Brighton Road

by Susan Carroll

  But he wasn't even sure if it was their theft that gnawed at him as much as knowing what a prize fool he had been made to look. Lecturing Miss Vickers about her servant and then to have his own groom commit a far greater crime.

  Jarvis's gentle voice broke into his disquieting reflections. "You had no luck then, my lord, in obtaining another conveyance?"

  "None, unless you wish to jog along by common stage or in a cart behind a farmer's donkey."

  "I should not mind it, my lord."

  "But I should," Ravenel lied.

  As much as Ravenel loathed the prospect of lingering about the White Hart, he knew he could not expose his valet to the hardships of the stage or the donkey. "Of course, we could always take Miss Vickers up on her generous offer," he said sarcastically.

  "What was that, my lord?"

  "To travel with her in her carriage."

  To Ravenel's consternation, Jarvis looked pleased by the suggestion. "That would be most kind of your lordship," the valet said. "I owned I have been concerned about that unfortunate young lady. Losing all her money and now no maid in attendance, left to travel all on her own."

  "You might as well be concerned about Boadicea, the warrior queen." Ravenel snorted. "I'll wager she left far less havoc in her wake."

  "The young lady does seem to have a penchant for getting into trouble, my lord. All the more reason she should not be permitted to journey to Brighton alone."

  "That is her family's responsibility—not mine."

  "Very good, my lord," Jarvis said. There was a shade of disapproval in his valet's eyes that Ravenel had never seen there before.

  He squirmed, made uncomfortable by it. Blast it, Jarvis didn't even know the half of it. Ravenel had never sworn or behaved with incivility to any female before. Miss Vickers had induced him to do both within twenty-four hours of her acquaintance.

  Disquieting memories of the recent scene in the inn yard flashed through his mind. Gwenda meekly offering him the boot, trying desperately to apologize; the look of hurt in her eyes when he had lashed out at her. He would have to beg her pardon for that, but as to traveling with her---No, if for no other reason, it would be dashed improper.

  He had an impulse to simply pen her a note of apology. It would be so much safer than going near the woman again, but his conscience would not allow for any such shirking.

  At first he hoped that she had already gone. But he encountered her coming down the inn stairs, swinging what was obviously an empty bandbox. She was wearing a bonnet that was as hideous as her dress. The huge poke seemed to swallow her head, making the piquant face sheltered beneath it seem absurdly youthful, like a little girl got up in her mother's things. Her usually candid green eyes regarded him with a wariness that made him feel even more of a perfect brute.

  He approached her stiffly. "Miss Vickers, I want to apologize for my behavior in the inn yard just now."

  She gave him an uncertain half smile. "Oh, no. You had every right to be angry. It was terrible of Bertie, and I would be only too happy to pay—"

  "I had no right," he said firmly. "you have suffered as much by these recent events as I have, and much more graciously, I might add. Please say that you forgive me."

  "Of course I do." She held out her hand, her smile broadening into her customary expression of good humor. Ravenel thought it was rather like watching the sun breaking through the clouds on a dismal day and was astonished at the poetical turn his mind seemed to have taken of late.

  Instead of merely shaking her hand, he carried it to his lips and brushed her long, slender fingertips with a kiss, thus surprising himself again. It was a gallant gesture he rarely felt comfortable according any lady.

  Miss Vickers neither blushed not simpered in the annoying way of most society misses. Her green eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  She gave his hand a squeeze. "Good. I am so glad, we are friends again. Now perhaps you will reconsider my offer to make use of my carriage."

  "It is very kind of you, but it would not be proper," he explained patiently as though to a child. "You see, you have no female companion with you."

  "But we would be in Brighton before nightfall. And if anyone asked"—Gwenda nodded toward a point beyond his shoulder—"we could tell them that your Jarvis there is my uncle. Such a distinguished-looking man. I should not mind at all claiming him for my relative."

  Ravenel glanced around to see that Jarvis had come up behind him. The elderly manservant was blushing like a peony.

  Ravenel shook his head. "No. I fear, Miss Vickers, such proceedings would be most unwise."

