“I’m so sorry you’re in pain. I believe Mrs. Bloom has some laudanum if you need it.”
“I’ll be fine. See?” Elsie pulled out a small bag suspended around her neck on a piece of twine. “Beet root. My mam dug it up under a full moon, so it’s potent.” She tucked the bag back into her gown. “I’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Venetia wasn’t certain she believed in the curative powers of beet root, but all she said was, “I hope it works swiftly. If it doesn’t, let me or Mrs. Bloom know, and we’ll get you some laudanum.”
“Thank you, miss. You’re very kind.” Elsie crossed to the door. “I’ll come to pick up your tray in an hour.”
Venetia ate, then retrieved her book on the Roman Empire and settled into a chair by the window. She tried to read, but it was difficult to concentrate. Sunlight shimmered through the wavery glass, warming the room deliciously, and the faint murmur of voices rose from the common room below. Venetia strained to make out any specific words, but she couldn’t.
After a nap, she began to feel restless. She couldn’t stay in her room forever. She’d managed to hide away last night, claiming a headache, and then she’d slept in this morning, pretending not to waken when Elizabeth went about her morning toilet.
Venetia glanced at the door wistfully. Everyone would be gathering for dinner soon, talking and laughing while she was here, confined to her room like an invalid. She should go downstairs and face Gregor and the others. She’d have to do it eventually.
Reluctantly, Venetia dressed. She noted with envy that two of Elizabeth’s gowns were already pressed and hanging over the chair, ready for their mistress. Venetia looked at her own crumpled pink gown and yearned for the comforts of her home, her own bed, the service of her own maid, the luxury of going for a ride. Perhaps Ravenscroft had deserved being choked after all.
Pushing aside her uncharitable thoughts, Venetia pinned up her hair, pausing when a commotion arose in the innyard. She got up to look outside. The snow was almost gone, the innyard a mass of mud except for a few lingering icy drifts. As she looked, Chambers arrived, driving Ravenscroft’s carriage. Mr. Treadwell was riding with him.
Now that the snow was almost gone and the carriage repaired, they could leave. Sadness and relief quivered through her. What would happen to her and Gregor then? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she wished to leave now.
She finished dressing and headed downstairs. She had no answers, and the more she thought, the more questions she came up with. There was much more involved than just her and Gregor’s inexplicable passion.
When she’d first arrived at the inn and had realized the extent of Ravenscroft’s deception, she’d somehow blithely thought they’d find a way to mitigate the damage to her reputation, and all would be well. But the snowstorm had confined them for a longer time than she’d expected, the situation further complicated by the arrival of the squire and his daughter, whose connections in London could not be denied.
She was in serious trouble. If she returned to London now and saw the squire or his daughter at some event, and they realized she’d been traveling under the name Miss West with two unmarried men, she’d be dropped from society before she could count to ten.
She didn’t relish the thought of becoming a pariah. She loved London and her life there.
The murmur of voices inside the common room told her that everyone was already there, Gregor’s deep voice distinctive over the others. Blast it, she didn’t want to face him in a crumpled gown. Why was it that fate rarely allowed one to dress properly for major events in one’s life? It wasn’t fair.
Best to get it over with quickly. Venetia took a deep breath and opened the door.
Ravenscroft rushed forward, taking her hand tightly between his. “Venetia! I must speak with you—apologize for—”
Miss Platt gripped his elbow and tittered nervously. “Miss West—Venetia—I’m so glad to see you’re feeling more the thing!”
Turning his shoulder toward Miss Platt, Ravenscroft mouthed to Venetia, We must talk.
She nodded and pulled her hand free, then turned to curtsey to the squire, who was gruffly asking her if she had slept well.
As she murmured a polite reply, she glanced toward Gregor, who stood by the table. For the first time since their arrival, he looked less than perfectly put together. His cravat was slightly askew, his coat rumpled at the elbows, his hair mussed, his eyes dark. Of course, on Gregor, slightly mussed still looked delectable, and Venetia’s heart ached slightly at the sight of him, as if she were missing something important.
