The Tudor Signet by Carola Dunn

his sister for the sake of a total stranger? He hadn’t even known she would care whether Lady Lilian knew of her exploit. There was something rum about that.
    Something rum, also, in his willingness--even eagerness--to give her the ring.
    Perhaps, as Ralph claimed, he had indeed won it by cheating and now felt guilty. That could account for the poacher faradiddle, too. If Lady Lilian learned about Mariette playing highwayman, she would hear about the ring. Her brother was afraid she might find out he had cheated at cards.
    Restlessly Mariette turned her head to face the other way as if by so doing she could change the facts. She did not want to believe Lord Malcolm was a cheat.
    Was it possible for a lord to be a Captain Sharp? In novels, a man who marked the cards was always an unshaven ruffian in a low tavern or gambling hell, not a gentleman in a respectable inn like the Golden Hind. She wished she knew more of the real world outside history books.
    Was it possible for a man who was a cheat to be kind? For Lord Malcolm was amiable in other ways even if he had invented the poacher for his own benefit. With such delicacy had he avoided any hint of having seen her unclothed that she had quite forgotten to be embarrassed.
    She couldn’t help liking him, which was something she had never expected to say of a lord after meeting Lord Wareham. Lord Malcolm wasn’t in the least toplofty, not even as starchy as Lady Lilian.
    Despite her ladyship’s benevolence, Mariette was under no illusion. Lady Lilian considered her an ill-bred, indecorous hoyden. Miss Thorne considered her an encroaching nobody. And Lord Malcolm considered her a reckless, impractical idiot. For some reason that hurt worst of all.
    She turned her head again. Lying on her stomach was becoming positively irksome. After sleeping all afternoon she’d never go back to sleep now. She wanted to get up and move about.
    She wanted to go home.
    Lady Lilian and Lord Malcolm had told her she must stay, but she wasn’t accustomed to doing anyone’s bidding. It wasn’t as if they actually wanted her to stay. On the contrary, they’d be relieved if she left, and how glad Ralph would be to see her.
    The household slept. If she left now, no one would try to stop her.
    Cautiously she propped herself up on her arms as far as she could. Her bottom ached, but otherwise she felt quite all right. With a wriggle she contrived to inch out from under the covers and swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Though it hurt when she bent in the middle, as soon as she stood upright the pain lessened. The momentary dizziness was just from the laudanum and would wear off in no time.
    Ragamuffin stuck his head out from under the bed and licked her bare feet.
    “We’re going home, boy,” she told him.
    He emerged, tail wagging.
    Mariette shivered. The fire had died down to a bed of glowing coals and the room was chilly. Oh lord, she thought, what the deuce was she going to wear?
    Her buckskin riding breeches had been peppered with holes, not to mention bloodsoaked. Even if they had been miraculously cleaned and mended, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to pull them on over her sore and swollen rear end. Nor did she fancy the prospect of sitting on Sparrow’s back, supposing she managed to find him, saddle him and mount.
    However, she had never been one to let difficulties daunt her. If she couldn’t ride, she’d walk and send Jim Groom to fetch Sparrow later. As for clothes, the enormous clothes press in the corner must contain something wearable.
    Turning up the lamp, she investigated. In the wardrobe she found her riding boots, stockings, shirt, jacket, and top-coat. The shot holes in the coat had been beautifully darned--Jenny no doubt, bless her. There was also an elegant, pale-pink, quilted dressing-gown. Shivering again, Mariette decided to cram on all the clothes she could, even keeping Miss Thorne’s nightgown underneath. She’d have it washed and ironed and send it