by Amanda Scott
Delighted by the news, she said, “Our people will be in good trim then, Hollingston. Be sure you let our tenants know they can have seed for their own gardens, and as much of the flour as they need, once it has been milled. ’Tis a pity it takes so long to grow the stuff. I daresay things will be a lot worse by then. We are already hearing of so much unrest.”
“Aye, and Lord Percival said there’s a law in London now that, because of the shortage, bakers can no longer sell new bread, not until after it’s been sitting twenty-four hours. They think people don’t eat as much bread when it’s day-old as they do when it’s warm from the oven, and they say the law will spread elsewhere, too, and there’s even been talk of famine, he said. Seems an exaggeration, but there’s no denying provisions are scarce, m’lady. We’ll be set right enough at Carnaby, however.”
She stayed talking for a few minutes more, then took her leave. Finding her gig waiting, she took her whip from the groom, allowed him to help her to the seat, then dismissed him. Remembering without concern that Estrid had insisted that she must never go to Honiton without her groom, she whipped up the horses and drove at a spanking pace through the stable-yard gate. She didn’t want a groom or anyone else with her on this trip.
From the window of the peach bedchamber, Thorne watched her drive away without so much as a groom to attend her. What, he wondered, could her father be thinking about to give the wench so much freedom? She had no business to be let out on her own, certainly not to drive the highroad into Honiton. What if something occurred? What if one of her horses went lame? Both looked like fine, healthy animals, a pair he would not—from what he could make of them at this distance—scorn to have in his own stable, but even so, something could go wrong. Though he winced at the wicked pace she set, driving through the narrow brick archway, he could see that she had room to spare. Had she been one of his own friends—Corbin, for example, who could drive to an inch and was, like himself, a member of the Four Horse Club—he would not have thought it such a great feat. But for a woman to do such a thing was remarkable. Or foolhardy. And from what he had seen of Lady Gillian Carnaby to date, he was as willing to bet on the latter as the former.
He wondered why she had spurned his company. She might at least have tried to arrange something for his entertainment while she was gone, since her stepmother had not troubled to do so. Everyone in the place seemed to think only of his or her own comfort and nothing else. But thinking of Lady Marrick reminded him that he would have to take care to stay out of her way. He didn’t think he could stomach any more of her platitudes for a while.
He had concluded that Lady Gillian was the person most responsible for the smooth running of Carnaby Park and thought it amazing that she was allowed so much license. Clearly the only one who challenged her authority was Lady Marrick, who had made at least a few token attempts to wrest the reins from her, but it was clear, too, that the countess was inexperienced and, if anything, merely a hindrance. Vellacott scarcely paused at Carnaby long enough to hang his hat, and Marrick did not seem to take the slightest interest in the place. But Gillian was entirely too young to shoulder such a burden. To be sure, she seemed to enjoy it, but she would soon be at loggerheads with Lady Marrick if she kept on as she was doing now.
Staring down into the stable yard, and thinking it a mighty poor view to give a guest when there was such a fine one from the south front, he found himself wondering if he would be subjected to a scene when Lady Marrick discovered that her butler had taken leave and that her stepdaughter had presumed to hire a new one without consulting her. And why the devil hadn’t Gillian simply sent a man into Honiton to ask a representative of the registry to call upon her stepmother at his earliest convenience?
To the best of Thorne’s knowledge, though he had never had cause before to give the matter much thought, few persons looking to engage servants actually set foot in a registry office. He certainly had never done so, and the duke’s steward was so puffed up in his own esteem that he would deem such a visit far beneath his dignity. That thought stirred several new ones. She had been in an almighty hurry, almost as if she meant to act before her courage failed. No, he was being fanciful now. He shook himself and turned to ring for hot water. He could at least wash his face and hands before Ferry returned with his gear.
Another half hour passed before his man hurried into the bedchamber, followed by two footmen carrying various articles of luggage. Ferry waited only until the others had set down their burdens as he directed them before saying, “Hakson’s taken the carriage round to the stables, my lord. I beg pardon for being so long, but we was detained by Lord Crawley at the inn.”
