Fortunately, they didn’t rise early. She had bread and butter in the parlor with Ian, and a cup of coffee before the two men arrived, not quite as breezy as yesterday. They sat staring warily at each other after greeting her and Ian. Before the milk jug left, she set down a dishful for Merry. The cat was still displeased with her. She stalked back to the fireplace, her tail held high and stiff, and folded into an offended rectangle with her back to all humankind.
As for Ian, he had retired into watchful mode, speaking in short, polite sentences, nodding instead of expanding on subjects, and offering only the most fleeting of glances to Rose.
“Since we’re cooped up inside with nothing to do, perhaps we should play parlor games,” she said, with her sunniest smile.
Mr. Gray, who apparently hadn’t woken in the best of moods, stared at her with a belligerent expression on his face. “I would call that very poor sport.”
“Parlor games?” Mr. Smith said with a frown. “I think not.”
“Oh, dear. I do love Speculation. Do you want to play, my dear husband?”
“Do I want to play your dear husband? I thought I was your dear husband, my dear wife.”
“You are, of course. But you must realize that some sentences have commas. If you don’t want to play Speculation, what about another short game of loo?”
Ian frowned at her. “Perhaps you would prefer to take a stroll outside with me.”
“I will have to consult Merry. She may not like me to disappear.”
Mr. Smith sent his eyes heavenward and then shot a sympathetic glance at Sir Ian. Rose hid a smile. Finally, she had found the strategy to get rid of the men. She only had to keep filling their ears with nonsense and they would find other places to occupy. “Merry, dear one, I will be going outside for a stroll, but Mr. Gray and Mr. Smith will look after you.” She stood and scooped up the cat which gave her a death stare. “Here, you can sit on Mr. Gray’s nice comfortable lap.”
Mr. Gray scraped out his chair, and stood, his eyes wide. “My apologies, dear lady, but I think I saw someone I know in the taproom. Excuse me.”
Mr. Smith didn’t bother to take his leave. He scurried out of the room.
“Do we need to go outside now?” Rose said to Ian as she settled Merry in her favorite spot facing the fireplace.
His expression hooded but his mouth relaxed. “Let’s hope they find someone they can fleece in there. But no, I don’t want to play parlor games. I have some papers in my satchel in the coach. I would rather catch up on my correspondence.”
Rose heaved a breath. “Leaving me and Merry with nothing to do.”
“I’m sure Merry will think of some distraction for you. I haven’t quite lost my faith in her ingenuity.”
At that moment, Susie came in the room to take the last of the breakfast dishes. Rose smiled at her. “While we are snowed in, Susie, I have very little to occupy me. Are there any spare jobs I could take on in the inn?”
Suzie grinned. “The inn has never been so popular, my lady. Not only do we have overnight guests. The local lads have been streamin’ in, too. They can’t work when the fields are under snow. They like to get together, away from their women folk and have a good gossip. So, we do need help in the kitchen.” She lowered her gaze, giggling at her own humor.
“I’ve always wanted to be a tavern maid—”
“No!” said Sir Ian and Susie at the same time.
“I can see me carrying four ale mugs—”
“No!” they both said again and looked at each other.
“Rose, you would try the patience of a saint.” Sir Ian stood. “Perhaps you could help me with my correspondence.”
“In what way?”
“Opening my letters for me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “No, my adorable husband. I have no talent for opening letters. I will do as every good wife does. I will continue with my embroidery.”
“Which you have in your capacious bag.”
“Of course.”
He sighed and left the room.
Susie began to follow, but Rose stopped her. “Susie, I would be no use at all serving mugs of beer, but I honestly can help in the kitchen. My mother insisted that I learn certain talents, and one of those was cooking, not anything complicated, mind you, but I can chop vegetables and make a very nice gravy.”
