Diane Gaston - The Vanishing Viscountess

He waited to speak until the smithy plunged the piece of metal into water. “Good day to you, smithy,” Rapp said.

The man looked up. “Do you require something?”

Rapp smiled, although his fatigue made him feel anything but cordial. “Only a bit of information.”

The blacksmith just stared at him.

Rapp cleared his throat. “I am from the packet ship that was wrecked last night.”

No understanding showed on the smithy’s face, but Rapp doubted anyone in Llanfwrog was ignorant of the previous night’s bounty.

He went on. “I am searching for survivors, specifically a woman who had been my companion.”

“I know nothing of it,” the man said.

“Perhaps you have heard talk,” he persisted. “Perhaps someone told you of survivors. I am most eager to learn her fate.”

The blacksmith shook his head. He took another piece of glowing metal from the fire.

“I would pay for information,” Rapp added, although he much preferred not to part with his still-damp money.

The smith placed the hot metal on the anvil and picked up his hammer. “Bodies wash ashore sometimes.”

That was a grisly thought, but if the Viscountess’s body washed up on shore, he could cease his search and go home to his wife.

“Where would bodies be taken?” Rapp asked, but the smithy’s hammer started again and its din drowned out his words. He gave up.

No sooner had he walked out of the blacksmith shop than a smudged-face boy tugged on his coat. “I can show you bodies, if you want to see ’em.”

Rapp squatted down to eye level with the little eavesdropper. “Can you now?”

The boy nodded energetically. “About ten or so.”

Rapp took a breath and stood, squaring his shoulders. “Excellent, my good fellow. Take me there now.” A few minutes of unpleasantness might mean he could be in London within a few days and still receive his reward.

“It’ll cost you tuppence,” the boy said.

Smart little cur, Rapp thought sourly. He fished the coin from his pocket and showed it to the boy. “Take me to the bodies and a tuppence you shall have.”

Tanner’s shopping expedition proved to be a novel experience. He’d never shopped for ladies’ hairpins before, nor any of his own necessities, for that matter. He typically sent his valet to procure things like razors and shaving brushes and polish for shoes and combs and toothbrushes. He dawdled in the shop for as long as he could to give Miss Brown time for her bath. The shopkeepers and two other customers were full of questions about the shipwreck, unknown to this village before Davies brought news of it. He practised being Mr Lear, although he could answer few questions about how much salvage had washed ashore.

When he left the shop and stopped for another tankard of ale in the taproom, the patrons there had more questions. The extra alcohol made him mellow and, while he talked, a part of his mind wandered to how Miss Brown might appear in the bath, how slick her skin would be, how scented with soap.

Because he had little information about the shipwreck, interest in him waned quickly. He drank more ale in solitude, if not peace. There was nothing peaceful about imagining Miss Brown in the bath. When he eventually carried the packages up the flight of stairs to the room he would share with her, his eagerness to see her made it difficult for him to keep from taking the steps two at a time. He walked down the hall to the door and, balancing the packages in one arm, knocked.

“Come in,” she said.

He paused, took a breath, and opened the door.

She was dressed and seated in a chair by the fireplace, pressing a white towel to her long mahogany brown hair. He inhaled the scent of soap and wanted nothing more than to embrace her, soft and warm and clean.

“You are back,” she said in a breathless voice.

He felt equally as robbed of air. “I tried to give you ample time.”

She twisted the towel around her hair. “I fear you have waited too long. The water has gone quite cold.”

He smiled at her. “It cannot be as cold as what we’ve already experienced.”

She shuddered. “No, it cannot.” Her eyes lifted to his and held him there.

He mentally shook himself loose from her. It was either do that or do something foolish. “The packages,” he said, carrying them over to the table in the corner. He unwrapped one and brought it to her. “I suspect you would like these now.” He handed her the brush and comb he had purchased.

They were crafted from simple tortoiseshell. Tanner thought of how many sets of silver brushes and combs he’d had his former secretary, Flynn, purchase for his mistresses. There was nothing so fine in the Cemaes shop, but Miss Brown’s eyes glowed with excitement when she took the items from his hands.

“Oh, how wonderful,” she cried. “I can comb out the tangles and brush my hair dry.”

No gift he ever gave a mistress had been so gratefully received. He grinned, pleased he had pleased her. She was too busy working the comb through her hair to see.

Tanner strolled over to the tub and felt the water, now on the very cold side of tepid. At home, his valet would be hovering with pots of hot water to add, making certain his bath remained warm from start to finish.

She rose from her chair, still holding the comb. “I could ask Mrs Gwynne for more hot water.”

They faced each other over the tub and it took Tanner a moment to remember to speak. “You cannot go out with your hair wet.”

“I shall put it in a quick plait,” she assured him. “I will need to go out anyway so that you can bathe.”

He could not help gazing at her. It took time for him to compose another thought, that thought being he did not wish her to leave. “Will not the Gwynnes think it odd that Mrs Lear walks to the public rooms with wet hair?” He reached over and fingered a lock, marvelling at how it already shaped itself in a curl. “They would not expect you to leave your husband merely because he bathes.”

She held his gaze, and he fancied her mind working again, mulling over this latest puzzle.

“I believe you are correct.” Her eyes were large and round. “I shall position my chair so that my back is to you, and I will comb my hair with the lovely comb you have purchased for me.”

With resolution, she marched back to her chair and set it to face the fireplace. Tanner watched her pull the comb through her hair, wishing it was his fingers doing the task.

He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and laid them on the bed. Sitting next to them, he removed his boots and stockings. As he pulled his shirt from his trousers, he watched Miss Brown totally absorbed in combing her hair.

He laughed.

Her comb stilled. “What amuses you?”

He had not realised he’d laughed aloud. “Oh, I was merely thinking that when I’m in the company of a woman, undressing is usually a quite different prospect.”

She paused for a moment and then began combing again. “Have you been in the company of so many women, Tanner?”

He faced her, naked and aroused and wishing she would turn and see the evidence of his desire for her. He wished she would come to him and let him make love to her right at this moment, to the devil with bathing.

Such thoughts were dangerous. He’d promised her he would not touch her. “I have known enough women, I suppose,” he mumbled instead, padding over to the tub, cringing as he tested the water again.

Again she hesitated before speaking. “I suppose you have lots of mistresses.”

He frowned at her assumption of him. “I assure you I am quite a success.” His attempt at a joke fell flat to his ears. Truth was, he tended to be involved with only one woman at a time, and none but the briefest of encounters in this last year. At the moment he was wondering what the appeal had been in any of them.