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

by Meg Alexander

  Hatton held her closer, chafing her hands in an effort to warm them. ‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I was thinking of Nancy. Does she know of any of this?’

  ‘Of course not. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She might harm Kit if she should ever learn that his father was the cause of her husband’s murder. I fear that she is unbalanced.’

  ‘How could she hear of it? No one in this household knows, apart from you and myself.’

  Suddenly, Sophie became aware that she was resting comfortably against Hatton’s massive chest. She coloured deeply as she attempted to struggle to her feet. He made no attempt to stop her.

  ‘Better now?’ he enquired.

  ‘Thank you. I do feel warmer...’ She managed a wavering smile as she took the opposite chair. ‘It must be the brandy, I imagine. Is it your answer to all ills?’

  ‘Only to some of them.’ The hooded eyes regarded her intently. ‘You have my admiration, ma’am—’

  ‘Oh—why is that?’

  ‘You are honest, Mistress Firle, especially with yourself. You do not seek to play the part of the grieving widow.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she told him simply. ‘I won’t pretend to grief because I have lost my love. Richard was no longer that. Yet I do grieve in another way, for a life cut short by evil men. My son has lost his father, and Richard, whatever his failings, was our sole support. For that, at least, I must be thankful.’

  ‘You are generous, ma’am.’ Hatton’s admiration grew. This gently nurtured girl had paid dearly for her one mistake in marrying Richard Firle. He could only guess at her agonies of mind when she realized that fact. The years must have worn away at her hopes, her dreams, her confidence and her faith in her fellow human-beings, but none of it had crushed her.

  ‘You don’t regret your marriage, then?’ He was surprised at his own need to hear her reply, though he knew the answer before she spoke.

  Sophie gave him a radiant smile. ‘Of course not! I have Kit...’

  Hatton turned away. Her courage shamed him. He was beginning to regret ever having considered drawing her into his plans. She had done nothing to deserve it. There must have been some other way to gain his ends without the need to involve this girl and her young son in such danger.

  He was under no illusions. Sophie’s life and that of the boy could be snuffed out like candles in the wind if anything went wrong. Only days ago he had thought the price worth paying. Now he knew that it was not. The realisation hit him hard. Hatton was no fool. He knew that he was growing dangerously fond of both Sophie and her son.

  The knowledge shook him badly. It could put all his plans at risk. His expression was carefully controlled when he turned back to her.

  ‘Will you open the inn tomorrow, Mistress Firle?’ he asked. ‘You have everything you need?’

  ‘I believe so. We are well stocked, though I can’t imagine that in the depths of winter we shall have much trade.’

  ‘Then we must try to encourage it. Lamps in all the windows to offer a welcome to the traveller, and roaring fires. Bess may possibly wish to do some cooking.... There is nothing like the smell of fresh-baked bread, or the prospect of a juicy roast...’

  Sophie shook her head at him. ‘Mr Hatton, you are an optimist. Sometimes in the past we have gone for weeks without a single customer. I cannot think that it will change.’

  Sophie was wrong. By noon on the following day she was surprised to hear the sound of carriage wheels. Glancing through the window, she saw six young men striding towards her door.

  Hurrying down the stairs, she moved to greet them, warmed by the admiration in their eyes. Clearly her bronze gown was a great success.

  ‘Gentlemen, what may we do for you?’

  ‘Why, ma’am, we are in need of sustenance. The drive from Brighton has given us an appetite. What can you offer us?’

  The man who spoke was in his early twenties. Tall and dark, he reminded her of someone, though she could not think why.

  Sophie recited the menu quickly and was vastly amused when her customers ordered everything from soup through turbot to chicken, ham and mutton. She doubted if they would be able to eat one half of it, but she hadn’t reckoned on a young man’s hearty appetite. The food vanished like snow in summer. Then her customers set about Bess’s apple pie with evident enjoyment.