Susie examined her expression. “The breakfasts is all done, ma’am, and we’ll all be washing dishes for a while, but I will let Mrs. Spriggs know that you have offered to help. The snow has brought in all the farm workers, mainly for the warm fires, and the meat pies. Mrs. Spriggs is a wonder with pastry.”
“I can also help make pastry.”
Susie shot her a glance of puzzled admiration. “If you really mean what you say, my lady ...”
CHAPTER FIVE
Most of Ian’s correspondence related to his parliamentary position. He would have happily attended to his papers in the bedroom, but he couldn’t leave Rose in the parlor alone. Her presence would be a distraction, but he should be able to manage if she could sit quietly with her embroidery, as she had indicated.
Before being stranded with her, he had accepted Rose at face value, and saw her as a lovely ornament. However, he had now discovered her hidden depths. Being male, he had certainly imagined her in his bed, but naturally, he couldn’t take a family friend as his mistress. Nor would he want a distraction like her as his wife. He had planned to marry a woman whose only assets were neither her looks nor her desirability, both of which Rose had in abundance. In other words, she had been naught but a temptation to be resisted at all costs.
After having spent more than a few hours with Rose, he realized he hadn’t looked deeply enough. Although she seemed ingenuous, she also had a purpose to her artless remarks, of which he now took note. As well, she had a dry sense of humor. Unfortunately, her words quite clearly indicated that she much preferred to choose her husband rather than being forced to marry him. She had decided that their night together would remain a secret between them. If this proved impossible, he found he wasn’t quite as averse to marrying her as he had been. Shaking off his mental meandering, he crunched through the snow to the stables.
“Marty,” he said to his driver, whom he spotted sitting on a hay bale, rubbing his boots clean with a handful of straw.
Marty looked across at him, waiting for him to trudge closer. “Morning, Sir,” he said in a mild voice. “If the snow don’t stop today, we won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.”
“I hope your accommodation was warm enough for you.”
“Fair comfortable, it was. As soon as I have the stables off my boots, me and Walton was planning to go across the tap-room. We heard they’ll be setting up a faro table, today. If you don’t mind, sir.”
Walton, his groom, apparently hearing his name mentioned, strolled over from the stalls. “The horses have been fed and watered and the coach had good clean-out yesterday.”
“It seems you have earned your day off. If you wouldn’t mind, Walton, would you get my bag off the coach, first. The one containing my papers.” Ian didn’t change his expression, but the faro game had caught his attention. No doubt that was Smith and Gray’s doing. Tricksters often took tables to outlying districts, hoping to catch locals with their swindles. He hadn’t seen their luggage, but he would make sure he did. “Beware of flat catchers.”
“We didn’t come down in the last few flakes of snow.” Walton and Marty grinned knowingly at each other.
Ian grunted. If they had been fools, he wouldn’t have employed them. Walton marched off and returned with Ian’s paperwork.
When Ian arrived back, dripping melted snow into the parlor, the cat was his only company. Why Rose had decided to adopt the miserable creature was anyone’s guess. A whim, no doubt. Or some strange ploy to induce him to watch the snow yellowing, like this morning. That cat could piss a river if she lapped enough milk. Ian unlocked his case on the table, assuming the sight of him working in the parlor w
ould keep Smith and Gray out. He wondered where Rose had gone, but doubtless she was prinking in the bedroom.
He lost himself in the new bills being presented in the new year, and the next time he checked his fob, half the day had passed. Leaning back in the most uncomfortable chair he had ever experienced, he gazed at the waning fire. The cat had rotated from midnight to twelve-fifteen. She clearly heard him move, and stood and stretched, one long muscle at a time. Finally, she turned to face him. A first. She stared right into his eyes. No doubt she wanted her lackey to take her to the hiding place of yellow snow again. The noise from the taproom had risen a pitch, or possibly he hadn’t noticed a noise while he’d been working. He also hadn’t had consumed any fluid since early this morning. A mug of ale would refresh him.
