My Lady Innkeeper

by Barbara Metzger

  Lyndell immediately walked behind Riddles to the other side, trying to keep the horse between her and this man whose very presence shouted Danger. At least, if she kept to the dark side, away from the lights, her expression mightn’t tell him how horrified she was at being near a traitor. Somehow, in all her plans to save Jasper, she’d never considered holding conversation with a real criminal, even one as devastatingly handsome as this! She thought she’d take a lesson from Sam’l, too, and say nothing lest her voice give her away. So she touched her forehead in deferential acknowledgement of his presence and assistance, then lowered her head, working on Riddles’s legs.

  “Nice horse.”

  What a clanker that was, Lyndell thought. One look at his lordship’s team would tell what a fine judge of horseflesh he was. One look at Riddles, the mean little eyes, the ears laid back, that flat head and short neck, would tell the merest whipster that this was not a “nice” horse. Nevertheless, she bobbed her head and said, “Yessir.”

  “Been riding far?”

  Far, as in Southwold Barracks? A simple no wasn’t enough; the horse was still blowing. “Nosir, I’ve been teaching him to jump.” A pistol shot was a novel teaching method, but it had worked.

  Lyndell was running out of horse to rub. When the gentleman asked if she was from around the area, she could finally answer truthfully “Yessir,” then she added, “I have to walk the horse, sir, he’s hot,” which was also true. And, she felt, a brilliant excuse to be gone from this villain’s disturbing presence. Riddles, however, didn’t agree. He saw his stall, he knew it was dinnertime, and he was not budging. Lyndell tugged on the lead line, pulled on it, jerked on it, while the nag glued his feet to the floor and the large gentleman looked on.

  Yes, there was something decidedly girlish about the lad, in spite of the nose, the marquis noted. The hands were white and slim, and there was certainly no strength in the wrists. His heavy brows lowered in thought, which Lyndell happily couldn’t see, busy as she was whispering promises in Riddles’s ear, if he’d only move. Then his lordship brought his hand down, hard, on Riddles’s rump, and move he did, almost trampling Lyndell. She barely got the gelding out the stable door, but once out she vowed to keep walking the blasted horse till the gentleman returned to the inn, no matter how her aching legs protested.

  After watching for a bit, though, Cheyne decided to stay. The gait was off—the boy’s, not the horse’s—and there was an ill fit to the clothes, on closer inspection, that didn’t complement the cultured accents. Cheyne inspected his own horses, all bedded down nicely, and spent a few minutes stroking his own mount, Alcibiades. He considered the boy’s lack of openness all of a piece, and realised he’d have a long wait, if left up to the young man. Instead he met boy and horse on a turn and walked along, one hand on Riddles’s back, and continued his questions. Amazing how quickly the horse was cooled down enough! All he found out was that yes, the boy was staying at the inn, and his name was Dell—Dell something or something Dell?— before the lad had his horse back inside and in its stall, this time with Riddles’s cooperation.

  Lyndell thought about bolting for the inn’s back door, but there was no saying this infuriating man wouldn’t follow her, or hear Sarah’s screams when she saw her Miss Lyndy. No, she was safer in the stable. He couldn’t stay here all night, could he? And Bennett was bound to return soon, to extricate her. With Bennett gone, too, she could fill more minutes with chores, bringing hay, grain and water to Riddles, while keeping away from her nemesis, she thought.

  He was there, however, taking the heavy bucket from her, asking about Jasper. She was becoming rattled, but honestly didn’t know Jasper’s whereabouts, so she could answer that one decisively. He was there, even closer, almost brushing against her when she filled a pail with oats, asking about the inn’s clientele. And he was there, when she reached up to get a load of hay and her coat opened.

  “Ah, that answers a lot of questions,” he said.

  Not understanding, Lyndell looked at him, then followed the direction of his eyes till she could see her own thoroughly unmannish chest straining against the white shirt. Blushing as only a redhead could, she dropped the hay and made to button Jasper’s coat. A large, firm hand on her wrist stopped her. The other hand tilted her chin up. His indrawn breath gave her the only satisfaction of the whole afternoon, though why that should be, she wasn’t sure. Here she was, found out by an archfiend, alone and at his mercy, and she was pleased at the obvious admiration she read in his soft brown eyes, the twitch of his lips to a smile.

