It was with great regret that he watched his master hustle Miss Vickers into the Dorset Arms and settle her into a private parlor before excusing himself to see about the hire of a carriage.
As Ravenel bowed his way across the threshold, Jarvis managed to catch his lordship's eye.
"It does seem such a shame, sir," he whispered, "to be leaving the young lady alone."
"Don't you start that again," Ravenel said. "Miss Vickers will be just fine.It is only another three or four hours to Brighton from here—well, perhaps six the way her coachman drives. But she will arrive by dusk, and I have no intention of dawdling away the rest of my afternoon in this fashion."
Ignoring Jarvis's reproachful look, the baron closed the parlor door and went in quest of the landlord. For the first time since he arose that morning, luck seemed to be with him. The Dorset Arms could indeed provide his lordship with both a curricle and a spanking pair of grays.
Ravenel made arrangements to hire them immediately, steadfastly suppressing all notice of Jarvis's disapproval. By God, that Vickers woman seemed to have done a thorough job of bewitching his valet. Normally a stickler for the proprieties, why couldn't Jarvis see that it simply wouldn't do for the baron to keep trailing about with an unchaperoned lady? It was not as though he were her brother or even a distant cousin.
Besides that, he had all manner of pressing business awaiting him in Brighton, to say nothing of the need to engage some competent person to track down that rascal Dalton before the trail became completely cold. No matter how entertaining Miss Vickers might be—and Ravenel was prepared to concede that at times she was—he simply had no more time to waste.
With such thoughts churning in his head, the baron strode back briskly to the inn parlor to convey his thanks to Miss Vickers for having brought him as far as East Grinstead and to take his final farewell of the lady. He was even feeling gracious enough to express a polite wish that they might meet again one day.
His graciousness vanished when he swung the door open and found the private parlor empty. The luncheon he had ordered for Miss Vickers yet stood upon the oak table untouched.
"Blast the woman!" Ravenel muttered. "Can she never once be doing what is expected of her?"
He swiftly collared one of the waiters only to obtain the vague information that he believed the young lady was wandering about out in the back somewhere behind the taproom."
Ravenel's mouth pursed into a grim line. It seemed instead of a cordial farewell, he would be obliged to treat Miss Vickers to a lecture on the impropriety of unescorted females roaming too freely at public places.
Exiting through the front door, he quickly directed his footsteps toward the side of the inn opposite the stableyard. Fortunately he had no difficulty finding the troublesome female. She was walking through the vegetable garden just outside the kitchen door. Shading her eyes with one hand, she peered at a distant line of birches as though she were looking for something.
The baron squared his jaw and strode purposefully in her direction. But before he had taken many steps, he saw a slim dandy emerge from the taproom. Garbed in a riding cloak with a ridiculous multiplicity of capes, the ginger-haired fop swaggered toward Gwenda, casting her a leering glance through his quizzing glass.
Damnation, Ravenel thought, clenching his teeth as he recognized the Honorable Frederic Skeffington. What perverse mischance of fate had planted that empty-headed swell here in East Grinstead at this most unfortunate moment?
" 'Pon my soul," Freddy drawled, sweeping into Gwenda's path, "I heard that Kent is called the garden of England, but I never expected to find a rose amongst the cabbages."
Instead of retreating or even offering the man a chilling stare, Gwenda merely politely requested Skeffington to move out of her way. "You see, I am looking for—"
The dandy smirked. "And you have found him, my dear "
"How could I possibly be wanting to find you? We are not even acquainted, sir."
"That situation is easily remedied."
Ravenel came up between them just in time to prevent Freddy from slipping his arm about Gwenda's waist. "You're going to be in need of a far different sort of remedy, Skeffington, if you don't take yourself off at once."
Startled, the dandy drew back, eyeing his lordship from toe to crown through his quizzing glass. "Sobersi—I mean, Lord Ravenel! I thought you were still in London. Well, dash me!"
The baron's hands clenched into fists as he felt himself more than ready to comply with this request. Freddy's gaze settled on his lordship's knuckles, and the young man flushed with dismay, the glass slipping from between his fingers to dangle by its ribbon. "Steady on, Ravenel, old man. If I had had any notion the wench was already bespoken—"
"I am here to escort the lady back to her aunt," Ravenel ground out.