Miss Platt slipped her arm through Ravenscroft’s. “You should rest! Come back to the sofa.” She half dragged him away, much to Venetia’s relief.
Mrs. Bloom was there at once, tucking Venetia’s hand into the crook of her arm and leading her to the table. “There you are, my dear! I’m not surprised you took a nap, after such a difficult day.”
“I’m feeling much better,” Venetia said, painfully aware that Gregor was now standing beside the squire, his dark gaze watching her every move.
She’d managed not to look directly at him, but it didn’t matter. Whether she looked at him or not, she couldn’t quell this awareness. She could feel his gaze as surely as she’d felt his touch yesterday.
Gregor watched Venetia bend her head to listen to something Mrs. Bloom was saying. She looked as tired as he felt. She was worried; he could see it by the way she shifted in her chair and clasped her hands together.
Gregor sent a glare toward Ravenscroft, who flushed and looked away sullenly. The fool had avoided him all morning, which suited Gregor very well.
Damn his loose tongue! In one stroke, he’d almost ruined everything.
Of course, Gregor had to accept his share of the blame. He’d come damned close to crossing the line with Venetia. He hadn’t counted on how delectable he’d find her. Or how drawn to her he was now, as if their unfinished scenario were still there, unplayed but inevitable.
Though he tried not to pay attention to her, he couldn’t help but notice when she lifted her hand and brushed away a strand of silky hair from her cheek. Her hair was a complete mess, and the sight made him smile. She no longer seemed to have enough pins to keep it controlled at all, for long tendrils had escaped here and there, wispy and full about her face. It was much longer than he’d originally thought, perhaps even to her waist.
That was an interesting thought—one he forced himself not to consider. But as he turned away, he caught Ravenscroft staring at Venetia, his gaze rapt and admiring. Gregor looked across at her again, noting how the warm sun soaked across her. Her skin was creamy and faintly tanned, the pale freckles over the bridge of her nose almost begging for a kiss.
He suddenly realized with a sinking feeling that she was worth every admiring gaze Ravenscroft turned her way.
He’d spent a long time last night thinking about what had happened between them. He could no longer pretend that things had not come to a head. Even without his lamentable lack of control yesterday, Venetia was a ruined woman. Gregor had little doubt that the squire’s daughter would take London by storm. Her beauty and connections would make her the debutante of the season, and she and her father would be invited everywhere. It would be impossible not to run into them eventually, which meant that it was only a matter of time before Venetia’s exposure.
She deserved better. In addition, he knew that inevitably he’d be drawn into the outcry, as would Ravenscroft—if the fool hadn’t yet fled the continent to keep from meeting Lord Ulster on the field of honor.
They were all in the suds now, and there was little he could do to change the unappealing fact that there was only one way to save Venetia now—he had to marry her.
Even now, after hours of consideration, Gregor’s heart tightened at the thought. He’d never thought to marry in such a way, but there were no other options.
He needed to inform Venetia of his decision and decided to find her alone after dinner.
“Lord MacLean?” The squire stared at him expectantly.
“I beg your pardon. My mind was wandering.”
The squire glanced from him to Venetia, then back, a shrewd look in his eyes. “So I see. I mentioned that if we combined our resources, we might be able to travel in a day.”
Gregor forced himself not to look back at Venetia. “That is a capital idea. I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
“My thoughts exactly. We can leave some of the baggage behind and have the gentlemen ride outside the one carriage that is functioning.”
Gregor nodded. “Then we could ride to a larger town, somewhere where we might hire another carriage to fetch the luggage and then go our own ways.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Mrs. Treadwell burst into the room. “Law, but the whole world has done ended!”
“What’s happened?” Mrs. Bloom said.
“Elsie’s tooth has taken a turn for the worse, and she can’t cook dinner.”
“Oh, dear,” Venetia said. “Perhaps I should go to her.”
“Whist, Miss West, there’s no need fer that. I done dosed her up with some laudanum and wrapped a warmed onion against her stomach to scare off her ails. She’ll be right as rain in the morning, see if she’s not.”
Venetia hoped the onion wouldn’t interfere with the purported benefits of the beet root. “Is she sleeping now?”
