Regency Admirer/The Merry Gentleman/The Gentleman's Demand

by Meg Alexander

  ‘Your rooms?’ she echoed blankly. ‘I thought I had explained. You can’t stay here. The inn is closed.’

  ‘But not to me, I think.’ He held up a hand to still her protests. ‘Must you always argue, woman? This place is mine, and for the present you are here on sufferance.’

  Helpless and seething with outrage, Sophie pushed past him and went to find her son.

  Chapter Two

  Anger turned to panic when she found that Kit was not in his room. Hideous images filled her mind. Had Hatton already spirited him away, holding him hostage against her good behaviour? She wouldn’t put anything past that ruthless creature.

  Wildly, she searched the upper floor, but she could find no trace of the child. Then, as she hurried down the stairs she heard his gleeful laugh. Thank heavens! He was in the kitchen.

  She burst into the room to find him seated at the old deal table, playing happily with a ball of grubby dough.

  Half-fainting with relief, she caught him to her, raining kisses on his face and neck until he tried to wriggle free.

  ‘You’re squashing me!’ he complained.

  ‘I’m sorry, my pet. You gave me a fright. How did you get down here?’

  ‘Mistress, I brought him down. He’d been calling for some time...’ Matthew’s wife gave Sophie a reproachful look.

  ‘Oh, Bess, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised that it was so late. Our unexpected visitor kept me talking.’ Sophie swallowed hard. ‘He intends to stay, I fear. Have we food enough for a decent dinner?’

  ‘Enough for a week, I shouldn’t wonder. The gentleman sent round to the nearest farm as soon as he arrived, and without so much as a by-your-leave...’ Bess gave her mistress a curious look. ‘Do you know him, ma’am?’

  ‘He convinced me that he is perfectly respectable.’ Some inner voice warned Sophie not to mention Hatton’s connection with the Preventive Service.

  ‘That’s as may be, but I thought that we were closed. Matt told him to go on to Brighton, but he wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘That’s understandable. The storm is growing worse...’

  ‘The weather weren’t too bad when he arrived.’ Bess was unconvinced. She gave her mistress a worried look. ‘T’ain’t right to have a stranger in the place when you have no one to protect you.’

  ‘Mama has me!’ Kit struggled from his chair and went to his mother’s side.

  ‘That’s right, my love!’ Sophie ruffled his hair. ‘Now, Bess, can you manage? Mr Hatton wishes to dine with me at seven.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but you should have warned me—’

  ‘How could I warn you when I didn’t know that he was coming?’ Sophie said wearily.

  ‘Well, mistress, be it on your own head. A gentleman yon customer may be, but there ain’t no call for you to sit with him alone.’

  ‘Nonsense, Bess! Pray don’t allow your imagination to run away with you. If you must know, Mr Hatton has a proposition for me. He suggests that I re-open the inn.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Bess stood with arms akimbo, bristling with antagonism towards the stranger.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Sophie was losing patience. ‘That is what I intend to find out.’

  She rose to her feet, and froze as Bess gave a piercing shriek.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she cried in alarm.

  ‘Mistress, your gown! It’s burned to shreds!’

  ‘I stood too close to the fire, that’s all.’ Sophie looked down at the tattered garment. ‘Don’t worry, I am quite unharmed.’ She glanced at Kit and then at Bess, warning the woman not to pursue the subject.

  ‘No more!’ she hissed into Bess’s ear. ‘If you throw your apron over your head and have a fit of the vapours, I shall slap you hard!’

  Kit had returned to his pile of dough. Now he was sticking currants into the grubby mass, attempting to create a face.

  Sophie held out her hand. ‘Will you come with me, love, or are you happy here with Bess?’

  ‘I’m busy!’ The small boy bent over his task with an air of intense concentration. ‘This is for your supper, Mama. Bobbo is helping me.’

  ‘Then I shall look forward to enjoying it.’ Sophie dropped a kiss upon his hair. She often worried about her son, believing that he needed playmates, but Kit was an inventive child. He was never bored, finding something of interest in everything about him, and clothing his little world in the vivid colours of a capricious imagination.