"Her aunt? Oh, quite so." The dandy looked abashed. "I completely misunderstood. I trust you will forgive me, Miss—Miss?"
But before Gwenda could supply her name, Ravenel took a menacing step closer to Skeffington.
"Yes, yes, I'll just be going," Freddy concluded. "Pleasant seeing you again, my lord." The dandy took to his heels and fled back to the inn.
Ravenel battled an urge to charge after him and give him the thrashing he deserved. Freddy Skeffington had ever been an insolent dog. At the very least, Ravenel should have drawn his cork and—Appalled by his own thoughts, he uncurled his fists. What in the blazes was the matter with him? Although he frequently enjoyed a bit of exercise with his fists in the privacy of Gentleman Jackson's salon, never had he come close to doing anything so vulgar as actually engaging in a brawl. He had the feeling that he had just made a complete spectacle of himself. To add to his sense of mortification, he spun around to find Gwenda nearly doubled over with the effort to suppress her chuckles.
"Don't you dare laugh at me." Furiously, Ravenel shook one finger at her. "As usual, this entire wretched scene is your doing, laying yourself open to the advances of one of the most unprincipled rattles in England who…" His words trailed off, becoming incoherent when she startled him by seizing his hand and pressing it between her own. Her mirth faded; her smile waxed more gentle.
"I wasn't laughing at you, Lord Ravenel, " she said earnestly, a soft light coming into her eyes. "I must confess I didn't think that Mr. Skeffington appeared much of a dangerous rakehell, but all the same you were perfectly splendid. No knight charging to the rescue of his lady could ever appeared more fearsome."
"That will do, Miss Vickers. No need to turn this into a scene from one of your novels." The baron hastily disentangled his hand from hers. He was not accustomed to being admired by a lady, and never had any woman shown a tendency to see him in the role of a knight errant. He had to admit the image was not entirely displeasing.
"You will at least allow me to thank you," she said.
"The best thanks would be if you could contrive to stay out of trouble for five minutes." He attempted to maintain a stern front. "You shouldn't go about risking your reputation by drawing the attention of strange men, especially one the cut of Freddie Skeffington."
"As much as I appreciate your defending my honor, I am sure I could have dealt him a sharp cuff to his ears that would have discourged him."
"If you think that, you don't know Skeffington."
"Why? Is he really such a loose screw?"
"You should not use such cant terms, either, but yes. That is exactly what he is and—"
"He seemed like a complete idiot to me, but he did have the most interesting cloak," Gwenda interrupted.
"I was not discussing his cloak, Miss Vickers, but your habit of—"
"You would look well in a cloak like that."She tipped her head to one side in a thoughtful, considering manner. "Of course, not with such a ridiculous number of capes. Two or three tiers would suffice."
"Miss Vickers!"
"Yes, two capes would accent the width of your shoulders nicely."
Ravenel resisted the ungentlemanly urge to clap a hand
over her mouth so that she would be forced to listen to him. "Would you kindly stop changing the subject," he said irritably. "What were you doing out here alone, anyway?"
"I was looking for Bertie. He has run off again."
"That cursed dog! Whose shoe has he pinched this time?"
"No one's. He spotted a cat to chase. It is Bertie's other fatal weakness."
His lordship heaved an exasperated sigh. Seizing her by the elbow, he started to propel Gwenda back toward the inn. "You might have asked me to look for the infernal creature instead of waltzing about where you could be accosted by any ruffian chancing through here for a glass of ale."
Although she went along meekly enough, Gwenda voiced a mild protest. "I assumed a spinster such as myself would be safe, especially while garbed in this mousy gown. I am hardly a green girl anymore, you know.
Ravenel snorted. "Miss Vickers, you are just about as green as those eyes of yours. As for that gown, dismal as it is, that fabric does nothing to disguise the fact---"
He slowed his step as his gaze was drawn involuntarily to the outline of Gwenda's hips, the tantalizing curve of her bosom. Damn! The baron swore under his breath She would never be safe left on her own. The lady was too heedless, too trusting, and far too attractive. She strolled about with her head poked somewhere in the clouds with little notion of either the conventions or the perils of the real world.
