When that was done, the marquis was able to shift his position for a better grip on the dog’s body while Lyndell attempted to cut the rope on his neck. The cord was too deeply embedded, however, the raw oozing skin having swelled about it. Both Lyndell and Cheyne were kneeling in the mud of the yard, his buckskins and her navy skirt fouled now, and she felt like weeping with frustration. “I can’t do it without cutting his skin! Oh Ajax, I’m so sorry.” Without loosening his hold, the marquis inspected this new problem. Then he turned to Sam’l. “You, boy. Go ask my man Farrow for my shaving razor. Quick now.”
Sam’l stood there, rooted in the mud, looking at Lyndell beseechingly. “Sam’l ... he doesn’t talk much, my lord,” she told the marquis in a low voice. “We think he was beaten too.”
“Damn,” with feeling. “But I can’t hold the mutt forever. Bennett, can you—” But Sam’l was gone, running into the inn.
While they waited, Lyndell tried to soothe Ajax, stroking his ears, talking softly. Her arm touched the marquis’s hand and he looked up. “You’re not wearing your spectacles.”
“No. I don’t... that is, sometimes ...” Giving it up, she took them out of her pocket and put them on, but not before Cheyne had seen green eyes, as clear as sunlight on a spring leaf. With the lenses the eyes seemed blurry, cloudy. Maybe he just had emerald eyes on his mind. No, there, right where the glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, a bump, a ridge ...
The razor was thrust at him by a grinning Sam’l. “Good lad! Now, ma’am, let’s do it before my arm goes numb.” If he noticed that she removed the glasses before starting, he didn’t comment. “Watch, the blade is sharp. That’s it.”
At last the rope was off. Sam’l brought the jar of salve Bennett had found in the stable and Lyndell slathered it on Ajax. Shrugging, she wiped her hand on her skirt, already trailing in the muck. She looked up to catch a one-sided almost-smile on Cheyne’s handsome face. Embarrassed, she looked down at Ajax. “Now what, my lord?”
“Now comes the tricky part. We must remove the muzzle, without getting bitten, of course, then get him to a place where he can’t run away. The stable?”
“Of course. Sam’l, take a blanket and make Ajax a bed in one of the loose boxes—lots of straw so he doesn’t get a chill.”
“Right. Now, ma’am, undo the knot, but don’t loosen the cloth until I have my hand on his jaws again ... there. I have him. Good Ajax.”
With both hands around considerable poundage of dog, the marquis was getting up slowly. Bennett started to come forward in assistance, which caused Ajax to start struggling again. Cheyne ordered Bennett to back off. With a deep breath, the marquis stood up, Ajax in his arms. When he staggered a bit, Lyndell steadied his elbow with her hand—it seemed the thing to do—and so they made their slow way into the stable.
The marquis was covered with dirt and dog hairs and breathing heavily, but Ajax was in his stall, with Sam’l offering him a bowl of water.
“He’ll do, I think,” the marquis told Lyndell. He was trying to study her face, but the stable was dark, and his eyes were not adjusted from the morning’s sunlight outside. Besides, she had the blasted spectacles on again, and her head down. If only she wasn’t wearing that atrocious cap! There was a definite similarity. He was positive of it. It was hard to think of any relation between his vibrant Delilah and the inflexible Miss Riddley—sisters? By Jupiter, maybe his nymph was Miss Riddley’s by-blow? The lady had unbent some in the stable yard, and she’d certainly shown great fortitude. What she’d been trying to do may have been foolhardy, but it had taken more courage and generosity of spirit than he’d seen in most ladies of his acquaintance.
He tried to tell her so, though the governessy Miss Riddley couldn’t even take a compliment. No practise, obviously. She stiffly thanked him for his impressive actions, awkwardly twisting the neckcloth she still held in her hands, not meeting his eyes. She would give Mrs. Bennett the cloth to be laundered, and was terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sincerest appreciation—and she was gone, nearly bumping into the center beam of the barn.
The marquis stayed in the stable a long while after, thinking.
