Page 18 of A Much Maligned Miss

“Curious your mother never started any fiction that you mistreated your angelic brother,” he pondered. “I would have expected tales of you pushing him into ditches or snatching away his toys.”

“Oh no,” Caroline answered unthinkingly. “Mother would never share the spotlight like that. It was only ever she that was the victim.”

Lord Atherton threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, I had not considered that aspect.”

“Besides,” Caroline added, uncomfortably, “Edgar would never allow a lie to stand.”

“He would defend you?”

“If he knew the person accusing me to be telling an untruth, then certainly.”

Lord Atherton shot her a skeptical look. “You imagine your brother is unaware of your mother’s perfidy?”

“Of course!” Caroline answered at once.

“Despite the fact he has known you both all his life?”

“He believes in her utterly. Mother has a wholly helpless air,” Caroline explained. “Men fall for it completely. Squire Pebmarsh and Reverend Ryland both think her a delicate and charming flower.”

“No doubt they do but your brother also knows you,” he pointed out. “Knowing you, how could he believe you capable of such spite?” He looked intrigued. “If he had been there that day at Vance Park, when the shawl was discovered, would he have believed you the culprit?”

Caroline’s face grew hot. “Most readily,” she admitted. “He would have been sorrowful and disappointed in me, but Edgar would never have questioned my guilt. You see, there have been several such incidents over the years. The shawl was just one of many.”

A look of appreciation crossed Lord Atherton’s face. “Good lord,” he breathed. “You must tell me some of these incidents. They sound quite fascinating.”

Caroline stared at him in consternation. It dawned on her that his aid had precious little to do with any compassion on his part. He saw her more as a means to stave off his habitual boredom than as an object of pity.

Lord Atherton expected her to divert him with tales of her past woes, rather like an organ grinder’s monkey performing tricks. She gripped her gloved hands together tightly. It was humiliating, she reflected, but not too steep a price to pay for her flight from Penarth.

He did not see her as piteous at least; she must concentrate on that. That part was not so bad. She needed to be practical. Instead of inwardly flinching whenever she recounted something demeaning, she needed to be bold and brazen it out. Her pathetic existence was finally proving useful. It was paying for her passage to freedom.

“Have you yet breakfasted?” he asked, cutting across her thoughts.

She shook her head. She still felt faintly queasy and the dirt track they were currently bumping along was doing little to alleviate the sensation. This carriage was not so well-sprung as Lord Faris’s luxurious crested coach. “When I woke this morning, eating was not my uppermost concern,” she admitted.

“No? What then was?” he asked.

“Flight,” she answered, the lifeless image of herself flashing into her mind, huddled all of a heap beneath the pergola. She shivered. “In truth, I have little by way of appetite.”

“You may work one up before our first stop,” he suggested as Caroline reached out to brace a hand against the side as they went over a particularly large rut in the lane. “These peninsula roads are poorly maintained. You will have to exert yourself to remain in your seat at times. You see,” he said, when she half jolted out of her seat, illustrating his point.

“I hope that poor man up top is not cursing you soundly,” she replied.

His smile widened. “Let him,” he said callously. “He will not be the first nor the last, I’ll wager.”

And Caroline found she believed him.

7

They reached Exeter around eight o’clock that night and pulled into the courtyard of The White Hart. Caroline looked fit to drop by this point and Gervaise had to take a firm hold of her waist as she descended the steps.

“There’s a good girl,” he told her absently, addressing her rather as he had done his old spaniel Flossie and taking her elbow to steer her toward the coaching inn where they were putting up for the night. Her face was chalky white, and he fancied she trembled slightly where he touched her.

“You did not eat enough today,” he commented critically. “And while I admit that breakfast we were presented with was frankly substandard, the luncheon at The George was very good.”

Caroline blanched. “My head is aching fit to split,” she admitted. “I do not think I could eat, even if I wanted to.”

He tutted, for he had suspected as much. Though she had maintained a good facade up until early afternoon, she had clearly started to feel worse as the day progressed. “This way. I’ll find you a quiet spot to sit while I secure our rooms.”