  His best friend was Bobbo, a mysterious creature invisible to the human eye. Bobbo had appeared when Kit was three, and in the past two years he had become a part of the family.

  Bobbo was a demanding creature. Sometimes he fitted happily into the routine of the household, but on occasion his ideas could be outrageous. In the usual way, Sophie found this figment of her son’s imagination vastly entertaining, but now she was unable to raise a smile.

  Hatton’s story filled her mind to the exclusion of all else. Could it possibly be true? In the years since her marriage she and Richard had grown apart, but his death had been a crushing blow. She mourned for the love they had once known and agonised over the accident. Had he lain injured on the rocks below the cliffs, unable to move, and knowing that the incoming tide would drown him?

  The men who found him had assured her that it wasn’t so. Richard had been killed outright and his body had not been carried out to sea. She’d forced herself to believe that he hadn’t suffered and she had come to accept the accident, tragic though it was. Murder was something else.

  A tap at the door roused her from her dark imaginings.

  ‘I’ve brought hot water, mistress. Will I help you change your gown?’

  ‘Thank you, Abby. I haven’t much time...’

  ‘Mother says I am to serve you with your dinner.’ Abby glowed with self-importance. ‘And I’m to tell you that Father and Ben will be close at hand.’ The girl gave her a curious look.

  Sophie managed a faint smile as she slipped out of her damaged gown. ‘Your mother is as bad as Kit,’ she observed. ‘They share a wild imagination...’

  ‘She worries about you, Mistress Firle, left on your own like this.’

  ‘I know it, Abby, but there is no need. Our visitor is perfectly respectable.’

  ‘Well he frightens me,’ the girl announced. ‘He is that big, and my, don’t he know how to give orders?’

  ‘I think he means well.’ Sophie was anxious to bring the conversation to an end. ‘Will you fetch me a gown?’

  ‘Which one, ma’am?’

  The question brought a smile from Sophie. ‘There isn’t much choice,’ she replied drily. ‘The grey will do, and I’ll wear my cap tonight.’

  ‘It don’t match,’ Abby protested.

  ‘That is the least of my worries!’ Sophie washed her hands and face and allowed herself to be buttoned into a simple round dress, long-sleeved and cut high at the neck. ‘Help me pin up my hair.’

  With some difficulty she pushed the abundant locks beneath a modest widow’s cap and glanced at herself in the mirror. Behind her Abby pulled a face.

  ‘You look like one of they Puritan women in Kit’s picture book...’ Abby was clearly unimpressed by her mistress’s toilette.

  ‘I’m not attending a reception at the Prince’s Pavilion in Brighton,’ Sophie replied severely. ‘You may put Kit to bed for me when he has had his supper. He’ll want a story, but none of your ghosts and hobgoblins, if you please. I don’t want him to have nightmares.’

  ‘As if I would!’ The girl threw her an injured look. Then she hesitated in the doorway.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Sophie picked up her reticule.

  ‘Mistress, is it true that you’ll stay here at the inn? We’ve been that worried. We’ve nowhere else to go, you see.’

  ‘My dear child, I’m well aware of that, and I haven’t forgotten how kind your mother and father have been to me. They have stayed on without wages...’

  Abby blushed with embarrassment. ‘They take no accoun
t of that, ma’am, being as they have a roof above their heads, and food enough to eat.’

  ‘But I take account of it, Abby. If I’d sold the place, your father would have had his share, but...well...I haven’t decided yet.’

  In truth, her decision was already made. Hatton had been right. She had no choice but to fall in with his wishes. To do otherwise meant destitution, not only for Kit and herself, but for Matthew and his family.

  All she could do now would be to hold out for the best conditions she could think of.

  She hurried down to the kitchen, intending to bid her son goodnight, but was stopped on the threshold by Bess’s look of amusement.

  ‘Abby said that you was got up like a nun,’ the older woman observed. ‘Quite right too, if I may say so. No man in his right mind would—’

  ‘Bess, that’s quite enough!’ Sophie was tempted into a sharp retort. ‘I’m not expecting to be raped!’