Chapter Sixteen
Why did that dratted man have to be so charming? Here she thought he’d sleep until noon like all the Bond Street beaux. She knew for a fact he hadn’t been to bed early. She hadn’t even considered that she might encounter him, thus the missing spectacles, while he’d been up at first light, like a soldier off to battle. If his sole purpose was to torment her, he was doing a fine job! How dare he be so cool and efficient with Ajax, so kind and gentle with Sam’l, so damned polite to Miss Riddley! Somehow she couldn’t regain her indignation of the morning. Of course, she told herself, that’s what made a rake: a lack of scruples sugar-coated with appeal. If a rake couldn’t make a girl’s heart beat faster, he was no good at the job. The marquis was very good at it, lurking in the corridors, seeking her out in the kitchen, watching her with that lazy smile. The man was a positive hazard to womankind! She managed to avoid him, staying occupied with the inn’s business. Saturday was market day in Entwood, so the livestock dealers, merchants and well-to-do farmers from farther away stopped in for their suppers, with some bespeaking rooms for the night. A few London visitors came through, as out of place as peacocks in the chicken coop.
* * * *
“Lord Beaumont and Lady Beaumont, a room for the night? Let me see.” That was Lord Beaumont, all right, all twenty stone of him, and his companion nearly matched him in girth. Lady Beaumont, however, a good friend of Lyndell’s Aunt Hardesty, was a tiny wraith of a woman.
“I’m afraid Number Four is the only room available. Market day, you know.”
Room Number Four was a converted dressing room, equipped for a servant, valet or maid. It contained one extremely narrow bed.
* * * *
The Bennetts had agreed: it was better to run an honest inn where decent people would stay than to make a profit on sordid assignations. Sarah was especially vehement: she wasn’t having such goings-on under her roof! Let them sleep in the fields like animals if that was how they conducted themselves. Silk waistcoats and lace smallclothes— and no better nor rabbits. The only question was, would they also be turning away the man they were waiting for? What if he were clever enough to mask his true motives with a ladybird? Lyndell thought that if his business at the inn was important enough, he’d make certain he stayed. Bennett agreed.
“Squire Asgar and family? Welcome to King’s Pass. We have a lovely suite with a sitting room, and I’m sure Mrs. Bennett has some gingerbread for the children.”
“Captain Drew Jamison?” Gads, she’d forgotten all about him! Here he was, come to arrest a spy, and all she had was one silver-tongued devil with a scar on his forehead. The only traitor was the flutter in her heart.
“Captain Jamison, I meant to send a message, but we’ve been so busy. The thing is, the man I thought was the saboteur couldn’t be him. He—”
“Come, ma’am, let’s just see the blighter and be done. Then you and I can have a little tete-a-tete, hmm?” He winked. Lyndell excused herself, flew up the stairs and demanded Felicity’s presence in the front parlour. “Do not leave me alone with that man!”
“Which man?”
“Either of them! Bring tea or something, but hurry!”
She took a deep breath before returning to lead the captain to the parlour. Before the marquis said “Come in” to her knock, she thought of developing a sudden headache, but Jamison had her elbow and was propelling her inside. The marquis was at ease by the fire, reading a book. He’d changed his soiled buckskins for buff-coloured pantaloons, and his cravat was tied—
He caught her looking at it. “I call it the Ajax Knot,” he told her, getting to his feet and smiling. Then he noticed the man behind her and the smile died. “Captain Jamison.”
“Major.” Jamison saluted.
Heavens, thought Lyndell, they were friends!
“Not major,” Cheyne co
rrected, motioning them to seats. “I sold out some months ago. Time to settle down. And what of your plans, Drew? Do you intend to stay on now that the war’s over?”
“Aye, I’ll stay. Some of us aren’t so fortunate to have estates to fall back on.”
“As you say. Well, what brings you here? Are you still at Southwold? Will you have some wine, Miss Riddley? Drew?”
Reminded of her presence, Jamison turned to look at Miss Riddley, who was busily wiping her spectacles. Jamison stared at her, then back at the marquis, then burst into loud snorts of laughter. Cheyne raised one dark eyebrow.
“I thought, that is, I felt—” Lyndell began, ready to confess her suspicions. The eyebrow rose higher.
“Miss Riddley thought you might wish to see an old acquaintance, Cheyne. I heard you were in the vicinity so I decided to call. By the way, we’ve had a bit of a problem in the neighbourhood. Don’t suppose you’ve heard about it?”