  Sophie was intrigued. ‘How did you hear about the inn?’ she asked as she served them with a sixth bottle of wine. ‘We have only just reopened.’

  They all beamed at her. ‘Word gets about, ma’am.’ The speaker’s eyes had strayed to Nancy, who was engaged in clearing the tables. ‘I suspect that we shall become your most faithful customers. Brighton can be dull, you know.’

  Sophie laughed at him. ‘Surely not? There are so many diversions...’

  ‘But none that include the company of the most beautiful women in this part of Sussex.’ The speaker gave her a gallant bow.

  ‘Nonsense, sir! I suspect that your stomachs are your main concern. Have you enjoyed your meal?’

  A chorus of approval convinced her, and Sophie beamed at them. ‘We had not expected company today,’ she told them. ‘Next time you must let us know your wishes.’

  ‘Ma’am, they have been more than fulfilled.’ The young man bowed again. ‘The Prince himself could not have dined with more pleasure.’

  Sophie laughed. ‘I doubt if his Royal Highness will venture along these country lanes in winter. You may not know that Sussex roads are said to be the worst in England.’

  ‘And why is that, ma’am?’

  ‘The county lies on clay. You were fortunate that we had frost last night, so that the ground is firm.’

  ‘How true, Mistress Firle!’ Hatton had entered the room. ‘Yet this weather cannot hold. The wind is bringing rain from the west.’

  The six young men looked up at him and he favoured them with a pleasant smile. ‘Just a warning, gentlemen,’ he told them smoothly. ‘The clay is a serious hazard. In summer it bakes to the consistency of rock, but rain turns it into a morass. In the past it has taken as many as twenty oxen to drag a wagon free.’

  The young men looked at each other. They seemed reluctant to leave the comfort of the inn. One of them walked over to the window.

  ‘No rain as yet,’ he announced. ‘Sir, won’t you join us in a game of cards before we leave?’

  Hatton nodded. ‘As you wish. You stay in Brighton, so I hear. What brought you out into the country?’

  Their leader grinned at him. ‘My dear sir, it was a need to practise our driving skills. Ned there almost overturned the mail coach last time he took the ribbons. It cost him a small fortune to soothe the driver’s feelings.’

  His friend objected strongly to this slur upon his abilities. ‘His lead horse was almost blind,’ he insisted.

  ‘And so were you when you took that corner, Ned,’ the man beside him teased.

  Ned maintained a dignified silence as he shuffled the cards. Then there was a pause as each man studied his hand.

  Sophie left them to their game. She had enjoyed the company of these unexpected customers, feeling quite at ease with them. They had reminded her of the sons of family friends known to her since childhood. How long ago it all seemed now, the parties, the picnics, the village fêtes and the balls when young men such as these had presented themselves at her father’s house, all vying for her attention.

  She’d lost her heart to none of them, much to her father’s satisfaction. His choice for her was William Curtis, the neighbouring landowner, whom Sophie had always held in keen dislike. For a time she had had an ally in her mother who pleaded Sophie’s youth, but that excuse had worn thin as the months passed and she reached her seventeenth birthday.

  Then she had met Richard. It was just a random trick of fate that he’d been sent to ask her father, a local magistrate, for a date when certain captured smugglers might be tried.

  And my head was full of nonsense at that time, Sophie thought sadly. She
’d been reading about the Vikings, half-thrilled and half-repelled by their exploits, but always intrigued. The splendid creature who rode up to her father’s door might more fittingly have stepped ashore from a Norwegian galley.

  She could remember every detail of that first encounter. She’d been standing at the foot of the steps about to mount her horse. The groom was already bending with locked hands to help her into the saddle. Then he’d been thrust aside, and Sophie turned to look into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

  And I behaved like an idiot, Sophie thought bitterly. Richard must have found her the easiest of conquests. She had positively gaped at the impossibly handsome vision before her, marvelling at the sculptured perfection of his face, the wonderful curves of a mobile mouth, and the way the sunlight gleamed upon his blond head. She had discounted Viking ancestry immediately. This man looked more like a Greek god.

