Then the baron strode back to Gwenda and Leatherbury. All traces of her annoyance with the landlord had faded, and she greeted Ravenel, her eyes glowing.
"Well done!" she said, clapping her hands with enthusiasm. "You're so awfully good at that."
"Good at what?" he asked, taken aback.
"Ordering people about, taking charge. You were like some magnificent Turkish pasha in your scarlet brocade. You looked most formidable rapping out commands even if there is still a small bit of shaving soap clinging to your chin."
Ravenel wondered if she was mocking him, but there was no doubting the sincerity of her admiration or the warmth of her smile. He flushed, his fingers moving self-consciously from the lapel of his dressing gown up to wipe at his chin. Damn the woman. She had a positive talent for disconcerting him.
He chose to ignore her comments, saying gruffly, "Now, Miss Vickers. What is all this nonsense about being robbed?"
"It isn't nonsense. Follow me and I'll show you." Gesturing with her pistol, Miss Vickers led the way back to her room. The baron followed her, with Leatherbury hard after him, still mumbling, "Ridiculous. Impossible. Not at my inn."
But the landlord's manner changed rapidly when they stood looking down at the overturned trunks in the maid's room. He blanched and stammered, "I cannot credit my eyes. My dear Miss Vickers. Do forgive me. That such a thing should have happened to you here at the White Hart."
Leatherbury proceeded to offer her with everything from a glass of wine to sal volatile. But the landlord looked in far greater need of smelling salts than Miss Vickers did. Ravenel could not help noticing that even under these trying circumstances Miss Vickers had a most becoming tint of rose in her cheeks. She waved aside all of the landlord's solicitude.
"You needn't worry, Mr. Leatherbury. I have never swooned in my life—not even the time my brother shot me in the foot with an arrow."
Ravenel, who had begun to make a cursory examination of one of the trunks, paused. He knew he would be better off not inquiring further into this startling statement, but his curiosity got the better of him.
"Your brother shot you with an arrow?" he repeated.
"It was over a wager. Jack thought that if I held a quill pen between my toes, he could nick off the top of the feathers." She sighed. "Of course, that was a long time ago, but I've never since had quite the same confidence in Jack."
"I daresay," Mr. Leatherbury said faintly.
Miss Vickers continued. "My father has bought Jack a commission in the army. I hope he will learn to have better aim with a musket."
Heaven help the British army, Ravenel thought, turning his attention back to the matter at hand. The maid's bed was obviously unslept in, the trunks opened by someone who had access to the keys and didn't have to force the locks. The conclusion was obvious to him, but all he said was, "Where is your maid this morning, Miss Vickers?"
"I don't know." She added, almost too quickly, "But that doesn't necessarily prove anything against her."
Ravenel thought it proved a great deal. He said, "I suggest we take steps to find the girl immediately. Leatherbury, you might begin by making inquiries among your servants. And the constable had best be sent for."
"Aye, at once, my lord." The distracted host appeared only too eager to be doing something. He rushed out still lamenting, "A robbery! Here! At my inn."
Miss Vickers sank down upon the cot, biting her lip. "The poor man. I feel badly for having brought this distress upon him."
"You might have had the consideration to be robbed elsewhere, Miss Vickers," Ravenel agreed drily. "Most unkind of you."
She regarded him in surprise, then her ready smile flashed up at him. "Why, Lord Ravenel. You do possess a sense of humor after all."
His lips twitched in response to the marveling tone of her voice. It occurred to him that Miss Vickers looked rather charming for a lady who had just tumbled out of bed. Her curls danced about her flushed cheeks in appealing disarray, tempting a man to smooth back the silken tangles from her brow. The peach-colored wrapper served to highlight the creaminess of her skin along her delicate collarbone and graceful neckline, And as for the way the soft lawn night shift clung to the full curve of her breast---
Ravenel averted his gaze, embarrassed by the direction his thoughts were taking, He became suddenly aware of the impropriety of their situation: alone in the maid's room, neither of them decently garbed.
The baron tugged at the sash binding his brocade dressing gown and cleared his throat. "You'd best summon that witling chambermaid to help you dress. You do have something left to wear, don't you?"