  ‘No chance of that!’ Bess chortled. ‘Take care, ma’am, or you’ll get grease upon your gown. I’d say naught if it were to fall upon your cap.’ She eyed the offending garment with disfavour.

  ‘You know that I must wear it,’ Sophie told her coldly. ‘It is perfectly suitable...’

  A snort of disgust was the only reply, and Sophie was not prepared to argue. Clearly she was in the way, and she was already late for her appointment with the dreaded Mr Hatton.

  He was not in his rooms, so she sat by the fire, searching her mind for some solution to her problems. She could think of nothing.

  ‘Brooding upon your sorry fate?’ a deep voice enquired.

  Sophie swung round to find Hatton standing in the doorway, a bottle of wine in either hand.

  ‘I took it upon myself to inspect your cellars,’ he explained. ‘They are quite a revelation, ma’am. The Prince himself would be happy to own such a stock.’

  Sophie glared at him as he walked towards her. Then he stopped.

  ‘Dear God! What have you got upon your head?’ A hand reached out and twitched the cap away, allowing the mass of auburn curls to fall upon her shoulders. ‘That creation is enough to frighten the French!’

  ‘How dare you!’ Sophie tried to clutch at the cap, but Hatton held it out of her reach. ‘I am a widow, and widows are supposed to wear such things.’

  ‘Widows’ weeds?’ he mocked. ‘Forget it!’ He tossed the cap into the fire. ‘Black ain’t your colour, ma’am, and nor is grey. You’ll be of no use to me if you insist on looking like a crow.’

  Sophie’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Don’t you mean a crone?’ she cried.

  ‘No, I think not!’ He gave her a long, considering look. ‘You are too thin, of course, but you will pay for dressing. Blue, I think, or possibly green...?’

  ‘If you think to dress me up as some alehouse strumpet you may forget it,’ she cried hotly.

  Her anger increased as she heard a low laugh. ‘Not even I could manage that. You will always look the gentlewoman, Mistress Firle. It is no bad thing. Who is more likely to elicit sympathy than a pretty widow, fallen upon hard times?’ He poured the wine and offered her a glass.

  ‘I’ve had no sympathy from you, sir.’

  ‘None whatever! But then you must remember that I am impervious to women’s wiles. Stubborn hotheads, most of them, and you are no exception.’

  ‘Then I wonder that you should care to trust your plans to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry! I shall keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Then kindly keep your opinions to yourself. I shall take no notice of them.’

  ‘Oh, I think you must,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘They are so sensible, you see.’

  For a moment this outrageous statement threatened to rob Sophie of the power of speech. Then she found her voice.

  ‘How true! What could be more reasonable than an invitation to become your spy and put my life and that of my son in danger? Why, such suggestions must be commonplace in genteel circles!’

  Hatton’s eyes twinkled as he looked at her. ‘So the kitten has claws? Well done, Mistress Firle!’

  ‘Don’t try to patronise me!’ she snapped.

  ‘I shouldn’t dream of it. I am accustomed to respect my colleagues.’ Hatton was grinning at her.

  A sharp retort died upon her lips as Abby entered the room, carrying a laden tray.

  With formal courtesy, Hatton drew out a chair for his bristling companion. Then he seated himself at the table with the resigned expression of a man expecting an indifferent dinner.

  Sophie eyed him with malicious amusement as he bit into a fluffy golden omelette stuffed with mushrooms. He said nothing as he cleared his plate.

  Then Abby served the fish which had been intended for Sophie’s supper. Bess had cooked it in her special way, coating it with herbs and seasoning before rolling it in a muslin cloth and steaming it gently above a pan of boiling water. When it was unwrapped the skin came away with the cloth, leaving the flesh firm and white, and ready to be bathed in a delicate butter sauce of her own devising.

  Hatton raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you always dine like this?’ he asked.

  ‘Very rarely, Mr Hatton. At least, not in these past few weeks. We keep chickens and a pig, of course, and we grow our own vegetables. The goose, I fear, would have been beyond our resources... I understand that we have you to thank for that.’

  ‘I like to eat well.’ He brushed the implied thanks aside. ‘Let us hope that Bess has done it justice.’