“Crawley! What the devil is he doing there?”
Ferry said with admirable calm, “Seems he and my lords Corbin and Dawlish all wanted a look at the Lady Gillian, sir.”
“May the devil fly away with them!” Thorne exclaimed.
“They said if they did not hear from you before five, they would come along here to inquire for you. I did my best, sir, but Lord Crawley damned my eyes, and Lord Corbin got that sleepy look he gets—you know the one—and said he couldn’t for the life of him think why you wouldn’t be wishful to see them after they’d driven so far and at such a wicked pace and all. He said—”
“Oh, I can imagine what he said, but you needn’t repeat his prattle,” Thorne said, grimacing. “I’ll see them, all right. Order me a horse, Ferry. I saw some prime cattle in the stable when his lordship showed me that foal of his. Tell them I want a good one, but fetch out fresh buckskins first, and while I’m gone, see about a decent rig for dinner, something I can hustle into without a lot of bother when I get back.”
“Aye, m’lord,” Ferry said with a sigh as he hurried to obey. “’Tis a pity you won’t take more care, though. How I’m ever to get a good place as a gentleman’s valet, I’m sure I don’t know. And Cherriton back in London no doubt biting his fingernails to nubs for worrying about how poorly I’m turning you out.”
Thorne smiled at the thought of his valet. “He will know you are doing your best, Ferry. Now stop chattering and order up that horse. I can get into my own buckskins and jacket.”
If he was not ready by the time Ferry returned, he was nearly so, and required but a few touches to finish. Then, clapping his hat to his head, Thorne hurried downstairs and out the front door to find one of the stable lads leading a fine-looking bay gelding up and down the drive.
Taking the reins with a smile and flinging himself into the saddle, he touched the gelding’s flank with his heels and was off. The animal’s forward action was excellent, and it soon settled into a distance-eating pace. Thorne did not ask himself why he was in such a hurry to confront his cousin and their two friends. He just knew he wanted to get to Honiton as quickly as possible. The six miles were accomplished in well under an hour, and he was pleased to see when he drew rein before the Lion that the gelding seemed to have a good number of miles left in him.
Dismounting, he threw the reins to a boy who hurried to meet him and tossed him a coin from his pocket, giving orders to walk the gelding so it wouldn’t get chilled. Then, taking the steps two at a time, he entered the inn. The first persons he saw were Dawlish, Corbin, and Crawley, all sprawled at their ease in the common room to the left of the entrance hall, their feet stretched out before them, glasses of wine or ale near at hand.
Corbin saw him first and drawled, “How now, why the long face, my lad? You don’t look at all pleased to see us.”
“I’m not at all pleased. What the devil do you mean by following me down here?”
Corbin’s face fell ludicrously. “Damme, but you cannot know the wicked pace they insisted I set or you would not wish to distress me by asking such an insensitive question. Why, not only was I forced to drive—for entrust my cattle to a coachman in such a case, I would not—but I have been jostled about so much that my wig near came off, and to make matters worse, the ale in this house is tainted. I believe the damned fellow must have added water to it. Dreadful stu
ff!”
“So dreadful,” Crawley said, grinning, “that both he and Mongrel have found it necessary to drink three mugs of the stuff in the past half hour alone. They will soon be flat, so say what you like to us quickly, or they will miss the best of it.”
“Aye,” Corbin agreed morosely, “and I wager I’ll have a brutal head in the morning, due to the villainous adulteration of the spirits of this house. How came you to rack up here, Josh?”
“I won’t, as it happens. I am to stay at Carnaby.”
“Aye, so your man told us,” Dawlish said. He had been watching Thorne silently, and a trifle warily.
“I shall speak to Ferry about that,” Thorne said grimly.
“Now, don’t go flying into the boughs, coz,” Dawlish said. “We didn’t come entirely on your affair, you know. Well, not altogether, at all accounts. There was Crawler as well. At outs with his lady and pockets entirely to let.” He lowered his voice, glanced right and left, then murmured, “Bailiffs.”