“Aye. It wasn’t until just now that I realized that with her gone, there’s no one to make dinner.”
Ravenscroft frowned. “What about you, Mrs. Treadwell?”
Mrs. Treadwell laughed heartily. “Why, I can’t cook at all, which has been a sad disappointment to Mr. Treadwell, let me tell ye, especially on account of him having this inn and all.”
Venetia caught sight of Gregor’s sudden grin, a humorous light in his dark green eyes as he said, “I wonder if Mr. Treadwell was aware of that sad fact before he married you?”
“Indeed he was not,” Mrs. Treadwell said cheerfully. “He didn’t ask, and I didn’t say.” She looked at Venetia and said in an undertone, “I don’t call that a lie, as I never said a word. Then once’t we was married and he found out I couldn’t cook, he seemed to think all I had to do was step into the kitchen and it would come to me. Well, I tried it, I did, and ’bout near burned the house to the ground. That’s when he got me Elsie and had her do the cooking, which has worked quite well ever since.”
Gregor’s lips twitched, and Venetia hastily said, “Perhaps I should go and see what can be made with the stores in the kitchen.”
“What? Let a guest cook her own dinner? Not at the Blue Rooster.” Mrs. Treadwell shook her head. “Don’t ye worry none, Miss West. Mr. Treadwell is in the kitchen now. He said if’n he had gentry to feed, then he’d guess he’d have to cook somethin’ hisself.”
“He can cook?”
“In a manner of speakin’,” Mrs. Treadwell said cheerfully.
“What manner of speaking is that?” Gregor inquired in a painfully polite tone.
Venetia pretended to cough to hide her chuckle.
“Oh,” Mrs. Treadwell said airily, “he once tried to cook a partridge, but he burned it to a cinder.”
The squire looked disappointed. “Blast it!”
“So now he’s making a nice porridge. That’s what he was fixin’ when I come in here.”
“Porridge?” Ravenscroft said, blinking. “That’s all? Just porridge?”
Miss Platt immediately added, “There has to be something more than porridge for dinner.”
“Well,” Mrs. Treadwell said uncertainly, “Mr. Treadwell says ’tis porridge or naught.”
“Mrs. Treadwell,” Gregor asked, curiosity plain on his face, “have you had the privilege of eating Mr. Treadwell’s porridge before?”
“Me? La, no! But me da did once, afore he died.”
“How long before he died?” Gregor asked.
Venetia sent him a warning stare. “Mrs. Treadwell, don’t mind him. He is just funning.”
“Mr. Treadwell’s sister says ’tis fine stuff and swears it will stick to yer ribs for a fortnight.”
“Lovely,” Gregor said.
“I can’t have just porridge for dinner!” the squire said, coming forward.
“I’m certain there must be some other options. I should go and see what’s to be done,” Venetia said.
“Nonsense,” Ravenscroft said, waving his hand imperiously. “You cannot cook.” He seemed to remember he was supposed to be her brother and added lamely, “I mean, I know you can cook, but, ah, not well enough for company.”
Miss Platt tittered. “Mr. West, you are so kind to your sister! Miss West, I’m sure you’re exaggerating. What do you know of cookery?”
“I know enough to fix dinner,” Venetia said.
A faint burning smell floated into the room, accompanied by a puff of smoke from under the door leading into the kitchen.
Mrs. Treadwell turned to Venetia, a worried look on her face. “If’n ye don’t mind, miss. Would ye help with the meal?”
“Of course.” Venetia stood.
Miss Platt blinked in amazement. “Miss West! You cannot be serious! Helping in the kitchen?”
Mrs. Bloom frowned. “What’s wrong with assisting where assistance is needed?” She favored Miss Platt with a stern gaze. “It’s our duty, isn’t it?”
Ravenscroft snorted. “For servants, perhaps.”
Miss Platt firmed her chin. “Yes! Exactly what I think. For servants.”
