The Anonymous Miss Addams. Kasey Michaels

bushes to answer nature’s call?”

      “Sorry, sir,” the coachman mumbled apologetically, leaning down to peer into the darkened interior of the coach. “But you see, sir, there’s a lady in the road. At least, I think it’s a lady.”

      Pierre’s left brow lifted fractionally. “A lady,” he repeated consideringly. “How prudent of you not to run her down. My compliments on both your driving and your charity, although I cannot but wonder at your difficulty in deciding the gender of our roadblock. Perhaps now you might take it upon yourself to ask this lady to move?”

      “I can’t, sir,” the coachman responded, the slight quiver in his voice reflecting both his lingering shock at avoiding a calamity and his fearful respect of his employer. “Like I told yer—she’s in the road. It’s a lady for sure, ’cause I can see her feet. I think mayhap she’s dead, and can’t move.”

      Pierre’s lips twitched as he remarked quietly, “Her feet? An odd way to determine gender, Duvall, wouldn’t you say?” His next communication to the coachman followed, both his words and his offhand tone announcing that he was decidedly unimpressed. “Dead, you say, coachman? That would be an impediment to movement, wouldn’t it?”

      Duvall quickly blessed himself, muttering something in French that may have been “Blessed Mary protect us, and why couldn’t it have been the sweep?”

      “A dead lady in the middle of the road,” Pierre mused again out loud, already moving toward the coach door. “I imagine I should see this deceased lady for myself.” With one foot in the road, he paused to order quietly: “Arm yourself, coachman, and instruct the outriders to scan the trees for horsemen. This may be a trap. There are still robbers along this roadway.

      “Although I would have thought it would be easier to throw a dead tree into the road, rather than a dead lady,” he added under his breath as he disengaged Duvall’s convulsive grip on his coattail. “Please, my good friend,” he admonished with a smile. “Consider the fabric, if not your long hours with the iron.”

      Pierre stepped completely onto the roadway, nodding almost imperceptibly to the two outriders while noting with mingled comfort and amusement that the coachman was now brandishing a very mean-looking blunderbuss at the ready. A quick look to the rear of the coach assured him that his Good Deed was still firmly anchored in the boot, as the streetwise Jeremy Holloway’s dirt-streaked face was peeping around the edge of the coach, his eyes wide as saucers. “Oi’ve got yer back, guv’nor,” the boy whispered hoarsely. “Don’t yer go worryin’ ’bout dat.”

      “Such loyalty deserves a reward,” Pierre whispered back at the boy. “If we get out of this with our skin intact, Master Holloway, I shall allow you to sit up top with the coachman.” As the coachman gave out with an audible groan, Pierre began strolling toward the standing horses, his demeanor decidedly casual, as if he were merely taking the air in the park.

      Once he had come up beside the off-leader, he could see the woman, who was, just as the coachman had reported, lying facedown in the roadway and looking, for all intents and purposes, extremely dead. She was dressed in a man’s drab grey cloak, its hood having fallen forward to hide her face as well as whatever gown she wore beneath its voluminous expanse. Her stockinged, shoeless feet—small feet attached to rather shapely slim ankles, he noted automatically, for he was a man who appreciated female beauty—extended from beneath the hem of the cloak, but her hands were pinned beneath her, out of sight.

      He walked to within two paces of her, then used the tip of his cane to lightly nudge her in the rib cage. There was no response, either from the woman or from the heavily wooded perimeters of the road. If the woman was only feigning injury and in league with highwaymen, her compatriots were taking their sweet time in making their presence known.

      Gingerly lowering himself onto his haunches, and being most careful not to muddy the knees of his skintight fawn buckskin breeches, Pierre took hold of the woman in the area of her shoulder and gently turned her onto her back.

      “Ohh.” The sound was soft, barely more than a faint expulsion of air, but it had come from the woman. Obviously she had not yet expired, not that her life expectancy could be numbered in more than a few minutes or hours if she were to continue to lie in the middle of the roadway.

      “She toes-cocked, guv’nor, or wot?”

      Jeremy’s voice, coming from somewhere behind Pierre’s left shoulder, made him realize that he had been paying attention to the woman when he should have been listening for highwaymen. “She’s not dead, if that’s what that colorful expression is meant to imply,” he supplied tonelessly, pushing the hood from the woman’s face so that he could get a better look at her.

      What he saw made him inhale involuntarily, his left brow raising a fraction in surprise. The woman was little more than a girl, and she was exceedingly beautiful, in an ethereal way. Masses of softly waving hair the color of midnight tangled across her ashen, dirt-smeared face, trailing strands that lovingly clung to the small, finely sculpted features that carried the unmistakable stamp of good bloodlines.

      Quickly seeking out her limp arm to feel for her pulse, Pierre mentally noted the fragile slimness of her wrist and the slender perfection of her hand and fingers. Her cold hand and frigid fingers.

      “Master Holloway, be a good boy and go tell Duvall to bring me a blanket,” Pierre ordered without looking away from the young woman’s face, wrapping her once more in the worn grey cloak. “And have him bring my flask as well. This poor child is chilled through to the bone.”

      Once Duvall had brought the blanket, Pierre draped it over the young woman and hefted her upper body onto his knees, intent on forcing her to drink some of the warming brandy. It was no use. The brandy ran into her mouth, only to dribble back onto her chin. Handing the flask back to his manservant—who immediately took a restorative dose of the fiery liquid for himself—Pierre lifted the young woman completely into his arms and returned to the coach.

      “Yer takin’ ’er with us?” the seafaring outrider questioned worriedly. “Wimmen is bad luck aboard, that’s wot they are. Always wuz, always will be. Better yer toss ’er back. She’s a small one anyways.”

      Pierre silenced the man with a look. “Turn this equipage about at once, if you please. I have a sudden desire to return to Standish Court. And don’t spare the horses,” he ordered the driver as he swept into the coach, the young woman lolling bonelessly in his arms.

      Beneath his breath he added, “I do begin to believe my loving parent has put a fatherly curse on me. I am suddenly overrun with unlooked-for Good Deeds. But, being a loving son, and not a greedy man, I also believe that at least one of these humanizing projects rightfully belongs to him. Duvall,” he called out, “tell the coachman that Jeremy is to ride atop with him.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      “COO, GUV’NOR, would yer jist look at dat! Dat gentry mort looks jist like yer—wit a coffin o’ snow plopped on ’is ’ead!”

      André Standish leveled a cool, assessing look at the untidy urchin perched on top of the traveling coach, then descended the few remaining steps to the gravel drive and addressed his son through the lowered coach window. “An acquaintance of yours, Pierre? He has an interesting way with description. Have you lost your way and must retrace your steps, or have you somehow learned that cook is preparing your favorite meal for tonight—a lovely brown ragôut of lamb with peas—and it is your stomach that brings you back to me?”

      “My current favorite meal is rare roasted beef with horseradish sauce,” Pierre corrected, “although I know it is rude of me to point out this single lapse in your seemingly faultless store of information about me. And no,” he said, shifting the human weight in his arms in preparation for leaving the coach, “much as I love you, I have not lost my way. May I infringe upon your affection by prevailing upon you to open this door?”

      André complied with a courtly bow, flinging open the door and personally letting down the steps. A moment later, Pierre was standing beside him in the drive,