Henrietta huffed. He was infuriating. She couldn’t help that every woman in creation seemed to trip over herself to win a smile (or more…) from him.
“You don’t need to send Mrs. Bercine away. That has never been our relationship. I once thought she and Montaigne might…but it came to nothing.”
“Montaigne and Mrs. Bercine? Truly?”
“While he was recovering from his wound, I thought that there might be something between them. But I don’t think anything ever came of it.”
“Montaigne doesn’t seem to ever entertain a serious attachment.”
Trem looked pensive. “It’s true. Not that that makes him unusual among our friends. But sometimes I think it would do him good, all the same. And sometimes, I think, well—” Then he stopped himself.
“What?” Henrietta asked, hungry for whatever gossip about his friends he would feed her. She had heard much of the Rank Rakes’s exploits over the years but often felt that she was kept from the most scandalous bits. “Tell me.”
“Well,” Trem said, “I don’t know this for sure—I’ve never asked him. But I suspect that Monty had his heart broken long ago. Years ago.”
“Really? Why?” Henrietta had never heard of this possibility. Montaigne had always seemed, to her, the most carefree of her brother’s set.
“He makes comments, here and there, sometimes, that make me think it. And he wasn’t always the most wild of the four of us. When we were at Eton, he was more like John—and it was me who was unruly. No parents, no family. Who did I have to reel me in? But then something happened with Montaigne. All I know, from Leith, is that there was a girl in his parents’ house, a servant, and they had an affair. And then she disappeared. After that—” Trem exhaled “—it was Monty who became ungovernable. He isn’t quite as dissipated as he was back then, he’s calmed down some, but I was really afraid at one point that he’d catch the pox.”
“How old was he when she disappeared?”
“Twenty.”
“John never told me about this.”
“I’m not sure how much he knows. We’ve never talked about it—I’ve never talked about it with any of them besides Leith. Monty wouldn’t like it. And you know me—I’m the gossip of the group. Positively loquacious in comparison to the lot of them.”
“They always call you the fishwife.”
“Sometimes, I don’t understand how they can be so uninterested in the people around them. Maybe it’s because I grew up alone, but…I’m very curious about people, what they do, and why.”
“Me too.” She loved this side of him—the side that cared about others and wanted to know more. “I must say that I envy Mrs. Bercine for what she is able to view about human life as an innkeeper. She must know so many secrets. And she must have so much more freedom, in certain ways, than aristocratic women. I rather admire it. I was always jealous of all the trouble you and John got into and that I would never be allowed.”
“You haven’t done so badly yourself in terms of trouble. Bedding and rejecting an eligible young lordling,” he said the words musingly, counting on his fingers, “browbeating stuffy publishers into giving you editorships of national magazines…instigating a roadside pistol fight between a coachman and your fiancé…tupping ME on Lady Worthington’s balcony…”
She gasped in objection to this characterization of her actions. “You’re a scoundrel, you know that, don’t you?”
Trem leaned over, placing his hand on her knee, and said, close, in her ear, “Yes, I do, rather. And now that you’re with me, I promise we’ll indulge in all the wickedness you could ever want.”
*
The next day, they set off for Dorset, with Percy once more at the helm. After Trem’s explanation about Mrs. Bercine, Henrietta had managed to be a scintilla warmer to the pretty innkeeper—and she had to admit that, yes, the woman ran an exceptionally efficient establishment and was remarkably adept at dealing with sudden and violent injuries.
Their new plan was simple. They would reach the town in which Mary Forster lived, Rampisham, by nightfall. They would stay in the local inn there and then, the next morning, pay her a call.
“Don’t worry,” Trem said as they entered the carriage, “the inn in Rampisham is run by a very nice fellow named Mr. Rollins. Significantly less comely than Mrs. Bercine.”
Henrietta rolled her eyes at Trem’s teasing. He was enjoying her jealousy inordinately. It was really quite juvenile of him.
Last night, they had truly shared a bed for the first time. Trem had attempted to seduce her with pretty words and his one good hand, but she had refused. He was still too fragile. One more night of rest, she told him, and then she would reconsider.
In fact, it had been very difficult to turn him down. She had gone to sleep and dreamt about bedding the man who lay right next to her, which was, really, quite a singular experience.
They settled into the coach and, once they were seated, Henrietta reached into her pocket and pulled out a letter. She turned to Trem.
“Before we left, the lovely Mrs. Bercine gave me this letter from John. It just arrived as we were hastening to leave. Shall we read it?”
“Ah—sure,” Trem said, looking suspiciously ill at ease. She had thought he would be eager to hear from John. Instead, he appeared to be taking an aggressive interest in his shirt sleeve.