  "Oh, please. At least let me convey you to another inn where you could hire a post chaise. I do feel so wretchedly responsible for the fix you are in."

  The baron prided himself on being rigid to the point of inflexibility once he had made a decision. But he had never in his life encountered such wide, pleading eyes. Well, he thought, relenting, what harm could it do to go at least part of the way with Miss Vickers and make sure she was headed safely on the way to her destination this time.

  "Very well." He sighed. "If you do not mind waiting a few moments while I gather up my things."

  Jarvis looked pleased, Miss Vickers delighted. The only one yet suffering from qualms was Ravenel himself. But what could possibly happen between here and the next town?

  He clung to that sanguine opinion until he saw Miss Vickers's equipage being brought around. It was a spanking new coach, and smart enough. But the footman who tossed the baron's portmanteau up onto the back was a scruffy, ill-favored lad, half drowning in a livery too large for him, the sleeve of which showed signs of being employed as a handkerchief.

  Yet it was the coachman, Fitch, who was Ravenel's chief concern. The man perched upon his box. Beside him, Spotted Bert panted as though eager for the journey to begin. The dog looked far more ready than Fitch. The poker-stiff coachman's tensed hands knotted about the reins in a way that Ravenel knew marked the most amateur of whips.

  As for the team, his lordship's expert eyes knew a mismatched set when he saw it. He would have wagered his last groat that those restive wheelers were beset with a tendency to break into a gallop every chance they got.

  This is a grave mistake, a stern voice warned him, but Miss Vickers was smiling, waiting to be handed into the coach. Ravenel had no choice but to do so. He leaped up after her, wondering what he had let himself in for now.

  Chapter Four

  As the carriage lumbered away from Godstone, Gwenda settled back against the squabs, wondering why she felt so absurdly pleased with herself. Perhaps it was a sense of satisfaction from having persuaded one of the stubbornest men in England to change his mind; perhaps it simply soothed her conscience to be able to make some amends to his lordship after all the difficulties she had brought down upon him: the eavesdropping, the stolen bays, the ravaged boot.

  But it was a satisfaction his lordship obviously did not share Tensed into an attitude of pained resignation, Ravenel sat opposite her, his broad shoulders braced against the gentle sway of the well-sprung carriage. The reed-thin Jarvis appeared quite lost in his master's shadow, as Ravenel's large frame seemed to dominate the coach. Gwenda was conscious of her knees almost brushing against his, of the tight-fitting doeskin trousers that emphasized the muscular outline of his legs.

  Gwenda was obliged to admit the real reason she took pleasure in Ravenel's accompanying her. The man intrigued her, with his stiff mannerisms so at odds with his gypsy-dark eyes, the humor and the temper that he took such pains to suppress even if it well nigh choked him, the gruffness that concealed a shyness, an uncertainty she found rather endearing in such a formidable-looking gentleman. Before they arrived at their destination, Gwenda resolved to coax him into relaxing the rigidity that threatened to carve premature age lines about his mouth and eyes and to wring at least one smile from the man.

  As though becoming aware of her earnest regard, Ravenel shifted uncomfortably on his seat and then stared out the window with fro
wning concentration. His long fingers drummed upon his knee, beating out an impatient rhythm.

  "Miss Vickers, I don't wish to sound as though I'm complaining," he said, "but if we continue along at such a snail's pace, I doubt any of us will reach Brighton this side of Michaelmas."

  "Certainly we will. We always travel this slowly and still arrive well before nightfall. You see, Fitch—" Gwenda broke off and coughed discreetly into her hand She had been in Ravenel's company long enough to realize he might find it unsettling to be told that her coachman was afraid of horses. She continued, "Fitch is a most cautious driver because my dog oft gets down to run with the carriage. Our nearest neighbor, Squire Bennington, tried to train Bertie as a coaching dog, but I am afraid he found Bertie rather lacking in gentlemanly reserve, so he gave the dog to me?'

  A chuckle escaped Gwenda. "Sometimes Bertie even—" She halted again. She'd best not mention that, either—that instead of running beneath the rear axle, her reckless dog would insinuate himself under the pole tip and race the forefeet of the wheelers and the leaders' flying hooves, wreaking such havoc on poor Fitch's nerves that he needed a drop of whiskey to steady himself. No, that bit of information would not help Ravenel to relax. His lordship already had little cause to be fond of Bertie.