First, he locked his case and then he took her majesty outside. When she had finished her prowling around, expecting to find a dry spot in the snow, he deposited her back inside, trying this time to have her face the room. She narrowed her eyes with mistrust, and took up her previous uncompromising position. Clearly she was made of sterner stuff than most cats. His own tasks completed, he took his case up to the bedroom, washed his face and hands, brushed his tousled hair back, buttoned his coat, and began to make his way to the taproom.
Halfway down the stairs, he realized that Rose hadn’t been in the bedroom. His chest filled with dread as he increased his pace down to the hallway. If that wretch had been in the taproom all this time, he would kill her.
He strode into the overflowing room. The patrons had lined up at the small bar, two deep. A few sat over hot meals in the booths, but the crowd surrounding the faro table numbered in the dozens. Smith and Gray appeared to be doing a rip-roaring trade, judging by the inordinate noise inside the packed area. Had Rose been there, he would have spotted her. Frowning, he pushed through to the bar where the tapster was pulling brews, not planning to call attention to the fact that he had misplaced his ‘wife.’
Susie suddenly appeared, pushing in front of a couple of farm laborers at his side. She smiled shyly, and raised her voice above the shouts. “Would you be wantin’ your meal, sir? You just go back into the parlor, out of all this noise, and I will be there in two shakes.”
He nodded and scanned the room, regardless, but the likelihood of Rose not standing out in the crowd was nil. Rubbing his forehead, he returned to the parlor, and seated himself. Susie arrived in moments, her cheeks flushed. “Shall I bring you a nice slice of meat pie? Or would you like the rabbit stew?”
“First, I would like to know if you have seen my wife.”
Avoiding his gaze, Susie wiped down the clean table with her cloth. “She’s with Mrs. Hobbs. We couldn’t leave her wandering around at a loss and she is good company for the mistress.” She raised her eyes. “But she has already eaten, sir. She said she couldn’t wait for you. So, don’t worry yourself about her. She is having a rare old time.”
Gathering from that speech that Rose was managing to entertain herself quite well with the owners of the establishment, where she would be safe enough, he nodded and ordered a jug of ale and a pie. If Rose had already eaten, he could take a quick meal and return to his paperwork upstairs. The parlor was beginning to shake with the noise. He took the cat with him when he left, and ferocious little Merry clung to his chest using her tiny sharp claws.
“If you imagine that I am stealing you, you wretched, flea-ridden stray, I will enlighten you. I am trying to deposit you in a safe place, because I have had a certain amount of confidence placed in me. I must live up to Rose’s expectations.” As he finished the last word, he realized he had spoken aloud. He gritted his teeth.
The cat accepted her placement by the bedroom fire, her back turned. Ian added enough logs to warm the room for a few hours. After making a desk of his briefcase, he continued working, adding notes to his next speech. When the gray afternoon gloom dimmed his ink tracks, he put his work aside. Mrs. Hobb’s company must have been excellent, for he still hadn’t seen Rose.
The sound of shouts outside moved him toward the window. He glanced down at a group of fighting men ringed with others trying to join the action. More pushed out through the main doorway. Although Rose should be safe enough with the hosts, he would rather have her with him. If she remained downstairs, she wouldn’t have his protection. As he began down the stairs again, the noise increased. If the patrons weren’t waging a full-on war, he was a Dutchman.
He began to pound down the staircase, his heels soundless over the shouting. Whether his concentration had been extremely deep for the last few hours, or [KW9]whether the excited bellowing was ongoing, he couldn’t say. Skidding to a halt outside the taproom, he glanced through the doorway. The chairs had been thrown about and splintered. Overturned tables were used as barricades. The place resembled a battlefield, and men with bloodied noses and bruised knuckles stood on the outskirts cheering.
He squeezed inside the room, jostling for space until he spotted Marty and Watson on the outskirts of the fray, not participating but trying to jostle men out of the main fighting group. Not about to be used as a punching bag as well, he finally caught the eye of Marty, who nudged Walton. His two former soldiers edged through the crowd with tight smiles on their faces, and flanked him.