The marquis inspected the tassel on his Hessians. “No, nothing. I have been too busy in London to take an interest.” At Jamison’s knowing leer, he continued, “But what’s the trouble? Perhaps I can help. I did have a lot of behind-the-lines experience, you know.”
“No, no, nothing to concern yourself about. Highwaymen, most likely.” Jamison looked sideways at Lyndell. “You know how females are, though. They fret and fidget. Delicate nerves.”
If Cheyne had his own suspicions about the scowling Miss Riddley, they did not include die-away airs. He surprised himself by resenting Jamison’s slurs. What he really resented, he realised, was the coxcomb’s leering familiarity with her. With the straight-laced Miss Riddley? No one would flirt with Miss Riddley unless ...
To Lyndell’s relief, Felicity brought the tea tray. She bobbed a curtsey, rattling the china, before Lyndell could take it from her. “Do not leave,” Lyndell whispered. Jamison transferred his ogling to the pretty little maid— Cheyne had his suspicions about that too—while Miss Riddley fussed with asking the gentlemen’s preferences. Felicity passed the muffins.
When Jamison had his cup, his moustache dripping tea down the front of his uniform, to Lyndell’s disgust, he asked the marquis, “So what brings you here, hm?” His damp eyes went from Miss Riddley to her maid; his tone was one of heavy-handed insinuation. Presumptuous ass, thought Cheyne, before his quirky sense of humour took over. This was as good a time as any to put one of his theories to the test. A spark of deviltry lighting his smile, he answered: “I’m going north on an errand for my uncle. Viscount Richardson, you recall. Looking over some prime breeding stock.”
Lyndell gasped. Miss Fullerton, however, tossed the plate of pastries in the air and fled.
Muffins rolled under the chairs, muffins trailed crumbs over the carpets. If Lyndell had her way, his lordship would have a muffin crammed down his throat! It looked as though he was already choking, but on a smothered laugh. “Dratted girl,” was all she said, staring significantly at him, so he would know who else was in her black book. Who knew what else he might say? For that matter, who knew what else he suspected? She had to keep him away from Jamison at all costs now, lest he feel inclined to explain the maid’s dismay or, worse, compare notes on one Dell Riddley. “I’m sure you’re anxious to return to your men, Captain. You mentioned a private matter ... ?” Her stomach almost turned at the thought
Instead of leading him back down the hall, or to a corner of the nearly empty common room, she went out the front door, near where his horse was tied. Surprisingly, there were no other men waiting. Had he come to make the arrest single-handedly? Either way, this was going to be a brief conversation, if she had anything to say about it.
Jamison dropped his oily urbanity the moment they were outside. “What do you mean, dragging me out here? Master spies ... London gentlemen? Wellington’s right-hand man, more like it! I don’t know what game you’re playing, missy, and I won’t have it! No one plays Drew Jamison for a fool.”
“No, no. You don’t understand. It was an error, I tried to tell you. But... but his cousin is here, with some odd tale of a wound. He could be the one.” Lyndell didn’t really believe it, though she tried to sound convincing. Willy Richardson, that devil-may-care park saunterer? Absurd.
“Proof, ma’am, I need proof!” He seized her hand. “See that you don’t make any more errors, and stay out of what don’t concern you. I’ll return another time, when his lordship”—with a sneer—”isn’t watching.” He indicated the window, where Cheyne’s broad shoulders were framed. Then he lifted her hand and kissed the palm of it. “For our little talk.”
* * * *
Cheyne saw the gesture. Miss Riddley and that cad Jamison? From what his directives mentioned, that meant she was in it up to her eyes after all. Too bad, and he’d dared to hope that his theories were correct. Foolish notion, of course. Damn. He did not see Miss Riddley furiously rubbing her hand off on her skirt. And neither one, naturally, was aware of Jamison’s mustache-stroking deliberations, once back at the barracks. Crumbs fell on the page in front of him as he hastily wrote: “Cheyne here. Did the War Office send him? What now?”
* * * *
“Mr. and Mrs.... Jones? Yes, we ought to be able to accommodate you. I’ll just go see if the rat-catcher is finished.... You’ve decided to push on after all? Perhaps another time ...”
* * * *
When Cheyne asked Miss Riddley to dine with him, she could find no gracious way to refuse. He was to spend a week there, he pleaded, and his own company was already beginning to tire him. With Farrow and the maid seeing so well to Willy’s comfort, there was nothing to occupy him. The parlour door would remain open, of course.
