The baron considered it beneath his dignity to chase after the man. In any case, he was fair enough to concede that the affronts he had just received in the parlor were not precisely Leatherbury's fault. No, the blame must rest entirely with that extraordinary creature with the impudent brown curls and too candid green eyes.
"Making love? Is that what you thought you were doing?" The memory of Gwenda Mary Vickers's astonished gasp stung Ravenel worse than Belinda's not consenting to marry him. How dare that impertinent chit address him in such a manner! How dare she presume to eavesdrop, then to criticize him!
The floorboards trembled beneath Ravenel's feet as he stomped out through the inn's main door and into the bright sunlight. But the heat suffusing his face had nothing to do with the warmth of the summer's day. Above his head, the inn's sign creaked, the white stag that had been the badge of Richard the Second authenticating the inn's claim that it had been built in the fourteenth century. Before him stretched the cobblestone street dotted with white-stone cottages baking in the afternoon sun. A line of fat geese waddled across the village green.
But both the bucolic charms of Godstone and the ancient timber-frame inn were entirely lost on Ravenel as he continued to fume over his recent encounter with Miss Vickers.
As soon as he had heard her name, he had been well aware of what sort of behavior to expect. The Vickers family comprised the most notorious collection of lunatics to be found outside the confines of Bedlam. The insane exploits of Mad Jack Vickers were legend: shooting the currents beneath London Bridge, hiding inside a coffin to prove that he could survive being buried alive, balancing on one leg atop Lord Marlow's old coach horse. Mad Jack, the baron supposed, must be brother to the young lady he had just met. And as for the father! Ravenel grimaced. Never would he forget the time Lord Vickers had swept into the House of Lords clad in a Roman toga and delivered a speech more fit for Drury Lane than the august halls of Westminster. The mother, Lady Vickers, was said to be constantly besieging the Duke of Wellington with letters, telling him how he ought to be conducting the campaign against Napoleon.
Gwenda Vickers reportedly had some eccentricity, too, although at the moment Ravenel could not recollect what it was. Certainly a penchant for spying on total strangers must be numbered among her peculiarities. Doubtless she had a tongue that ran like a fiddlestick as well and would report his humiliation over half of England.
The prospect only aggravated Ravenel's ill humor. His gaze swept toward the distant spot where the rest of his traveling companions were seated upon benches beneath a large oak tree, a generous repast spread out on the table before them. But the baron felt no temptation to join them, not even when Miss Carruthers waved gaily and beckoned to him as though nothing had happened. He gave her a stiff nod, then turned away, still smarting from her recent rejection of him. Belinda had not said no precisely, but she wasn't exactly falling over herself to marry him, either. Although Ravenel would not have described himself as being heartbroken, his pride had been dealt a severe blow.
As he stalked around the side of the inn, heading for the stableyard, Gwenda Vickers's voice echoed in his mind once more. "You were doing everything absolutely all wrong . Even now, you could go after Miss Carruthers, take her in your arms…"
"Bah!" Ravenel muttered under his breath. "What romantic nonsense." Imagine offering such personal advice to a man she had never met before! Miss Vickers must be all about in her head, the same as the rest of her family. And yet he could not help mentally reviewing his wooing of Belinda, wondering if he had proceeded amiss. No, he could.not concede that he had. He had conducted his courtship with the same seriousness and propriety he brought to all of his duties as Baron Ravenel. And in his twenty-eighth year, one of those duties was to get himself a wife, then an heir.
Miss Carruthers had seemed such an ideal choice: a baronet's granddaughter, a lady of breeding and refinement, intelligent and accomplished, not given to any wild whims of behavior—at least not until today.
Lost in his reflections, Ravenel drew back instinctively as the stage rattled past him away from the inn, the outside passengers clinging precariously to the top rail. So Belinda still mourned this Colonel Percival Adams who had died in Spain. Doubtless a cavalry officer with a fine pair of mustaches, and excessively dashing, which Ravenel was fully aware that he was not. "Sobersides"—that was the sobriquet bestowed upon him by the London wits.