He nodded at each, grinned evilly, flung his jacket onto the staircase, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.
CHAPTER SIX
In the kitchen of the Pig and Piper, the sound of chairs smashing into the walls continued from the other room. The staff, consisting of the cook, Mrs. Hobbs, two kitchen maids, Mr. Hobbs, a barman, and Rose, stood in a huddle by the work bench. “Leave them to be killed,” Mr. Hobbs said, shouting to be heard over the din. “They deserve it after fleecin’ farm workers and takin’ all their pay. It’s justice, that’s what it is.”
Rose’s heart tumbled around in her chest. “But think of the blood, Mr. Hobbs.” She widened her eyes with mock horror, which she only half-faked. Mr. Smith and Mr. Gray had been caught out. One of the players had discovered a secret drawer in the table, holding an extra set of cards. “Someone will have to clean it up.”
The stark anger in the shouting voices of the farm laborers sent cold shivers down her spine. However, if Mr. Smith or Mr. Gray, or both, were killed, the culprit would be arrested and hanged, leaving wives and children, the innocent, to suffer. She hoped someone could calm down the situation.
Then, her father’s voice echoed in her head: Someone, who one? Someone, you one. But how?
Being a mere female, her lone voice wouldn’t be heard above the ruckus ... and then she remembered how she could be heard. She spotted the step stool that Mrs. Hobbs used to reach the high shelves. Her chest filling with fluttering birds, she scooped up the steps and marched into the taproom to the beat of, “Don’t go in there, my lady,” from behind her.
Too late. She was already in and trying to push through the crowd of angry, bumping men. She attempted a quick warming of her throat with a frantic exercising trill. Hearing instead, a deathless squeak, she took a deep breath, and trilled the scales again. Without a pause, she began the newest song in her repertoire, “Silent Night.”
No one heard her over the shouting. She increased her volume, while she marched over to the nearest table, carrying the stool. The men nearest turned to frown at her. Doubtless her high soprano was bursting their eardrums. Loudly singing Silent night, holy night, three times, she settled the stool near a chair, and held out her hand to the nearest male. With an expression of reluctance, he took her fingers in his. Using him as her balance, she swiftly stepped up onto the seat of the chair and then to the table, and began the second line All is calm. She knew she had a powerful voice, but her audience wasn’t yet convinced.
By the third line, more heads turned. More shouting stopped. By the time she got to ‘Round yon virgin, she was a virgin surrounded by a group of rough males with ripped shirts, and hot, angry, staring faces. She finished the song to a scuffling silence, and then a loud cheer.
/> “More,” someone yelled.
“If you promise to sing along with me ...”
And the song was repeated with a shouting chorus of more than thirty tuneless males. Her energy sagged as she watched the surrounding men, hoping she wouldn’t have continue singing all night. Then the crowd parted to admit one very large, but very controlled man, who scooped her off her stage and into his arms. The loudest cheer she had ever had for her voice, erupted. In fact, the second cheer she’d ever had. The first had been minutes earlier.
“That went well,” she said awkwardly, using Lord Eden Thornton’s favorite phrase to Sir Ian, as he swung around to the doorway with her held in his arms. She circled hers around his neck, relief flooding her. In fact, she may even have clutched gratefully at his shirt collar. She rested her face against the bristles on his chin, while the thunder of his heart against her chest filled her with happiness. He had been afraid for her. He cared. He cared. He cared ...
As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he paused and said between his clenched teeth, “I survived the battle of Waterloo, Rose, but escorting you home to the country will be the death of me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ian marched up the stairs with Rose in his arms, a constriction over his heart. When he had first heard her soprano voice, he had been outside trying to prevent a double murder. His teeth had ached with impatience. He was trying to preserve the lives of two thieving men, while Rose was cozily singing in Mrs. Hobbs’ parlor. The Hobbs surely had more pressing matters to attend.
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