She turned to him, and the expression in her eyes was one he’d seen before, on the day he’d opened the door of her coach and confronted her. She looked as if she was trapped and desperate but refusing to give in, with a courage he found admirable. Something in his chest clenched so hard it hurt, and he wondered if it could possibly be his heart.
“I am asking you, no, begging you, to help me to get to London, Coombe.”
“I told you, miss, I’ve never been further than Barnstaple,” he muttered, uncomfortable.
“But you just said that the road to London runs through Barnstaple. Or else I can catch the train. Yes, the train would be best. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but if you help me, then I promise to help you.”
If he was really a man like Coombe, what would he think of that? Gabriel shot her a quick glance from under the peak of his cap. Behind her spectacles her eyes were bright with worry, and she was chewing her full bottom lip. Coombe, he decided, would probably fly to the moon for her, if she asked him to.
“Why do you want to go to London, miss?” he said, needing to know.
“I have something very important I must do there.” Her expression was no longer open, and she turned away to gaze again at the view.
“But you could ask His Lordship to fetch you home, couldn’t you? It would be safer that way, and he’d pay your fare.”
“I—I suppose I could, but I’d rather not. It is a private matter, and I don’t want His Lordship to know I am traveling to London.”
Puzzled, he watched her profile. What was she up to? If she was telling the truth, then there was more to her situation than he’d thought. Could she and Appleby have had a falling out? Perhaps she resented being hidden away down here to save his reputation? And if she and Appleby were estranged, then why wouldn’t she hand over the letter to Gabriel? Surely if that was the case there would be no reason for her to hold on to it, and it would give her a chance to pay him back.
In Gabriel’s experience, women were very good at revenging themselves on the men who upset them, using anything from tears to screaming obscenities. He shuddered, remembering one such incident, when he refused to give a pretty dancer the necklace she demanded.
Suddenly Antoinette turned, catching him staring, and he hastily cleared his throat and spat, to distract her. It worked; she looked away.
“Will you give me an answer, Coombe?” she said quietly. “I need to know soon.”
“I’ll think on it,” he muttered uneasily. “’Tis a big step, miss.”
Again he sensed her frustration, but she held it in check. “I will need my answer, Coombe. I can’t wait forever.”
“Aye, miss.”
She could do nothing but nod her understanding, but he could see it wasn’t the ending she wanted. Together they rode back in silence. He thought she looked sad and pensive, and she spoke only a brief good-bye before leaving him to unsaddle the horses.
As Gabriel worked he thought about what she’d said and what he should do. If he agreed to her request, then he might be able to slip beneath her guard and discover what she was up to. And then again, if he helped her run away, she would have to take the letter with her, and he could persuade her to hand it over to him, or take it by force. Of course that would mean revealing himself to her as Gabriel, not Coombe, and she’d be justifiably angry.
And if he refused to help her? She’d lose her faith in Coombe and stop talking to him, but she would have to stay here at Wexmoor Manor, and he’d have to make sure that the watch on her was intensified. The letter would remain here in the manor, hidden, and he’d continue with his efforts to persuade her to give it up. Their pleasurable trysts would go on.
As far as Gabriel could see, whatever decision he made meant he would win. Now he’d just have to decide what he wanted more—Antoinette or the letter.
Chapter 20
The garden at Wexmoor Manor was a wild affair. It must once have been trained into neat borders and beds, but now it more or less did as it pleased. Shrubs were overgrown and perennials reached to the sky, while roses bloomed in mad profusion, climbing over and through other plants.
To her surprise, Antoinette found its chaos charming. Her own garden in Surrey was perfectly behaved—if a blade of grass grew too tall, someone would clip it off. But here at Wexmoor Manor the garden was king.
She pottered about, perfectly happy, admiring flowers and wondering what some of the more unfamiliar herbs might be. Were these planted by Priscilla Langley, the witch of the woods? Did she wander in this same garden, feeling the sun warm on her head, enjoying the scents and the sounds of the birds?
Gradually, though, she began to feel a tingling at the back of her neck. A sense that she was not alone. She caught a glimpse of the highwayman slipping behind a grove of apple trees, and smiled. Lately she was always being watched by one of Appleby’s cronies, but that flush under her skin only occurred when he was watching her.
She turned toward the maze—too overgrown now to attempt to find one’s way in, much less out—and told herself to ignore him. He would have to show himself, eventually.
Sure enough, as she was bending to inspect another of the herbs, a voice spoke so close behind her it made her jump. “Sparrow, you have petals in your hair.”
Antoinette turned so quickly she nearly fell over, and he had to catch hold of her arm. “I wonder there are only petals,” she said, breathless. “This is a wilderness, not a garden. Does no one prune or check anything here?”
“We believe in nature taking its course.”
Antoinette broke his hold, moving away, but he came after her. He was out of place here, in his dark clothing and his mask, like a ghost in the daylight.