  A wry smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Susceptibility to good looks had always been a weakness in her character, but from that day she had never looked at another man.

  She’d braved her father’s wrath, the indignity of being locked in her room and even threats of a diet of bread and water and serious beatings, until Richard had come for her that fateful night.

  She’d gone with him without a backward glance, untroubled by the fact that she scarcely knew him. Their meetings had been few and, of necessity, fleeting. Love at first sight was true romance, as he had assured her, and she hadn’t doubted the truth of it.

  They had married on the day of her escape and, lost in dreams of happiness, Sophie could see no clouds upon the horizon.

  Had not Richard assured her that once they were wed her father would relent? If she showed herself penitent and begged the forgiveness of both her parents, she would be restored to the bosom of her family.

  It had not happened. Richard had reckoned without her father’s implacable opposition to the match. It had been a body blow to him. Sophie had been the child of his heart, but she had spurned his wishes and his love. Even the thought of her was like a dagger-thrust. His only solace was to forget that she existed.

  Richard had refused to believe at first that he had married a pauper, rather than an heiress, but as the truth came home to him, his manner towards Sophie changed. She’d been terrified by his coldness. How was she to live if he decided to abandon her? She loved him still, rejoicing when she found that she was pregnant. That, surely, would bring him back to her.

  It didn’t. Only when disgrace and dismissal from the Revenue Service threatened to crush him had he turned to her. She had stood by him, refusing to believe the accusations levelled against him, but troubled even as she defended him.

  Richard seemed to lead a life apart from her, marked by mysterious meetings and frequent absences. When she’d tried to question him he’d frown, surly and abusive. On that last day of his life she had looked at him clear-eyed, wondering, not for the first time, how this man, handsome beyond belief and with the physique of an athlete, could have failed to live up to all she had expected of him.

  Sophie shook her head, as if to rid it of troublesome thoughts. She could not change the past. Now she must think about the future. She looked up as Hatton entered the room.

  ‘Your game is over?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes, your guests are leaving. I told them again that they must not underestimate the poor state of the roads. I reminded them that the oxen, the swine, the women and all the other animals in Sussex are noted for the length of their legs. It is said to be from the difficulty of pulling their feet from the mud... It is thought to strengthen the muscles and lengthen the bones.’

  Sophie laughed in spite of herself. ‘I had best come and bid them farewell,’ she said. ‘I enjoyed their company, and they enjoyed their meal. We shall have made a splendid profit.’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  Sophie detected a sardonic undertone and she stared at him.

  ‘Mr Hatton, you can’t suspect these young men. I should have thought them harmless.’

  ‘But then, you are easily deceived, are you not, Mistress Firle?’ Hatton saw her angry look and relented. ‘No, you are right. These puppies are not the men we seek.’

  Sophie saw to her surprise that he was booted and spurred. Over his arm he carried a cloak with many capes.

  ‘Do you go with them to Brighton?’ she asked.

  ‘No, my dear. My duties take me elsewhere. I shan’t be away above a day or two.’

  Sophie was horrified. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘You can’t! You promised us your protection. You shall not leave us now.’

  ‘Your concern for me is touching...’ Hatton’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Do you believe that I shall be lost upon the roads?’

  ‘I don’t care about you,’ she cried wildly. ‘I am thinking of my servants and my son.’

  Hatton took her hand and drew her down to sit beside him. ‘I wish that you could learn to trust me, ma’am. Believe me, you are not in danger for these next few days. With all this rain upon the western wind the roads will be a quagmire within hours. Wagons cannot move in such conditions, and the consignment in your cellar is too large to be carried by packhorses. In any case, some approach is certain to be made to you beforehand.’

  Sophie was unconvinced, and her pallor alarmed him.