Thorne raised his eyebrows. “Tipstaffs after you, Crawler?”
Crawley shrugged. “It hasn’t come to that, of course—can’t clap up a peer. But I confess that when Mongrel said he and Corbin thought a little drive to Devon might benefit them, I agreed in an instant. Not only ain’t the dibs in tune at present, but my darling Gwendolyn has fallen under the spell of a blasted Scotsman. I thought my absence might induce a bit of proud desperation in the wench. Or better yet ... any heiresses about, Josh—that you haven’t already snabbled, that is?”
“How much do you need?” Thorne demanded with resignation.
“More than you’d be willing to give me,” Crawley answered instantly. “It’s no good, Josh. My pockets are to let, that’s all. Shall we go away again? Mongrel always wants to help, you know, but I think we are a trifle de trop. Are we?”
“Infinitely. Did you expect merely to ride up to the house and announce that you had come to look over my betrothed wife?”
“Nothing so no-account as that, dear boy,” Corbin assured him. “I’ll have you know that I have relations in the neighborhood—well, in Devon, anyway. To be truthful, they reside near Plymouth. I’ll confess that I haven’t visited there since I was in short coats, and that I thought Plymouth was a deal closer to Honiton than it is, but there you are. Well, how was a fellow to remember that Devon was such a damned big county. Take a week to ride around it, I should think. Truth is, we had nothing better to do and didn’t want to be fobbed off later with more of your nonsense, so we thought we’d come along and see for ourselves. After all, it’s the first one of your recent jaunts where we’d a notion where you were bound. So tell us about Lady Gillian Carnaby and this utterly unexpected betrothal of yours.”
Thorne grimaced and, gathering his thoughts, moved away toward one of two small windows overlooking the street.
“Ring for another pitcher of ale, Crawler,” Dawlish said. “Can see he wants to wet his whistle, can’t you? Now, no need to poker up like that, coz,” he added hastily. “We mean no harm.”
Thorne shot him an oblique glance. “I do know that, but I’m in a deuce of a pickle, Perry, and I’m going to need my wits about me to get out of it without hurting anyone else. I can’t tell you everything, because I don’t know it all yet, but you can take it from me that there are more than a few innocent people involved. The damned betrothal will have to stand until I can sort it out, so I’ll ask the three of you to have the goodness to hold your tongues on the matter until I decide what to do.”
“Don’t the chit want to marry you?” Dawlish demanded, his speech slurring a little on the words.
“No, of course she doesn’t. She didn’t—Good God!” A flash of red in the street had caught his eye, and he turned in time to see a scarlet cloak disappear through a doorway opposite the inn. “Here, landlord,” he snapped to the man just entering in response to Crawley’s ring, “what’s that building yonder?”
“Yonder, my lord?” The man wiped his hands on the white cloth he had tucked into the waist of his breeches, and moved a little to peer through the window. “Ah, now that would be the offices of the South Devon Gazette, sir.”
“Would it indeed?” Thorne said grimly. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I must leave you. I shall return when I can. In the meantime, be good enough to stay right here, if you please.”
Corbin said a little plaintively, “Well, I like that. Not so much as a taste of the ale, and—”
But Thorne heard no more. His temper rising rapidly, he went back through the little entryway, out the door, and across the street, paying no heed to the fact that he had stepped right into the path of a farm wagon. Ignoring the curses of its driver, he kept his gaze on the door he wanted. A moment later, he threw it open and strode into the newspaper office.
6
GILLIAN HAD NEVER BEEN INSIDE a newspaper office before and found the smell of ink and the sounds of the place fascinating. There was a great deal of banging going on in the nether regions, and when a thin, pock-scarred young man stepped to the wooden counter separating the back of the room from the tiny entryway and spoke to her, she was unable to hear him clearly, but she found his look of polite inquiry suddenly rather daunting.
When she had imagined the scene to herself, it had seemed a simple matter to place a notice declaring that the announcement of an engagement between Lady Gillian Carnaby and Baron Hopwood had been made in error. It was quite another matter now. Even without being able to hear all the young man said to her, she had a horrid notion from his air of deference that he had recognized her, and she was cursing herself for not having had the foresight—as clearly Dorinda had had—of wearing a veil.