"Yes." Gwenda plucked a drab-looking gown from the floor, regarding it with little enthusiasm.
"Then I will meet you belowstairs and we can decide how best to proceed."
Her dark lashes swept up as she shot him a look of mingled astonishment and gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Ravenel. It is most gallant of you to concern yourself in this matter."
"Not in the least," he muttered, and then exited awkwardly from the room. If Gwenda was surprised by his behavior, Ravenel was astounded. What was he doing meddling in this business when his only desire was to avoid the eccentric Miss Vickers? He put his interference down to an irrational feeling of guilt. He could not help remembering that look he had seen on the maid's face the night before, the impulse to warn Miss Vickers that he had suppressed.
Not that he intended to be drawn too far into this affair. He would simply see to it that some responsible person was put in charge of helping the lady and then he would be on his way to Brighton.
After returning to his own room, he explained briefly what had happened as Jarvis helped him to dress The old man clucked his tongue sympathetically. "Poor Miss Vickers."
"Yes," Ravenel agreed with a frown, noticing for the first time that Bertie was still in his room The dog had made himself quite comfortable, falling asleep on the baron's bed. Bertie didn't stir until Ravenel made ready to leave. Then the dog stood up, yawned, and followed him.
Anyone would think the beast belonged to him, Ravenel thought, as he made his way downstairs. He found Miss Vickers already there, ensconced in the same private parlor that had witnessed their first unfortuitous encounter the day before.
Garbed in that unbecoming gown, she sat in a straight-backed chair fingering her bonnet with a forlorn expression on her face. She took no notice of the cup of tea the solicitous Leatherbury placed upon the table beside her.
When Ravenel entered, the host met his questioning look with a frown. "The maid seems to have vanished, my lord, and Miss Vickers has been telling me her fears that a sleep-inducing agent was introduced into her milk last night. We have no choice but to conclude that Mademoiselle Colette was the culprit."
This information occasioned the baron no surprise, but Miss Vickers's expression did. Earlier she had not been in the least perturbed to find her belongings plundered; now she appeared excessively troubled.
"It is not that I mind so much about my things," she said. It was only a parcel of frocks and fripperies after all. But it is most distressing to be betrayed by a person one knew and trusted."
Aye, thought Ravenel. Miss Vickers, for all her grim imaginings about villains and evildoers, was exactly the sort of lady who would trust everyone, who cherished complete faith in her fellow creatures. As he observed the puzzled hurt welling in her luminous green eyes, he was astonished to feel a strong urge to find that French trollop and wring her neck.
He strode up to Gwenda, took her hand, and patted it. "My dear Miss Vickers, a dishonest wench like that is hardly worth fretting over. I am sure it will be only a matter of time before she receives her just punishment and your belongings are returned."
Gwenda glanced up at Ravenel, astonished by both the gesture and the gentleness of his tone. The kindness and sympathy on his face did much to mitigate the natural severity of his features. She wondered if the man had any notion how devastating his eyes were when they glowed softly like that. Hi
s hand was quite large and strong, engulfing her slender fingers in a warm clasp. She felt oddly breathless and had difficulty concentrating on what he was saying.
"Perhaps there might be some clue in your maid's background, Miss Vickers. Who referred her to your service?"
His palms were slightly callused, likely from riding. She could picture him masterfully gathering up the reins of a fiery black stallion, its glossy mane the same midnight color as his hair.
"Miss Vickers?" Ravenel prodded gently. Gwenda came out of her daydreaming with a start. He had been asking her something. What was it? Oh, yes. Colette's character reference.
"She didn't have one," she replied.
"Didn't have one!" the baron echoed, looking nonplussed.
"No, we met her one day in a millinery shop. Mama hired her because she spoke such beautiful French."
Neither Ravenel nor Mr. Leatherbury appeared to be following her logic, so Gwenda explained patiently, "My mother is deeply concerned about Napoleon, the threat of a French invasion. She thought it would be good if we perfected our command of the language."
"But—but," Mr. Leatherbury protested, "why didn't she engage a tutor?"