  Still holding her wrist with one hand as if he’d forgotten he had it, he followed the arc of her cheek, ever so gently, with his fingertips, smudging her “freckles” even worse, then traced the line of her nose. And his smile broadened, not wickedly to frighten her, but warmly, and she smiled back, staring into his eyes.

  “Ah my sweet ... Dell. Delia? Not, it must be Delilah, for surely you are an enchantress with those green, green eyes. But why the masquerade, love?” His smile faded, and the tiny yellow flickers stopped dancing in his eyes. “Of course, the King’s Pass Inn. You’re meeting your lover here!”

  “Don’t be foolish,” was Lyndell’s answer. Somehow what he thought of her was important, even if he was to be hanged shortly. Her sudden look of dismay didn’t help alter his conclusion.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. No, don’t bother denying it.” His fingertips brushed her lips, then continued to her chin, her throat. “You’re no country wench, no more than you’re a schoolboy, and ladies don’t frequent low taverns dressed in breeches without good reason. Unless ...” His lopsided smile returned as Lyndell watched, nearly mesmerised by his deep voice, his steady gaze, his ever-so-whispery stroking on her neck. “Unless you’re no lady.”

  And he drew her close with subtle pressure on her back, and tilted her head to touch her lips with his, softly at first, then with more urgency, more warmth, until Lyndell’s very soul melted. Her legs, complaining for hours, finally quit completely, and she would have been a puddle at his feet if his arms hadn’t held her. And still the kiss went on, teeth meeting, tongues caressing, his hands starting tremours down her back.

  And yet ... and yet she was a lady. She wasn’t any light-skirt to be tumbled in the hay, nor an unfaithful wife taking hey-go-mad chances to meet her paramour. She wasn’t any mousy old spinster either. She was, for the first time in days. Miss Lyndell Markham, a lady.

  She took one step away, drew back her arm, and smashed him across the cheek with every ounce of strength her outrage lent her.

  “Just who in blazes do you think you are?” she spit out.

  “Cheyne,” he answered, just as angrily.

  “Chain, as in necklace?” she asked hopefully, but already knowing, fearing, dreading, the horrid truth.

  “C-h-e-y-n-e, as in marquis.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I try, sweetheart, I try.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her palm burned, her cheeks burned, and if her lips burned, well, she’d think about that later. “Don’t say it,” she told Mrs. Bennett, who stood letting a spoon drip on the floor, her mouth open in amazement at Lyndell’s appearance. “I need a bath.” She could hear her old nursemaid’s jaw snap shut, before she heard a very dignified, “Yes, my lady.”

  Before her bath, though, Lyndell had to warn Felicia that the... the ogre she was running away from was here. Cheyne, the famous soldier, the profligate, the proposed bridegroom—Why, he ate children like Miss Fullerton up for breakfast

  Miss Felicia giggled. She’d known since that morning, in fact, as soon as she’d had a moment with Willy, whom she’d known forever, of course, their fathers being such good friends. Willy turned out to be Lord William Richardson, a cheerful young fribble with whom Lyndell was vaguely acquainted and whom she would now have to avoid. Another complication! At least he had sworn not to give Felicia away. He thought it a great joke to pull on his cousin who, he assured the girl, would rather marry
the devil’s daughter than a little peagoose like her. As for his landlady’s not being all she was supposed to be, Willy knew naught of it, Felicia vowed; she’d never give her dear Miss Markham away, after all she’d done for her, and Willy was too ill to look through her disguise. Lyndell swore he’d not have the chance. She’d simply stay out of his room, which brought another matter to hand: it wasn’t at all proper for Miss Fullerton to be in his lordship’s bedchamber, especially if he knew she was no maidservant.

  With another giggle and a quick look at Lyndell’s breeches, Felicia reminded Miss Markham that propriety wasn’t exactly her own long suit these days either! On her way out, she did reassure her friend that Willy was too ill to lift his head, much less threaten her virtue. Oh, and yes, she’d certainly steer clear of Cheyne, without any urging. The man was dangerous.