Mrs. Bloom sniffed and went to join Venetia, but Mrs. Treadwell’s voice halted her. “Mrs. Bloom, I hate to ask, but if ye don’t mind, perhaps you could help get the table ready whilst Miss West helps Mr. Treadwell?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Bloom said. “Do not let it be said that I have forgotten my position. I do not mind working in the kitchen.” She glared at Miss Platt, who remained in her seat, then followed Mrs. Treadwell to a cupboard tucked to one side of the common room. A twist of a knob revealed an assortment of crockery. Mrs. Treadwell gave a few instructions to Mrs. Bloom, who immediately began gathering dishes and carrying them to the table.
Miss Platt turned to Ravenscroft to say in an arch voice, “You need never worry about me not knowing my place. I shall stay right here beside you.”
Ravenscroft hurried to stand. “Venetia! I think I shall join you.”
“No, thank you,” Venetia said smoothly. “I am certain you’d be better help here, assisting Mrs. Bloom.”
“But I—”
“Mr. West,” Mrs. Bloom said. “Here are the spoons.” She held out a handful of cutlery.
Realizing he’d been outmaneuvered, he went to assist her.
“I’ll help, too!” Miss Platt said brightly.
Ravenscroft winced.
“Mrs. Treadwell,” Venetia asked, “what sort of stores do you have?”
“Oh, all sorts! We’ve that brace of partridges, some nice venison, and some fat hens behind the barn, if it gets to that.”
Ravenscroft choked. “Hens? Still alive?”
“Indeed they are. And fat as can be, too. ’Tis a wonder they can walk. I daresay they’d braise up right juicy.”
He shuddered. “I cannot eat meat that is just blooded! That’s—that’s—”
“Too much for your delicate stomach?” Gregor suggested.
The squire choked back a laugh.
“Uncivilized!” Ravenscroft finished, sending a black look at Gregor.
Mrs. Treadwell looked confused. “Ye liked my ham pie yesterday, did ye not?”
He gasped. “That was fresh?”
“O’ course! We killed the pig just the morning afore we cooked it up.” She brightened. “Which reminds me, we also have fritters and a nice hock left, as well as the innards, which we can tie up in a sack and make—”
“Mrs. Treadwell,” Venetia said hastily, catching sight of Ravenscroft’s sudden pallor, “let’s see what Mr. Treadwell has already accomplished.” She took the older
woman’s elbow and led her to the kitchen.
There, she and Mrs. Treadwell coughed at the smoke. “Heavens!” She waved at the thick air. “Open the door to the yard!”
Mr. Treadwell, wrapped in a large, messy apron, turned to do her bidding. Venetia went to the spit, where a brace of partridges were charred to a crisp, a large pot boiling noisily to one side. She lifted the lid, and more smoke poured out. Venetia grabbed a hook and lifted the pot from the fire, set it on the table, and used the poker to tip off the lid. Bubbles roiled through a thick, black mass.
“My porridge!” Mr. Treadwell exclaimed, peering into the smoking pot. “Do ye think we can save any of it?”
Venetia thought they’d be hard pressed to save the pot. “Perhaps we should just begin again.”
“But the gentlemen are hungry.”
“They’ll survive.” She reached for an apron hanging on a hook and swiftly tied it on. “Mr. Treadwell, perhaps I should take over.”
“Can ye cook?”
She smiled, rolling back her sleeves. “Heavens, yes. I’ve even cooked a partridge that the prince swore was the best he’d ever had.”
“The prince?” Mrs. Treadwell looked impressed.
Looking relieved, her husband unlaced his apron. “Very well, then. I’ll leave it to you, Miss West.”
“Thank you. While I’m doing this, can you open a new bottle of port and tell the gentlemen it will be at least thirty minutes before dinner is served.”
“That’s a capital idea!” Mrs. Treadwell said. “Perhaps I should make some tea for the ladies, too?”
“That would be lovely,” Venetia said as she ran an expert eye over the large and well-appointed kitchen.
A wood-burning oven sat to one side, a neat stack of logs ready for use beside it. A long table ran down the center of the room, its much-marked surface proclaiming it to be both preparation area and cutting board. A variety of spices sat beside a stack of crockery bowls.
“This is a lovely kitchen,” she said.
To Scotland, With Love Page 18