He halted in his tracks, the decision looming up before him like a tangible barrier, the decision that was as inevitable as the payment of land taxes or the occasional visit to the tooth-drawer. His shoulders slumped with resignation.
"Come along," be said. "It is high time we returned to the carriage?'
"We?" Gwenda asked, angling a surprised look up at him. "You mean to say there is no conveyance for you to hire here at East Grinstead, either?"
"No." Ravenel averted his eyes as he uttered the bald lie. "It would seem I must impose upon your hospitality a while longer. At least as far as Lewes."
Aye, Lewes. There he could hire a rig and follow her the rest of the short distance to Brighton. They would not be seen to arrive together and he could still be sure she was deposited safely upon her family's doorstep, thus satisfying all that conscience, honor, and Jarvis could possibly demand of a fellow.
The baron cut off all of Gwenda's assurance that she would be delighted to have his continued company and hustled her toward the stable-yard.
When Jarvis was informed of the change in their plans, he replied in wooden accents, "Very good, my lord." But Ravenel thought the old man had a most disquieting twinkle in his eye as he followed the baron and Miss Vickers toward the coach.
"But what about Bertie? " Gwenda asked, trying to hang back.
"I'll find him. You wait inside the coach. If Skeffington spots us together again and realizes you don't have an aunt, you won't have shred of reputation left."
Gwenda dug in her heels even as her footman moved to open the carriage door. "You should have told Mr. Skeffington I was with my uncle and then Jarvis—"
"Skeffington would have no difficulty in recognizing Jarvis as my valet. Get in, Miss Vickers." Ravenel braced his arm about her waist and all but lifted her bodily into the vehicle.
"And don't let her escape," he ordered Jarvis, " He did not wait for any acknowledgment of his command. He started off at once in pursuit of Spotted Bert. The task did not take him as long as he feared, for he had not gone many steps when Bertie came loping around the side of the stables. But he was obliged to waste considerable precious time removing some burrs from the animal's smooth coat.
"Serves you right," Ravenel said as Bertie let out a yelp when one prickly thorn stuck a little deeper than the rest. "Perhaps next time you'll think twice before you..." He let his words trail off. Damn it, now he was starting to talk to the dog in much the same manner as he heard Gwenda do.
Ignoring Spotted Bert's licks of gratitude, the baron shooed the animal up onto his perch beside Fitch. Upon second inspection of Miss Vickers's coachman, his lordship decided he was no more impressed with the fellow than he had been earlier. Granted, Fitch appeared a little more relaxed, but his face was flushed, his eyes shifting in a most guilty fashion away from Ravenel's when he informed the man they were finally ready to depart.
His sense of unease was not mitigated by noticing that the sun seemed to be slowly vanishing. Gray clouds scudded over the day's previous brightness; ominous shadows darkened on the horizon. If Ravenel's own coachman had been sitting on the box, he would have directed him to spring the horses in order to gain some time before the rain broke. But with Fitch, Ravenel issued a stern admonition for him to drive with care.
"Shurtainly, my lord," Fitch mumbled, tipping his hat with a bovine smile. Then he gathered up the reins, his deep baritone voice breaking into a loud chorus of "The Girl I Left Behind Me."
As the baron took his seat in the carriage, he wondered in what unlikely place the Vickerses had found Fitch, but he was afraid to ask The coach lumbered down the rutted lane, leaving East Grinstead behind them.
The gathering gloom beyond the carriage windows seemed to cast a pall over their party. They had not gone many miles when Gwenda felt her eyelids growing heavy despite the increased jouncing of the coach. After her drugged sleep of the night before, one would have thought she would feel well rested today. Instead, she waxed more tired than usual. She struggled to stifle a yawn, but it was not easy, especially watching Jarvis nodding off in his corner.
She thought it would be intolerably rude of her to do likewise, but then Ravenel did not seem at all inclined for conversation. He was far too preoccupied with stealing frowning glances up at the sky and checking his pocket watch at periodic intervals
Nestling her head against the squabs, Gwenda regarded the baron dreamily through half-lowered lids, her mind reverting to the incident in the garden of the Dorset Arms. Ravenel had been a sight to stir any maiden's heart: charging to her rescue with that fiercely protective light in his eyes, every muscle in his formidable masculine frame tensed for battle.
