the night with the jewellery he’d lent her?
She shivered in the cold air but didn’t close the window. The tavern where she was staying until she could embark upon a ship that would sail her to France, was rank with the smell of stale ale. She needed the fresh salty tang of the sea to remind her of what she must do. Athens was her destination, thence by land on toward Constantinople. Perhaps it was madness, but no more so than to remain in England where she was hunted, and where those who would protect her were as likely to die as had Sir Richard. At least she might find a position in France as a governess, and wait until an opportunity presented itself to continue with her quest.
She turned at a knock on the door, which opened to admit a crooked-shouldered young girl bearing a tray. “Ya food, ma’am.”
The girl set it on the table and eyed Jemima curiously, seemingly reluctant to leave the room. Self-consciously, Jemima picked up her knife and fork. She was starving and the pie looked good, but she was also aware that, traveling alone, she would elicit interest. “Any news on the storm?” she asked. “Has there been word on how long our departure will be delayed?”
More important than worrying about how others perceived her, though, was the question of whether embarking upon this trip, alone, was indeed pure folly that courted more danger than it protected her from. Undoubtedly it was dangerous, but would the missing corner of the clay tablet make it impossible to interpret the directions to the treasure?
Two days before her father had been killed, he had received a letter from an old friend in Paris, inviting him to visit him at his home. Jemima had no idea if he was a good man but he was her only option. In a letter she had found, he’d made mention of the very cave he believed contained the treasure indicated in on the clay tablet that Professor Percy was in the process of deciphering.
This elderly Frenchman who’d visited five years previously had not taken a great deal of notice of Professor Percy’s shy fifteen-year-old daughter, despite her father’s obvious pride in her knowledge and abilities. But M. de Luc was the man upon whom Jemima had now pinned all her hopes. If he was still alive.
“No miss, I don’t know nuffink ‘cept a gennulman’s bin askin’ afta a beautiful lady wiv gold hair, and I reckon ya could be that lady, cept fer ya clothes.” She eyed Jemima’s hair, enviously. “You really are the most beautiful lady wot I ever seen.”
Jemima ignored the compliment. “A gentleman is looking for me?” She clutched the single peridot pin at her throat and asked, “What did he look like?”
Had Lord Griffith discovered her whereabouts? Had he sent his henchman to murder her? Oh, it was madness to set off on her own, but she couldn’t go to her aunt, and she couldn’t go back to Deveril or to Lord Ruthcot. Deveril’s jealousy would know no bounds. He’d kill her or anyone who tried to help her. She seemed to inspire a murderous covetousness in men.
The maidservant combed her fingers through the greasy strands of hair that limply framed her face, and simpered. “He were rich an’ ‘andsome.”
Would Lord Griffith appear handsome just because he was rich? It was possible.
“It was ya, ma’am, weren’t it, else ya’d not look so afeared? If ya give me a shillin’, I won’t tell ‘im ya ‘ere.”
Jemima had precious little coinage, but she stood up and seized her reticule, scrabbling for her coin purse before brandishing the money. A desperate vision swam before her of having to sell her body to reach her final destination. She felt faint and ill and had to sit down, closing her eyes. Was that the only way women achieved their aims? With no education and value beyond their birthright or bodies, there was precious little else they had to trade.
“Take it and go,” she whispered, waving the girl away. Suddenly, the congealed meat falling from its pastry shell looked highly unappetizing, but she’d paid for it, and it might be the last decent meal she’d have in a while.
Wearily, she sank down at the little table, picked up her knife and fork again, and burst into tears.
Chapter 17
It was the fifth tavern Miles had tried, and perhaps the last for he’d been tramping the streets for hours with nothing to go on to suggest he was even in the right town, much less that Jemima had made the decision to escape by sea. No, it was pure instinct for he remembered a brief remark she’d made, wistfully dreaming of taking a ship to foreign lands.
Dover seemed the obvious choice, but although Miles had questioned everyone during his journey, no one recalled seeing a golden-haired woman in a ball gown.
Or simply a golden-haired woman.
He’d stepped into the noisy tavern of the least likely place he imagined he’d find her, and as it was too late to continue his search into the next town, bespoke himself a room for the night.
John went ahead to unpack his trunk, while Miles made his way to the taproom. Perhaps someone here had news, or could tell him if any shipping had occurred in the past six hours, in spite of the storm.
As he was about to duck his head beneath the lintel and join the rabble, the grimy maidservant whom he’d earlier questioned scuttled in front of him. She gave a quick curtsy then held out her hand.
“Two shillin’s fo’ me to tell ya where to find a golden-haired lady.” She bit her lip, and flinched, almost as if she were afraid of being struck, and Miles hesitated, even as he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket.
“I just paid you for the news there was no one of that description.”
“An’ now there is.” She gnawed at her lip and twisted her dirty apron in her hands. “I can tell ya wot room she’s in. An’ all alone, too.” The girl made a suggestive gesture. “I knows what ya gennulman like.”
Miles’s first instinct was to rebuke her for such a bawdy comment, but the thought that this might be his last opportunity had him fishing in his pocket for a coin to give the child, despite the suspicion this was another con, like the last.