"I didn't want a tutor," Gwenda said. "I needed a maid."
"Of all the cork-brained—" Ravenel dropped her hand and fixed her with a stern eye. "Are you giving me to understand that you simply plucked this woman out of the streets?"
"Not out of the streets," Gwenda said, resenting his tone. "Out of a hat shop."
He shook his head in disgust. "Then I fear you have gotten exactly what you deserved, Miss Vickers."
Gwenda was stunned by his change of attitude. But if he had suddenly lost all sympathy for her, she was beginning to feel out of charity with him, especially when he launched into a long homily about the folly of hiring servants without references.
This was Lord Ravenel at his positively most stuffy, Gwenda thought. When he squared his shoulders in that pompous manner, she longed to stick a pin into him. She crossed her arms over her chest, wondering how such a man could ever have made her heart skip a beat, even for the barest instant.
The baron was so caught up in lecturing her that he appeared not to notice the ostler who slipped into the room and beckoned to Mr. Leatherbury. Whatever the burly groom whispered to the landlord, poor Leatherbury went chalk-white, darting a glance of terror at his lordship.
"... and I have never had a servant in my employ," Ravenel was saying, "upon whose character I could not stake my own reputation."
"My lord," Leatherbury said. He approached the baron with all the abject timidity of a rabbit coming to impart bad tidings to a fierce-maned lion. When the host momentarily lost his power of speech, Ravenel prompted impatiently, "Yes, man. What is it?"
"More misfortune, your lordship." Leatherbury swallowed. "We now know how the wench made her escape. She took your phaeton and..." the host concluded in a voice that was barely audible, "your bays."
"My bays?" Ravenel choked, then repeated in a much louder voice, "My bays! Your grooms allowed that scheming baggage to take my horses!"
Leatherbury cowered away from him. Even Gwenda felt herself tense at the fury vibrating in the baron's voice. So that was how a man looked when he was enraged enough to commit murder with his bare hands. She made a mental note for her next book.
The ostler spoke up. "Nay, me lud. 'Twas one o' the young stable lads wot made the mistake. 'Twas during the confusion when the night stage was coming through. The girl had yer ludship's tiger with her, a-wearing yer own livery and he says as how they was off to fetch a doctor fer yer ludship."
"My tiger?" Ravenel repeated numbly. "Dalton?"
"Aye, the same, me lud,"
Gwenda tried to remain nobly silent but couldn't. "How shocking! I suppose the man had a great many character references, Lord Ravenel?" she inquired sweetly.
His lordship spun around, the fierceness of his gaze causing Gwenda to shrink back in her chair. "It so happens I dismissed that man from my service just yesterday, Miss Vickers. But as to character, Dalton was quite satisfactory until your doxy of a maid got her hooks into him."
"I suppose Colette abducted your Dalton and forced him to steal your horses. Gwenda paused in the midst of her indignant little speech, and mulled it over in her mind. "Goodness, that would be a diverting twist to a tale, wouldn't it? I wonder what my publisher would think."
She wasn't sure, but she could tell full well what Ravenel thought. His mouth was pinched together in a thin white line to keep from cursing aloud.
"Where the dev— Where is that constable, Leatherbury?"
"I'll just find out what's keeping him, my lord." Leatherbury scuttled out with Ravenel hard upon his heels. Gwenda bit back a smile. She liked the baron much better when he was on a rampage than when one of his stuffy spells came over him She supposed it was too bad of her to have teased him. The loss of a few trinkets and clothing was nothing compared to the loss of a fine pair of blooded horses.
But she doubted a village constable was going to prove of much help to his lordship. He would be better off pursuing the miscreants himself or hiring a professional thief-taker.
The only bright spot of the morning came when her footman James sought her out to tell her the carriage brace had been fixed. She could depart for Brighton any time she was ready, which was not likely to be long, Gwenda thought philosophically. It was not as though she had a great deal to pack.
With Bertie whisking by her side, Gwenda was on her way upstairs to do so, when the boots passed by her, going down. The lanky young man appeared just as agitated as the rest of the inn staff by all the untoward happenings.