She had never been rescued before, Gwenda reflected with another yawn, had never had reason to be. It would have all been so perfect if, instead of a mincing, ginger-haired fop wielding a quizzing glass, Freddy Skeffington had been a shade more villainous, satanically dark, his fingers gripping a twisted dagger. With such thoughts teasing her imagination, Gwenda's eyes drifted closed...
She was running across the deck of a ship, the tall masts lost in a ghostlike mist; her heart thumping in terror. Hunched beneath his layering capes, Captain Frederici was but a breath behind her. Risking one glance over her shoulder, she saw the glint of the evil pirate's single eye, heard his chilling laugh as his bony fingers reached out to grasp her arms.
"Oh," Gwenda moaned, slumping down farther on the carriage seat. "Roderigo, help me!"
Even as she struggled in Frederici's cruel grip, another dark form leaped down from the rigging, the familiar scarlet-lined black cloak sweeping back from stalwart shoulders. Strong hands reached out to pluck the villain away from Gwenda, hurling the fiend into the sea. With a glad cry, Gwenda flung herself against her rescuer's chest, burying her face against stiffly starched white linen.
Gwenda's nose twitched as she mumbled, "Roderigo, what are you doing with that cravat?" Her sleep-smoothed brow furrowed with confusion.
The mists parted for once clearly revealing to her the features of Roderigo, Count de Fiorelli. She caught a glimpse of a hard angular jaw and cheekbones, a full, sensual mouth, and flashing dark eyes set beneath heavy black brows—all somehow disturbingly familiar. But the next instant his face vanished as the deck pitched beneath Gwenda's feet, the ship heaving in the grip of the storm. Roderigo lost his balance and fell on top of her.
"Ow," Gwenda breathed, her eyes jerking open. Wide awake, she was astonished to find herself still pinned beneath Roderigo's hard-muscled frame. No, it wasn't Roderigo at all. It was Ravenel who was struggling to ease his weight from her
—not an easy task considering the way the coach was rocking and swaying like a small ketch caught in a tidal wave.
"What…what?" she faltered.
"It's that blasted coachman of yours," Ravenel grated, managing to wrench himself to his feet. "He's been picking up speed the last half mile or so." Bracing himself, he strove to help Jarvis, whom Gwenda suddenly realized lay tumbled on the floor.
She snatched at the back of the seat to prevent being tossed about any more that she already was. From the slant of the carriage, she realized they must be thundering up a hill at an appalling rate. Through the window, she obtained a rollicking glimpse of what seemed a world gone gray.
After hauling Jarvis back onto the seat, Ravenel tried to bang on the coach roof and was nearly overset on top of her once more. "That fool can't take a hill at such an out-and-out clip," he shouted at her, "or he'll never be able to check the team going down."
"I know that," Gwenda screamed back. "What do you expect me to—oh! "
Her reply was cut off as the carriage crested the hill and started on a mad downward plunge. As Ravenel collapsed on top of his valet, Gwenda lost her grip on the seat and tumbled across the baron's lap. For the next terrifying seconds, she, Ravenel, and Jarvis seem nothing but a bruising tangle of arms and legs.
With a muttered oath, the baron shoved her ruthlessly off him As Gwenda hit the coach floor with a jarring thud, she brushed the hair from her eyes to glare at him.
Ravenel had somehow gained his feet. "Damned fool," he muttered. "Got to do something before he kills us all." His jaw steeled with grim determination, he reached for the coach door.
With a flash of horror, Gwenda realized what he was contemplating. Her heroes often did such mad feats as climbing out of a racing coach to do battle with villains or to halt a runaway, but to see the baron about to attempt such a thing in earnest caused her heart to give a wild leap of fear.
"Ravenel! No—" she started to cry out, but a cracking noise split the air and the coach gave a sickening lurch to one side. The door was flung open, and before Gwenda's terrified gaze, Ravenel lost his balance and pitched out into the blur of dust beyond.
Brighton Road Page 8