Lyndell didn’t recall being so nervous since she’d curtsied to the queen, wearing those clumsy hoops and crinolines. Now she was dressed in cast-offs, but at least she didn’t wear the spectacles. He’d already seen her without them, and, aside from the danger of spilling her soup, she needed all her senses about her. She could barely remember whom she had told which lies to, and he was such a ... a knowing one, despite those friendly eyes. She squared her shoulders. Miss Markham had been giving set-downs for years, and Miss Riddley was certainly stiff-rumped enough to deflect any personal question. It was only the lad Dell Riddley she had to worry about.
* * * *
To her relief, dinner was actually pleasant. Instead of the inquisition she’d expected, there was polite conversation. No mention was made of Jamison’s visit, Felicity’s awkwardness, the missing Jasper or, thank goodness. Dell Riddley. Lyndell was at ease over the braised veal and the turbot in oyster sauce, enjoying the marquis’s company. He’d changed for dinner into black knee pants and a perfectly fitted coat of blue superfine, and his manners were superb. Polite without being encroaching, he made Lyndell forget her own dowdiness, her fear of revealing too much.
They talked of the war, and he complimented her on the depths of her understanding, beyond that of most of his London acquaintances. They talked of books and the theatre, with Lyndell bringing the marquis up to date with what he’d missed. Politics and the antics of the Regent, architecture and the new buildings Prinny was commissioning Nash to build, art and opera, they discussed it all, intelligently and as equals, to Lyndell’s delight. And she hadn’t given anything away, or had she?
Chapter Seventeen
On Sundays the upright, moral, God-fearing went to church. Lyndell and Felicia took the gig. The marquis stayed at the inn.
“He knows,” Lyndell said, as soon as they were on the short way to the little village of Entwood. There’d been a discussion of the wisdom of the trip, but Lyndell thought it would draw more comment if she didn’t attend services. She could go, properly escorted by her maid, and relieve the townsfolk’s curiosity, before many were tempted to stop at the inn. She had a black bonnet with a veil, borrowed from Mrs. Bennett, so she felt she could meet any unexpected old acquaintances with safety. It was easier to keep up the masquerade if she could direct the play, as opposed to her dealings with the m
arquis, who seemed unwilling to follow the script! “I don’t know how he knows, but he does.”
“Willy swears he didn’t tell. He says his cousin is just a ‘downy cove,’ whatever that is.”
“It means he is clever.”
“Oh.”
Lyndell had to smile, but this was serious. If the marquis made her presence there known, Felicia’s future would be doomed. She’d never get vouchers from Almack’s, invitations to all the balls. She’d never meet her Beau Ideal, that handsome man who would love her to distraction, and she him, for ever after.
“Please, Felicia, please consider returning home before anything worse happens. Most likely Cheyne will keep still out of regard for your father, so we can squeak through. Otherwise your chances will be ruined.”
Felicia giggled. “My chances would be ruined a lot faster if I left now.”
When Lyndell took her eyes off the horses, not so chancy a move with Jasper’s plodders, the girl was blushing.
“Why, Felicia Fullerton, I believe you are setting your cap for someone!” For an unnamed reason the thought that Felicia might have reconsidered her father’s arrangements, now that she’d met the marquis, caused Lyndell’s throat to tighten. No, the girl was still terrified of him; Lyndell could swallow again. “Willy!”
“Isn’t he the most handsome gentleman you know?”
Willy?
“And so fine and brave. He was telling me how he almost ran away and enlisted, because Lord Richardson wouldn’t purchase his commission. Instead he gave up his own wishes to stay back and help manage his cousin’s properties. So noble, don’t you think?”
Happily Felicia was content to ramble on about the myriad splendours of the young man, with Lyndell only murmuring an occasional “Indeed,” or “How true.” Felicia and Willy? Yes it might do, if her father permitted it. Richardson wasn’t up to Cheyne’s weight as a prize on the Marriage Mart, of course, but he was well-to-pass, a cheerful, likeable young fool, and with any luck could keep Felicia out of harm’s way. They’d make a remarkably handsome couple, both fair and blue-eyed. Their children would be perfect cherubs ... and perfect widgeons. The ideal match, if Willy was agreeable.
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