  How dangerous, Felicia would never know, Lyndell hoped. She didn’t have a chance to pursue that thought, either, as Bennett came in just then, toting two cans of hot water and wanting to know what she’d done to put his Sarah in such a swivet. One look at the breeches made him smile, but when Lyndell told him how she’d ridden to warn Captain Jamison of the traitor, his craggy face seamed up in a grin and he slapped his knee. Tears were streaming from his eyes, it was such a good joke. His Miss Lyndy riding cross-country on a plug to turn in one of the most heroic veterans of the Peninsular campaign. Aside from Cheyne’s being one of Wellington’s hand-picked aides, entrusted with carrying the most secret orders of the whole war, he’d been out of the country till two months ago, as any lobcock who read the papers knew. All she’d had to do was check the ledger, the very same one she’d told Bennett to fetch out, and she would have saved herself a peck of trouble. As for the gunshot, Bennett pooh-poohed it Just poachers undoubtedly, and nowhere near her. Shots just sounded close in the dark. Bennett couldn’t wait to go tell Sarah how Miss Lyndy’d left her wits in London.

  At least she’d given her friends something to laugh about, Lyndell thought ruefully as she lowered her poor sore body into the tub. Her legs were still like porridge, with the top layer of skin gone, stuck to Jasper’s breeches. And her lips ...

  She sank down lower, shut her eyes and, her fingers to her lips, recalled that kiss. It wasn’t her first kiss by any means, not at twenty-four, but the others had been flirtatious, suggestive, quick and, well, cool. None had left her with more than a mild curiosity, or a pleasant tingle; none had left this heat, minutes later. And the warmth wasn’t just in her lips, she recalled and, remembering, felt it again. At last, after reading all those books where the heroine felt a fire in her loins, Lyndell knew where her loins were! What a world of difference there was between pleasant and passionate, for though she’d never known passion before, she recognised it instantly.

  Too bad its instigator was such a rogue, she thought dreamily, even if he wasn’t a spy. If he wasn’t a spy, how far could coincidence stretch to bring him to the inn? There was Felicia, but she’d been blown off course; what would Cheyne’s excuse be for leaving the main roads, the major posting inns, unless Willy had urged him here? Unless William Richardson, the carefree young Corinthian, was the traitor....

  She’d made enough wretched errors for one day. Right now she wanted to think of the marquis. He was an unprincipled rake who took advantage of young girls, but he’d let her go the moment she protested. He was a practised seducer, but she’d let herself be entranced by his voice, his touch, his eyes. He was dangerous. Persistent in pursuit, wickedly observant, and he could ruin her if he knew her name. Dell Riddley had to disappear for good, and Miss Lynn Riddley had to avoid the gentleman like the plague, much to Miss Markham’s regret There it was, as plain as the raw places on her legs: for all his knavery, the indignity and outrage of his behaviour, Lyndell’s major emotion, besides the one felt in her new-found loins, was one of relief that the Marquis of Cheyne wasn’t her villain after all. And if he wasn’t the villain ...

  * * * *

  On her way to dinner, scurrying past the closed front parlour door, Miss Riddley paused, however belatedly, to inspect the ledger, open on the hall table in the innkeeper’s niche under the stair. There it was, by the oil lamp’s light, in sure, firm letters, Cheyne, et al. She touched the signature briefly in what, for a middle-aged spinster, was a remarkably romantic gesture, before hurrying on to the kitchen.

  Sarah was still disgruntled, more so when Felicia begged to be allowed to bring the younger lord his supper. Lyndell sided with the girl, especially since that would free the man Farrow to wait on his own master, getting the manservant out of the kitchen too. Lyndell had to talk to Bennett. It was imperative he go up to King’s Mark that very night and search out Jasper. She urged him to try the unused grooms’ quarters over the stables, or the gatekeeper’s cottage, for Jasper had used to be a favourite of old Diccon.

  With Bennett gone, though, Lyndell couldn’t just flee to her own sitting room where she and her thoughts would be safe. She had to bide downstairs, in case any travellers came. Molly could handle the tap room customers, and Sam’l could take care of the horses, but if someone wanted a room, which they might, the weather not worsening any, Lyndell had to be at hand.

  That’s why she was still in the kitchen when Dr. Kane returned to check on his patient and see if perhaps Mrs. Bennett had any of those Bath buns left over. Sarah introduced Miss Riddley, of course, but the old doctor just said “Hmm,” giving her a good look.