"Ain't it just awful, miss?" the boots moaned. "Such doings at the White Hart I never thought to see. And to top it all, someone's gone and pinched one of them Hessians his lordship gave me to polish. I ask you, what would anyone want with just one boot?"
Thankfully, the man rushed on his way without waiting for an answer, as Gwenda froze upon the stair, glancing down at her dog. "Oh, Bertie," she said. "You didn't."
The innocent wag of his tail told her nothing. She knew Bertie could contrive to look guileless even with bits of leather sticking between his teeth. With a sinking feeling she returned to her own room.
She finally located Ravenel's boot under the bed. The rolled-down leather top looked as though it had been attacked by a party of rabid squirrels.
"Bertie, how could you?" Gwenda moaned. "Out of all the guests at this inn, why did you have to single out Lord Ravenel's boot?"
Bertie whined and hung his head, looking suitably ashamed
"I've seen that performance before," she said bitterly. "Half the actors at Drury Lane should do remorse so well. No, get away. I will not pet you, sir. You have sunk yourself completely beneath reproach this time."
She snatched up the boot and thrust the dog out of her path. Bertie trailed after her as she marched into the hall. Perhaps if she was lucky, she would find Jarvis first. She had a feeling the elderly valet would accept the return of the Hessian much more calmly than Ravenel would.
But her luck was out. There was no sign of the dignified valet. The baron was far more easy to locate. Gwenda discovered him in the stableyard, shouting at the unfortunate Leatherbury.
"What do you mean there are no post-horses available?"
The landlord appeared about to burst into tears. "I am sorry, my lord, but there isn't a single one. I don't even have a horse of my own to lend you. The best I could do is a farmer's donkey or if you would care to wait, something might be had from the next village."
"I don't care to wait. Between your ostler's carelessness and that fool of a constable, I have been delayed here long enough."
Gwenda crept up behind Ravenel, holding the boot behind her back. Now she understood how poor Mr. Leatherbury must have felt earlier when he had to tell his lordship about his stolen bays.
"Lord Ravenel!" she called.
He stiffened at the sound of her voice. Then
he spun about and favored her with an impatient glance. "What is it, Miss Vickers?"
"I—I found your other boot."
"I wasn't aware the blasted thing was missing."
She nodded unhappily and fetched the Hessian from behind her back.
"Thank you," he said curtly, taking the boot and starting to tuck it under his arm. He paused, his eyes arrested by the teeth marks on the top. Then his gaze shifted from the ravaged leather to where Bertie stood beside her panting, his tongue hanging in a foolish dog's grin.
Ravenel clenched his jaw until it quivered. Something seemed to explode inside of him. "Damnation!" he bellowed.
Gwenda took a hasty step backward. "I am so sorry."
"Sorry!" His lordship strode a little away from her, his hands tightening on the boot as he strove to compose himself.
"Please. I know you've had an absolutely beastly time of it and it is partly my fault," Gwenda said, following him. "If you would only allow me to make amends. I could not help overhearing Mr. Leatherbury just now about the post-horses. My carriage is repaired. I could take you---"
"Certainly not," Ravenel ground out between his teeth. "I desire nothing except that you should keep your distance from me, madam. You—you are the absolute mistress of disaster!"
Gwenda flinched. Before he said anything more that he would regret, Ravenel stalked back inside the inn, where Jarvis awaited him in the private parlor.
The baron plunked the damaged boot down. "Get rid of this thing."
Jarvis said nothing but quietly took charge of the Hessian. "I have ordered your lordship's breakfast."
"I am not in the least hungry," Ravenel snapped. Indeed, he had a strong suspicion that even the most delectable beefsteak would have tasted like old shoe leather at that particular moment. He knew he was behaving like a temperamental schoolboy, and that realization did nothing to soften his mood.
Not that he truly cared a damn about what that blasted hound had done to his boot. It was just the final blow to an already foul morning. Not only was his journey delayed another day, but he had lost his bays. He had been quite proud of those horses. Perfectly matched, they had cost him a tidy sum.
Brighton Road Page 6