  But she had paused so long in her answer, she found the baron regarding her rather suspiciously. She concluded brightly, "Ah, sometimes Bertie runs the longest distances. You would be quite astounded."

  "I sincerely trust not, Miss Vickers," Ravenel said. "I have been astounded enough for one day."

  "Of course," she said demurely, folding her hands in her lap and reassuring herself how right she was to withhold certain facts from his lordship. After all, Fitch had faithfully promised after the last time that he would never get foxed again.

  The next instant the coach veered sharply to the left. Gwenda bumped her shoulder against the side and straightened, rubbing her bruised arm. She was well accustomed to the peculiarities of Fitch's driving.

  Ravenel, however, appeared a little alarmed as he eased back Jarvis, who had thumped against him. His lordship peered out the window again, exclaiming, "What the deuce is your coachman doing, Miss Vickers? Why has he taken this turning off the main road?" Ravenel started to thump on the roof to get Fitch's attention, but Gwenda caught his sleeve.

  "No, It is quite all right, Lord Ravenel. We always travel by the old route through East Grinstead, Uckfield, and Lewes."

  "That's the longer way," he protested.

  "Aye, but the road is in excellent condition and there is much less traffic."

  And much less chance that Fitch would get them lost if they stuck to the old route. But Gwenda, buried that thought behind an ingenuous smile. "Don't worry so, Lord Ravenel. I promise you we shall all be making merry in Brighton before the sun sets. I am sure you can hire yourself a rig as easily in East Grinstead as anywhere else."

  "I suppose so." The baron settled back uneasily. "But I would think that Lord and Lady Vickers—at least most parents—would be concerned about their daughter after such an unexpected delay. I cannot think what they are about, letting you travel alone."

  There it was again—that certain sharp edge, that hint of criticism that came into Ravenel's voice whenever he mentioned anything about her family.

  "I am not alone." Gwenda bridled. "I have Fitch and James and Bertie, and I did have Colette. It was only to have been a simple day's journey from my aunt's home in Richmond."

  She winced at the memory. "I am fond of my Aunt Lucinda, but a more dreary house party you could not have imagined. There was a young man present who was about to write a book. I always seem to be introduced to someone who is just about to write a book. Mr. Pomfret spent hours regaling me with the plot—" Gwenda halted as a horrible fear struck her.

  "You do not, by any chance, write, do you, Lord Ravenel? "

  "No, Miss Vickers. Nothing but business letters."

  "Thank goodness," she breathed. "Now if Jarvis does not, either, I shall feel quite safe."

  The valet assured her most gravely that he was not that clever. For the first time, she noticed that among his lordship's belongings—his whip, riding gloves, and hat—that Jarvis had taken personal charge of, the first volume of her novel was included.

  Gwenda glanced at Ravenel. "Oh! So you have been reading the book I gave you?"

  The was a long pause and then he said, "I scarcely have had time to look at it. Quite frankly, Miss Vickers, I am not much interested in fiction, but Jarvis has been finding it most entertaining."

  "Why, my lord," Jarvis interrupted. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you had me read you some of it only this morning."

  Gwenda smiled at Ravenel in triumph. He shot his valet a quelling frown, but unperturbed, Jarvis continued, "Your lordship did not much care for the part where the hand was running amok, but you appeared to enjoy the scene where the count offered for Lady Emeraude."

  "The marriage proposal?" Gwenda exclaimed. "I knew your lordship would find that bit fascinating. Of course, it is somewhat exaggerated for the purposes of fiction, but it does give you some idea how you ought to go on the next time—"

  "Miss Vickers!" If Ravenel had been relaxed at all, he was immediately all stiffness again. "If you do not mind, I have no desire to discuss my personal affairs."

