Looking after her maid and keeping house filled Charity's day, but come the evening the novelty of it all was wearing thin and she was looking forward to spending the evening with Sir Mark and Lady Beverley. She changed her homely woollen gown and apron for her cotton-lined taffeta. The deep, rich red of her gown would stand out amongst the cream and white muslins that were so very fashionable, but it had the advantage of buttoning down the front, which made it much easier for her to get on without Betty's help. She put up her hair and took out the garnet parure that matched her gown. The set comprised a necklace, earrings and a jewelled pin that she fixed amongst her golden curls.
Charity regarded herself in the mirror. Was it too grandiose for a country soirée? Perhaps. A mischievous smile tugged at her lips. She was an actress and a little ostentation was expected of her. Satisfied that she would not disappoint, she put on her pattens, wrapped herself in her fur-lined travelling cloak and set off the short distance to Beverley House.
Sir Mark and Lady Beverley lived in a fine new town house overlooking the market square. It was only five minutes' walk away, but Charity was thankful to reach her destination. A thin covering of snow glittered in the light from the streetlamps and an icy wind was blowing, so cold it burned her cheeks. A glance in a mirror in the hall of Beverley House relieved her mind of its biggest fear, that her nose might be glowing to rival the stones of her parure.
She was glad she had come. The welcome was warm and she found herself in good company-her hostess had invited those friends from the theatre who had remained in Allingford, as well as a number of local writers and artists. If Charity noticed that a certain dark, taciturn gentleman was not present, she gave no sign and managed to look unconcerned when someone mentioned his name to their hostess.
‘Mr Durden? No, he is not here tonight.' Lady Beverley gave a little laugh and her twinkling eyes rested upon Charity. ‘It seems that even the company of our celebrated actress could not persuade him out of his reclusive ways, for I made a particular point of telling him that you would be here, my dear.'
Charity smiled, murmured something appropriate and moved away to join her colleagues from the theatre. She was soon caught up in a lively discussion about plays, and their actor/manager's plans for the remainder of the season. All too soon the clock was chiming eleven, the hour she had set herself for going home.
‘Will you not stay longer?' Lady Beverley urged her. ‘I have had so little chance to talk to you. If you are worried about walking home alone, I can always send for the carriage.'
‘Thank you, ma'am, I would not dream of troubling you to fetch out your carriage for such a short journey. It is but a step and I am perfectly content to walk. And at this hour there will be plenty of people on the streets.'
‘But it would be no trouble and the night is yet young. Do stay, Mrs Weston. I am sure one of our friends here would escort you back to your house-'
Charity was touched by her hostess's concern, but she was adamant.
‘You are very kind, but my maid is ill and I do not want to leave her alone for too long.'
Seeing she could not be persuaded to stay, Lady Beverley waited for her to collect her cloak and accompanied her to the door, sending her off with the promise that she and Sir Mark would attend the first night of the new play.
Warmed by such an abundance of goodwill, Charity put up her hood and set off for North Street. It was snowing and she walked briskly, keeping her cloak pulled close about her. The streets were quieter than she had expected, but she guessed very few people would linger out of doors on such a chilly night. She turned the corner into North Street and into the biting wind, so she lowered her head and pulled her hood farther over her face to keep the icy flakes from her face. She had glimpsed a travelling coach standing at the roadside a little way ahead of her and she felt sorry for the coachman huddled in his greatcoat, and for the horses as the heavy flakes began to settle over the equipage. They would all be glad to get home tonight.
As she walked past the carriage she heard the creak of the door opening but took no notice until a pair of strong arms seized her and a gloved hand covered her mouth. She was lifted off her feet and bundled unceremoniously into the carriage.
Chapter Five
Charity struggled hard against her captor. With the door closed and the blinds drawn it was black as pitch inside the carriage, and she felt an uncontrollable panic rising within her as it jolted into motion. Her first thought was that she had been abducted by her father, until she heard herself addressed by a cheerful and decidedly Irish voice.
‘Whist now, me pretty wildcat, just stop yer spittin' and scratchin' and I'll let you go.'
She was unaccountably relieved-her situation might be dire, but nothing outweighed the terror that her father instilled in her, despite her years away from him. She stopped struggling and felt those strong arms release their iron grip. There was a deep chuckle and the suffocating hand was removed from her face.
‘There now, that's-' The words ended in a smothered exclamation as she threw herself in the direction of the door and began to scrabble at the panelling, trying to find the handle. ‘Hell and confound it, woman, will you be still!'
She was hauled back onto the seat and a vice-like grip clamped her against a large solid body. She could see nothing in the darkness, but she forced herself to be calm and use her other senses to get her bearings. The man holding her must be big, because she was considered tall, yet her cheek was pressed against his shoulder. The scratch of the material against her face and the smell of the damp wool suggested he was wearing a heavy greatcoat. There was something else, a faint trace of the clean, spicy scent that reminded her of a stolen kiss. Just the thought of it sent a hot blush through her whole body and added a very different alarm to her fears. The blackness was unnerving, so she forced out an angry question.
‘Are you kidnapping me?'
‘Faith, what else would I be doing with such a termagant?'
She tried unsuccessfully to shrug off his restraining arm, saying irritably, ‘The darkness is making me feel sick. Can you not put up the blinds?'
‘Aye, if we are clear of Allingford.'
Still holding her to him, he reached across to the windows and released the blinds. It was snowing harder and the flakes were sticking to the glass, but at least the darkness was relieved a little.
‘Where are you taking me?'
‘Faith, now, you don't think I'd be telling ye that!' Again that deep throaty chuckle. She turned her head to peer up at the man, but it was impossible to see anything other than a black shape against the grey of the window. A black shape defined by wide shoulders and the points of a tricorn hat.
‘So it is you again,' she declared. ‘The one they call the Dark Rider.'
He grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the gloom.
‘Aye, that I am.'
Charity wondered if he would kiss her. She was a little alarmed to realise that part of her wanted him to do so. Quickly she looked away. He could not see her face in the dim light so it was nonsense to believe he might read her thoughts, but she would take no chances. She summoned up her most haughty, scathing tone.
‘Are you such a hopeless highway robber that you have turned to abduction now?'
‘Not at all, 'tis another means to the same end.'
There was something in his voice that stirred a thought, a memory, but it was too fleeting to hold.
‘You will catch cold this time,' she told him. ‘I have no rich friends-not even a wealthy lover to pay a ransom.'
The iron arm around her tightened a little.
‘Ah, your lover is a poor man, then, Mrs Weston?'
There was a warm, teasing note in his voice, but it only made her shiver-would it be better or worse for her if he knew she had never had a lover, that despite her appellation and her profession she had never given herself to any man? She had heard that some rogues could not resist a virgin. She would prevaricate.
She responded coldly, ‘I do not have a lover at the moment.'
‘Surely you don't expect me to believe that-or d'you mean there's not one special man?'
‘Dear heaven,' she cried indignantly, remembering her father's scathing words, ‘why must all men assume that because I am an actress I am profligate-?'