Not that he cared a jot what such society fribbles thought of him, nor that many wagers had been laid at White's betting that, despite all of Ravenel's assets, the fair Belinda would never have him Likely she would choose his nearest rival, the Earl of Smardon, a golden-haired Corinthian of the first stare of elegance. A swaggering, muscled dolt with more brawn than brains, Ravenel thought scornfully, but his sneer faded to a frown.
He fared ill by comparison to Smardon. The baron knew that he had not the least reason to be conceited over any of his personal attributes. He deplored the swarthy cast of his complexion that made him look more like some rascally buccaneer than a gentleman. But he also knew his own worth in terms of lands and the position he had to offer a lady, All during the London Season, Belinda had afforded him every encouragement, giving him reason to think his addresses would be acceptable to her until Lord Smardon, the only other eligible bachelor whose holdings rivaled his, had appeared on the scene.
Although Ravenel was loath to admit it, Miss Vickers had been right when she had accused him of worrying that he would be cut out by Lord Smardon. His anxiety on that score had, had led him to commit the first breach of propriety in his life, proposing to Belinda at a common inn. And only see what humiliation that had brought him.
So unnecessary, too, for it seemed his rival was not Smardon but a soldier long dead. Odd. Never once had Belinda mentioned any such thing as being haunted by memories of a fiancé killed in the war. But, of course, a gentleman did not question the word of a lady, so Ravenel quelled all of his suspicions that Belinda was merely keeping him dangling, making a fool of him.
But he had made up his mind to have Miss Carruthers for a wife, and have her he would. The Ravenels were excessively stubborn when it came to obtaining what they wanted. He would renew his addresses with more persistence when Belinda had finished junketing about with her aunt and arrived in Brighton.
This resolution took some of the edge off his anger and disappointment, but he still felt in no humor to make pleasant conversation over luncheon with his other traveling companions. Their destination was Tunbridge Wells; his was Brighton. He had only come with them thus far because of Belinda's presence in the party. But it would do the lady no harm to fret and fear she had displeased him.
Ravenel saw no reason why he should not continue on with his journey immediately. It was merely a question of collecting his elderly valet, Jarvis, from the coffee room and ordering his groom to have the phaeton brought round at once.
But his anger flared anew when he espied his new carriage' drawn up before the stables, his prime pair of blooded bays pawing in the traces, completely unattended. With a low growl in his throat, which boded ill for the negligent Dalton, the baron hastened in that direction, barely avoiding being knocked down by a curricle departing from the inn yard.
Ignoring the driver's curses, Ravenel closed the distance between himself and his own rig. Not that he was that particular about the phaeton, but he took fierce pride in his cattle. He never trusted his bays to an ostler, no matter how high the inn's reputation His groom, Dalton, was paid a handsome wage to see to the horses and make certain they were not so much as touched by any clumsy stable boy. The man had only been in Ravenel's employ a month, but he had given complete sastisfaction up until now. The baron trusted that Dalton would have some good excuse to offer for his neglect.
Unfortunately, when he located Dalton just inside one of the empty horse stalls, the groom did not seem of a frame of mind to offer any excuse. From the hazy look in his eyes, Dalton appeared incapable of even pronouncing his
own name.
Backed against the side of the wooden stall, the short, wiry groom seemed about to go limp at the knees from the caresses of a petite, dark haired wench with full, pouting red lips. Dalton stood scarcely over five feet high, and the girl was about his equal in height. Ravenel felt like a giant bearing down upon them.
The girl leaned forward until her bosom brushed against Dalton's thin chest. "Ooh, la, monsieur must be very brave to drive such wild horses."
Dalton blushed and stared down at the wench's clinging bodice front. " It is really nothing, miss. It is not like his lordship owns one of those high-perch phaetons the sporting gentlemen drive. Something of a slow-top his lordship is."
As the girl giggled, Ravenel felt his cheeks burn.
"The slow-top?" she repeated. "C'est drole. Monsieur is so clever."
"So clever," Ravenel bit out, startling the couple into leaping apart, "I hope monsieur has no difficulty in finding himself a new position."