  Sophie gave him an acid smile. ‘You need have no fear. You won’t go hungry, sir.’

  When the bird arrived she was pleased to see that it had been roasted to perfection. The rich dish was accompanied by a sharp apple sauce, designed to clean the palate, and a selection of winter vegetables, including Sophie’s favourite mixture of carrots and turnips, mashed together with pepper, salt and butter.

  Hatton was won over when he tasted it. ‘I wonder why I haven’t sampled this before?’ he said. ‘It should be served with every meal.’

  Sophie smiled. ‘You sound like the man who ordered apricot tart with every meal, whether he ate it or not.’

  Hatton pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Let us hope that Bess has mercy on us,’ he announced. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite.’

  His hopes were dashed when Abby arrived with apple pie and some local cheese. He was about to wave it away when Sophie frowned at him.

  ‘Try a little of it,’ she insisted. ‘Bess will be disappointed if you don’t.’

  Obediently, he inspected the tray. Then he held up a square of grubby pastry decorated with a large initial.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, dear, that offering is for me. Kit made it for my supper...’

  Hatton’s smile softened his harsh face. ‘You are fortunate in your son, ma’am.’

  ‘I believe so, Mr Hatton, and I will defend him with my life.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Mistress Firle. I have promised that you will be in no danger.’

  ‘How can you promise that?’ she cried in irritation. ‘Unless this is a wild-goose chase? I believe it to be so. Why should the free traders choose to use this inn? You have been misinformed, I fear.’

  ‘Have I? I think not! Be honest with me, ma’am. Have you noticed nothing amiss since you came to live here?’

  ‘I have told you. I did not enter the public rooms.’

  ‘I am aware of that, but you are not blind, my dear. Did you sleep well at nights?’

  Sophie stared at him. ‘I kept my shutters closed,’ she admitted.

  ‘Even in summer? Were you told to do so? And what reason were you given?’

  Sophie lost all patience with her questioner. ‘I didn’t care to ask,’ she cried. ‘How well do you know this area, Mr Hatton? Smuggling takes place along the coast, but there is a reason for it. These fishermen have lost their livelihood due to the French war. They can earn as much in a night as they can in a month by other means. Must their families starve?’

&
nbsp; ‘And what does it lead to?’ he asked coldly. ‘You have your own answer to that.’

  ‘The government could stop the trade overnight,’ she insisted. ‘All they need to do is reduce the duty.’

  ‘Is it so simple? Taxes are needed to run this country—’

  ‘To subsidise a war?’ Sophie regretted the words as soon as they were out.

  ‘You disappoint me!’ he told her sternly. ‘Brave men have given their lives in the fight against Napoleon. Would you give up our hard-won freedom?’

  Sophie hung her head. ‘Of course not? Forgive me, I spoke in haste! If I were a man I should fight too.’

  ‘You can still fight, ma’am, but in a different way. Well, will you give me your decision? We are to be colleagues, are we not?’

  ‘Only if you agree to my conditions.’

  ‘Go on!’ Hatton prepared to listen.

  ‘In the first place, I must have your assurance that my son will not be put at risk.’

  ‘Agreed!’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’ Sophie gave him a dagger-look. ‘Should any harm come to him I’ll kill you myself.’

  She had expected some sneering taunt in reply, but Hatton said nothing.

  ‘Also, there must be a limit to this arrangement. You mentioned six months, I believe?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And then there is the matter of payment...’

  ‘You have some figure in mind?’

  Sophie named a figure so large as to force him to withdraw his offer. She was prepared for a refusal, but to her astonishment he nodded.

  ‘Done! You’ll earn it, never fear! Anything else?’

  Sophie shook her head.

  ‘Very well, then. Shall we shake hands upon our bargain?’ He reached across to her, aware of her reluctance to allow him to touch her, and amused by it.

  Sophie looked down at the clasped hands. Enclosed within the lean brown fingers, her own looked very white.

  At least his grasp was warm and firm. To her surprise she realised that she had expected nothing else, but she drew her hand away as if she had been stung. There was something deeply disturbing about Nicholas Hatton, and it had nothing to do with the perilous adventure upon which they had embarked.