The office door banged back on its hinges, crashing against the wall behind her, and Gillian whirled in dismay to see Thorne striding into the office. Seeing instantly that he was in a blazing fury, she felt her breath catch in her throat, and she had to fight an instinct to put up her hands to fend him off.
“I thought I’d run you to earth here,” Thorne said in what she thought was an amazingly light tone as he turned to catch the door and close it, just as if he hadn’t thrust it into the wall only seconds before. He smiled at the lad behind the counter and said in a voice raised above the noise from the back of the office, “Fearful wind. Sorry about the door. I saw my cousin come in here and thought I’d come in to lend her a hand with her notice. Though why,” he added, smiling indulgently at Gillian, “she would want to place an advertisement for a new butler in your newspaper when there is a perfectly good registry office right here in town, I haven’t the least notion.”
The youth smiled at Gillian and said, “He makes an excellent point, ma’am. Our next edition won’t appear for a sennight, for we just had one out today. And in a sennight, like as not, the registry office could find you a dozen butlers.”
“Goodness me,” she said, smiling back at him, resigned to the fact that her notion, little though it had had to do with butlers, had been a poor one, “I shouldn’t know what to do with a dozen butlers, but I shall take your advice. If they do not find someone suitable before the week is out, I will return.”
“Excellent,” Thorne said, putting his hand firmly between her shoulder blades and urging her inexorably toward the door. Looking back as he opened it for her, he said, “Thank you for your good advice, lad.”
Gillian had the odd notion that she was being hurried to a tumbril, if not straight to a guillotine. Certainly, if Thorne had anything to say about it, her head would soon be separated from her shoulders. He was urging her along at such a pace that if she was not careful, she would trip over her skirt and fall flat on her face in the street. But if she resisted him, she would create another, even less desirable scene to entertain the people of Honiton. She could feel the energy of Thorne’s temper crackling in the air around them and wondered how long it would be before it exploded. The three gentlemen on the front step of the inn across the way were clearly expecting something of the sort to happen. They regarded her with
the sort of interest one associated with spectators at a mill, or at a beheading—not that she had had any experience with such events, of course.
“The devil!” Thorne muttered beneath his breath.
She looked up at him. “What is it, sir?”
“I have much to say to you, Lady Gillian, but even you do not deserve to hear it before an audience like that one.”
“You know those three gentlemen?”
“I regret to say I do, though I doubt I should use so polite a term as ‘gentlemen’ for them at present. Where is your gig?”
“I left it in charge of a boy near the registry office in the next street,” she said, eyeing him, then adding with what she hoped would be taken for airy assurance, “I’ll just go collect it and be on my way back to the Park.”
The hand at her back moved to her upper arm, gripping it as though he feared she might bolt. Sighing in resignation, she said, “You need not bruise me. I shan’t go if you dislike it.”
“We are going to have a talk,” he muttered.
The three gentlemen were coming toward them, so when Thorne released her, Gillian gathered herself to face them. They doffed their hats, and she could see by the amusement in their faces that they were greatly enjoying themselves, although the shortest of the three, a portly gentleman with a youthful but rather vague countenance, seemed to walk with caution. She was not certain whether that was habit or if he was wary of Thorne’s temper.
The second man, a taller, harsh-visaged gentleman with a lean, muscular form, was dressed comfortably, like Thorne, but the third was much more debonair. In his tight double-breasted, dark green coat with its skimpy tails, huge puffed shoulders, and a double row of flat gold buttons down the front, he looked quite the town beau. His lapels were cut in a wide zigzag shape to show off a shirt collar so high that it brushed his cheeks and a stiff lace-edged cravat tied in a fat bow. A fashionable two inches of red satin waistcoat could be seen below the front edge of his coat, covering the waistband of his dashing yellow tights. He wore tall Hessian boots with red silk tassels, and carried a gold-rimmed quizzing glass on a black velvet ribbon.