"Lord R-Ravenel." Dalton's eyes grew wide with guilt and dismay. He started to stammer out an apology, but the baron had already turned to stride out of the stables. Dalton followed after him, whining excuses.
Ravenel, although an exacting master, was usually generous about giving erring servants a fair hearing and a second chance. But he had borne enough insults this day. By God, he was not going to start tolerating insolence from his own hirelings.
Although it nigh killed him to do so, he ordered one of the ostlers to see to his bays. He cut off Dalton's blistering protest by drawing forth his purse and stuffing some pound notes into the groom's leathery hand.
"Your wages, sir," Ravenel said, eyeing the groom in a fierce manner that had cowed men far braver and more importunate than Dalton, "You may keep the boots, but, of course, you will return the livery."
"Aye, my lord," the groom said sullenly, scuffing his toe in the dirt.
The baron thrust a few more coins at the man. "And here is a little extra to cover your expenses back to London. I will even furnish a reference as to your skill in handling horses, but as to your reliability---"
He left the sentence incomplete, his scornful tone making it clear what he thought. Although Dalton pocketed the money, he did not trouble himself to conceal a look of resentment.
Ravenel dismissed the man's lowering expression with as much contempt as he did Dalton himself. Heading back toward the inn, he nearly collided with the cause of this recent trouble. The French girl deliberately thrust herself into his path, her heavy perfume filling his nostrils even above the odors of the stableyard.
Ravenel's nose crinkled with distaste. He by far preferred the smell of his horses. When the girl fluttered her lashes, showing every sign of being prepared to take up with him where she had left off with Dalton, his lordship gave her a wide berth.
As the baron stomped toward the inn door, he could only wonder at what was happening to the White Hart. Once the most respectable of hostelries, today the place was absolutely crawling with brazen females. Not that he was so unjust as to classify a lady such as Miss Vickers with the likes of that French doxy. But both women had managed to disconcert him in the short span of an hour and Ravenel looked forward to the prospect of never setting eyes on either again. He would round up Jarvis at once and be gone from this infernal place.
Despite the bustling atmosphere of the White Hart's coffee room, the waiters yet found time to pay Sebastian Jarvis the same amount of deference as he would have received at home. As the baron's eldest and most trusted servant, he was accorded a respect little short of that shown the master, a respect that his presence seemed to command wherever he went.
He was a distinguished-looking old gentleman with flowing white hair and keen blue eyes that no amount of years could dim. The lines upon his profile were finely stitched as though Time had become a seamstress, her needle gently fashioning an age-worn face mended with dignity. Jarvis bore more countenance than did most dukes who traced their ancestry back to the time of the Conqueror.
"More rum and milk, sir?" The young waiter hovered respectfully at Jarvis's elbow, ever ready to refill his mug.
"No, thank you, lad," Jarvis replied in his soft, courteous voice. Indeed he was not sure he should have had the first one. He had hoped the toddy might soothe the ache behind his eyes. What did ladies do when they got the megrims? Jarvis would have been mortified to ask.
When another waiter hustled forward to set a sizzling beefsteak before him, Jarvis regarded his meal with little appetite. He could not believe he had another of those wretched headaches.
But it seemed he acquired one every time he rode out in the hot sun with Master Desmond in the open carriage. Jarvis passed his hand across his brow with a small sigh. And to think of the way he used to ride on horseback all day, accompanying the present baron's grandfather in the most blistering summer weather. He stared mournfully into his empty cup.
"You're getting a little long in the tooth, Jarvis old man," he murmured. Aye, so he had been doing, these past ten years and more. His wry smile was reflected back at him in the cup's bottom.
But this time his discomfort was not entirely due to the heat of the day. Fretting over his young gentleman had done little to ease the steady throb behind Jarvis's temples. There was little about Master Desmond that he didn't know. Hadn't he acted as valet to the lad ever since he had been left an orphan at the tender age of nine, when typhus carried off the late Lord and Lady Ravenel? He was fully aware of all of his lordship's moods and therefore knew perfectly well why Master Des had disappeared into a private parlor and that Miss Carruthers hard after him. He ought to be wishing his young master every success and yet there was something about that Miss Carruthers, something cold and sly that kept Jarvis hoping the match would not come off, despite his master's wishes. The lady simply did not seem right for his Master Des.