  Gwenda's gaze shifted from his lordship's tense frame to the valet, who was also looking slightly discomfited. "Oh, I see. I am sorry for having mentioned it. I naturally assumed Jarvis knew. My brother Jack confides everything in his valet, and Jarvis certainly looks the sympathetic sort to whom I would tell all my darkest secrets if—"

  "Miss Vickers!" The baron let out an exasperated sigh. "Can you not get it through your head? It is you I object to discussing my affairs with. You! Besides being practically a stranger, I cannot see where you have had the experience to be offering me advice."

  Did the man think simply because she was unwed that she had never had an offer? Gwenda drew herself up primly. "Indeed, I have, my lord. It so happens I have been engaged twice."

  "Twice!" his lordship and Jarvis both gasped in the same breath. Ravenel's lips parted as though he meant to ask something. Then he appeared to change his mind and feigned a deep interest in the distant farmhouses snuggled into folds of green pastureland.

  "Then what—" Jarvis began, then stopped, looking appalled at himself. "I beg your pardon, miss. I never intended to be so forward as to pry. I'm sure there must have been some great tragic circumstances---"

  "Nothing so dramatic," Gwenda said calmly. "I jilted them."

  From the degree of shock that registered on the faces of both men, Gwenda felt she'd best hasten to explain. "I was very young the first time I fancied myself in love, barely sixteen. Jasper was such a delightful friend, but the minute we were engaged, he developed the most distressing habit of sighing and acting like a great cake over me."

  "I thought you approved of men who behave so," Ravenel said, rather acidly.

  "I like a man to be romantic, not silly. When Jasper took to writing dreadful poetry, I simply couldn't bear anymore."

  His lordship appeared intrigued in spite of himself. "And the second one? What was his folly?"

  "Marlon? His error was even worse." Gwenda offered him a smile brimming with mischief. "The minute the betrothal ring was slipped upon my finger, he started trying to change me."

  Ravenel regarded her sternly, struggling to keep a straight face. But his mouth quivered, finally breaking into a grin that softened his harsh features. He chuckled. "Miss Vickers! You truly are the most abominable young lady. What shocking bad manners. Ending engagements, leaving a trail of broken hearts."

  "But you are laughing," she pointed out.

  "So I am," he said, shaking his head at himself. "Much more time in your company and I fear you will have corrupted every notion I have as to what is sane and proper."

  "Perhaps you set too high a value upon sanity, my lord."

  "Perhaps, I do," Ra
venel conceded with another smile.

  "And as to broken hearts, both Marlon and Jasper are now quite happily wed. I did them the greatest kindnesses by releasing them." Gwenda became serious suddenly. "There is no greater tragedy than a loveless marriage. I hope that you—" She stopped, for once catching her wayward tongue in time. If she expressed her hope that Ravenel would make sure he was most sincerely in love with Belinda Carruthers before proposing once more, Gwenda would only set his back up again, which would be a great pity. His lordship looked so devastatingly handsome when he smiled.

  Curbing her urge to interfere, Gwenda steered the conversation into safer channels. She soon had both Lord Ravenel and Jarvis chuckling over her trials and tribulations as an authoress. They seemed to find particularly amusing how she had given herself the jitters when writing The Dark Hand. It hadn't helped matters the least bit when her brother Jack had suspended a stuffed glove on the end of a broom handle and tapped her on the shoulder with it. He had laid a wager on how far she would jump.

  Thus occupied, the time seemed to fly past, and before Gwenda realized it, the carriage had lurched to a halt and James was letting down the steps to help her alight into the stable-yard of the Dorset Arms in East Grinstead.

  Ravenel sprung down after her with his elderly valet following at a more sedate pace. Although Jarvis had greatly enjoyed all of Miss Vickers's lively chatter, he had spent the last mile puzzling over the lady's exact relationship to his young master. That his lordship appeared to find Miss Vickers a great nuisance was undoubtedly true, but it had been a long time since Jarvis had seen his master unbend enough to laugh so freely or even to indulge in a fit of temper.

  Jarvis judged that Miss Vickers had a way of exploding into a man's life like a burst of fireworks, but he didn't think it would do Master Des any harm to have an occasional skyrocket erupting in his path. For all of Miss Vickers's little oddities, Jarvis quite liked the young lady.