  “There’s those that can be fooled, and then again, there’s those that can’t.” He held up his hand to stop any disclaimers. ‘Take me for instance. Now I know better’n any that Elvira Riddley had no daughter. I birthed Jasper myself, and another stillborn babe that she died bearing. Then again, I’d never heard of Viscount Markham leaving his butter stamp about the countryside.” At Mrs. Bennett’s reproachful tsks, he cleared his throat “Now I’m not putting my nose”—he chuckled at his own wit—”in anyone else’s business, but I’d suggest, miss, that I’m not the only one with eyes in my head.”

  * * * *

  There was only one set of travellers that evening before Bennett returned: Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn, the man wrote in the hall ledger, requesting adjoining bedrooms. No maid, no valet, no baggage. They were so busy staring into each other’s eyes they gave the dreary landlady no second glance. Lyndell, however, even in the light of the single lamp she’d let burn in the hall, recognised them instantly: Lord Naybors, he of the wife and sickly children, and Sophie Davenant, whose husband was in Vienna with the diplomatic corps.

  Naybors she put in Room Ten, across from Cheyne. Sophie Davenant she put in Room One, across from Molly. And let that be an object lesson, my fine lady.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cheyne saw the Blackburns come in. If those two were married he was the King of Persia, but he went back to his dinner of good English country fare. A short while later he heard Mr. Blackburn expostulating over the room arrangements with Miss Riddley, and he grinned. Just like an old prune, if she wasn’t going to enjoy herself, no one else was going to enjoy himself. And anything less likely than Miss Riddley enjoying herself—much less in a bedroom with a man—was hard to imagine. Quite unlike his little temptress of the afternoon, he thought, rubbing his slightly swollen cheek. She actually was not so little for a woman, and not quite in the first blush of youth, but she was certainly no milk-and-water miss. He couldn’t help smiling in remembrance of her spirit, no more than he could forget the sweetness of her kiss. But who in hell was she? The one-page-old ledger had yielded no information, he and Willy being the only recorded guests, and a quick look showed the rooms near theirs untenanted. He knew she was still in the inn, since her gelding was still in the stable; he’d checked. But he couldn’t very well go opening every door down the corridor. Well, he would, if he was sure Miss Riddley wouldn’t catch him at it. Cheyne didn’t think the girl could be a servant, not when she stood right up to him that way, but that only left a connexion with Riddley or his sister. Miss Riddley was out.
What could she have to do with a hoydenish, glorious, green-eyed witch? On the other hand, the idea of his Delilah with that loose screw Riddley soured his wine. He’d just have to wait to puzzle out his mystery woman, along with the rest of this mess.

  Damn the War Department anyway. Just go look around, they’d said. The usual thing, there’s a good fellow. Well, this wasn’t the usual thing, not by a sow’s tail. He’d expected to deal firmly with Riddley, talk sociably to the locals, find what he needed, and straighten it out. Instead, he was enmeshed in some deuced petticoat intrigue! Women! And the list of the creatures was growing; even the doctor grumbling about misplaced chits. But which? There was the prudish Miss Riddley who turned down corners when she saw him coming. Her skitter-witted little maid, who had taken to blushing and squeaking in his presence, though she seemed rational enough with Willy, for which Cheyne would have to berate his cousin. The chit was a regular pocket Venus, but gads, a lady’s maid! If Willy was too ill to take what she was offering, why was he making sheep-eyes at her in his every waking moment? The boy definitely needed a nice, respectable wife to take him in hand. Then there was the mysterious visitor in the stable, his Delilah. The possessive seemed to come as natural as breathing. Lastly there was Molly, the barmaid, who was the only one of the bunch to show him any friendliness. Right then a little friendliness seemed not such a bad thing. It had been a long day, starting way before the nightmare of Willy’s accident in the snow. Besides, Molly was the likeliest source of information he was going to find this long, cold night. Sitting alone in the private parlour with his port—damn fine port too—thinking about Willy lying there in the snow bleeding, or a pair of green eyes sparkling with passion’s fire, wasn’t going to solve anything. He carried his bottle, now three-quarters empty, and the glass into the common room.