  Hatton took her hands in his once more. ‘You have done so well,’ he told her gently. Absentmindedly, he was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb and she found the sensation disturbing. She drew her hand away as if she had been stung.

  ‘When...when will you return?’ she cried. She was torn between her dislike of him and an urgent wish for his protection.

  ‘As soon as possible!’ Unexpectedly he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. ‘You are not without protection, Mistress Firle. You have both my men and your own. Jem is someone to be reckoned with, I feel...’ He was smiling down at her.

  Pride stiffened Sophie’s resolve. ‘Very well, then, go if you must,’ she snapped.

  ‘Sophie, please!’

  ‘I don’t recall giving you leave to use my given name, Mr Hatton. I see your promises now for what they are...completely worthless!’ She turned on her heel and left him.

  It was but the work of a moment to bid farewell to her guests. Then she stalked away without another glance at Hatton.

  She heard the carriage leaving, to be followed by a single horseman, and she felt bereft. Beneath a ridiculous temptation to burst into tears she was furious. Hatton had drawn her into his plans, ignoring all her objections. Now, when it suited him, he was quite willing to leave her alone to face whatever dangers might be in store, and she was terrified.

  It was all very well for him to claim that the servants would protect her. They might be willing to do so, but they knew no better than she did herself from which direction that threat might come.

  Now she could only hope that he’d been right about the weather. For the next three days she blessed the leaden skies and the constant rain. Not a single customer had crossed her threshold. The greyness was depressing, but she could cope with that. What she feared most was the sudden arrival of strangers.

  She tried to banish Hatton from her mind, telling herself that he wasn’t worth a thought, but she found it difficult. She had grown accustomed to his teasing and that lazy smile and the comforting sight of his enormous figure about the place.

  On several occasions during those few days she was tempted to pack her bags and leave with Kit, but where could she go? She had no money, and with a small child at her heels she would find it difficult to gain employment.

  Try as she might, she could see no way out of her predicament, other than to stay where she was. Oh, if only Hatton would return! As the days passed she missed him more and more.

  Of course, it was simply that he had promised to protect her. On this occasion, at least, she could not berate herself for being swayed by a handsome face. Hatton was no Adonis. His features were too strong for that. In repose
his expression could be daunting. Not a person to whom one would readily apply for mercy, she thought rebelliously.

  Well, she, at least, was not afraid of him, and when he returned she would give him a piece of her mind. Sophie spent much of her time thinking of sharp set-downs and crushing retorts which would reduce him to abject apology for his ill behaviour. That is, if he ever came back again. The sudden notion that he might not do so filled her with despair. Then common sense returned. Hatton had laid his plans with care. He would not abandon them now, however little he cared for her own welfare, or that of her child. It would be duty alone which drew him back to the inn, and she should admire him for his dedication.

  But she didn’t...at least, not altogether. Duty was important, naturally, and she would be the first to admit it, but other things were important too, such as consideration and affection.

  Alarmed at the direction which her thoughts were taking, Sophie picked up her book. The small volume of poems had been left behind by a casual visitor some months ago. The beauty of the language, the various rhythms and the rich imagery of the work had proved to be a solace in the past, and now she knew many of the poems by heart, reciting them to herself as she went about her daily routine.

  Her eye fell upon some lines penned by William Blake, an author new to her:

  Tyger, Tyger, burning bright

  In the forests of the night.

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame their fearful symmetry?

  In the past the raw power of the poem had delighted her, but now it brought Nicholas Hatton forcibly to mind. Man and animal seemed as one in their predatory quest.

  Sophie thrust the book aside. She must be losing her sense of proportion. Most probably the poem was not about an animal at all, but a symbol of some deeper meaning.

  As for Hatton? He was just a man, possibly more ruthless than most, but a man for all that, and not a wild animal.

  Yet the image stayed with her and she could not shake it off. That night she dreamed that she was running through a jungle, with some beast in hot pursuit.