But when Jarvis had ventured to utter even the slightest criticism of the lady, his lordship had flown up into the boughs. So, despite the familiarity that his long acquaintance with Master Desmond gave him, Jarvis had been wise enough not to offer any more unsolicited opinions, but that did not prevent him from continuing to worry.
When Ravenel finally made his appearance in the coffee room, Jarvis anxiously scanned his lordship's countenance for some sign that his fears had come to pass: Master Desmond was now engaged to Miss Carruthers.
But the baron's heavy brows were drawn together like a thundercloud hovering over the stormy darkness of his eyes. His mouth was set into a hard line. It would be obvious even to those who did not know Master Desmond well that something had happened to vex his lordship.
She must have refused him, Jarvis thought. Intermixed with his relief was a perverse anger at the lady who could have the bad taste to reject his fine young gentleman.
As Lord Ravenel strode toward his table, Jarvis pushed back his chair in order to rise. His lordship placed a restraining hand upon his shoulder. "Sit, Jarvis, and finish your meal."
Ravenel flung himself into the chair next to him and sent one of the waiters to fetch him a glass of ale. While he waited for it to be served, he drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. "As soon as you have finished eating, we'll be off."
"Very good, Master Des—" Jarvis broke off. Even after all these years, he sometimes forgot to call his gentleman by his proper title. "Very good, my lord," he amended.
While he picked at his beefsteak, he covertly studied the baron, hating the unhappy frown that carved deep ridges into Ravenel's brow. His lordship stared moodily out the window. Beyond the latticed panes, Jarvis could see the party of the baron's friends yet making merry beneath the oak tree, Miss Carruthers the merriest among them.
His master spent too much of his life peering out windows, Jarvis thought sadly. He was suddenly haunted by the memory of a much younger Master Desmond, trying conscientiously to grapple with learning to manage a vast estate, all the while stealing wistful glances to where his cousins played cricket upon Ravenel's lawn.
> Jarvis coughed softly into his napkin and cleared his throat. "I could not help noticing, my lord," he said diffidently. "Am I to wish you joy?"
"No, I am afraid not, Jarvis," Ravenel said, his frown deepening. He took a large pull from his mug of ale, then wiped his lips with a napkin, looking as though the brew had left a sour taste in his mouth.
"Never you mind it, Master Des," Jarvis said, just as he had done so many times before when his lordship's odious cousins had refused to include him in one of their escapades. He added, "There is many a young lady who would consider herself fortunate if you—"
"I doubt that," Ravenel said with such a bitter twist to his lips that it struck a dull ache in Jarvis's heart. "In any event, I have not given up on Miss Carruthers yet."
"Then you mean to go with the others to Tunbridge Wells after all," Jarvis said. Despite the pain in his head and his certainty that his master's pursuit of Miss Carruthers was not the best thing, he brightened. His master did not enjoy himself in the company of other young people half enough.
But Jarvis's hope was quickly dashed. "No, I am still going straight on to Brighton. I told you that my man of business is going to meet me there."
"So you did, my lord," Jarvis said, crestfallen. Business, it was always business with Master Des. His lordship had been drilled with a sense of responsibility far too early in life, with never a chance to enjoy all the follies of youth.
"Miss Carruthers will be in Brighton herself within a sennight." Ravenel frowned again as though the prospect did not entirely give him pleasure. He startled Jarvis by asking him abruptly, "Have you ever proposed to a lady?"
"Me, my lord? Good gracious, no."
The baron looked rather disappointed. "Then I suppose you have not the least notion how to go about it."
Regretfully, Jarvis did not. An inveterate old bachelor, it distressed him to feel he could be of so little use to his master on this score. After much thought, he ventured, "I suppose the direct approach would be the best. Put the question plain and proper."
Brighton Road Page 3
