Brighton Road

by Susan Carroll

  Ravenel shot her a questioning glance from beneath his rain-drenched brows.

  "My eldest brother, the most holy, the most God-fearing Reverend Thornton Vickers. Jack and I always call him Thorne because that's what he was—a thorn in our sides, forever prosing on and tattling on us. It is very irritating to be in the company of someone who always considers himself so superior."

  Even in the gloomy half light, Gwenda could see how Ravenel flushed. Although he appeared chagrined, he said, "I suppose you think I should find that comparison unflattering. But it so happens I do not. It is most heartening to hear that at least one member of your family is respectable. Where does Reverend Vickers hold his living?"

  "He doesn't have one anymore." A hint of wicked satisfaction crept into Gwenda's tone. "Thorne ran off to become a Methodist. He does most of his preaching in sheep pastures these days."

  Lord Ravenel made no effort to stifle his groan.

  "Aye, even Thorne is but another one—" What had his lordship called her family earlier? "—one of the raving mad Vickers," Gwenda filled in, somewhat bitterly. "I daresay you think the whole lot of us ought to be locked up in Bedlam."

  The baron hunched his shoulders, looking uncomfortable, but his jaw squared stubbornly as he replied, "Even you must confess that your family does not exactly march in tune with the rest of the world."

  "I thank God that they don't!"

  "And that any sort of common sense, notions of propriety, or a well-ordered existence—"

  "In my family, enthusiasm and dreams and and imagination have always been valued above your odious common sense. As for your stuffy notions of order, they don't seem to have done much for you. You are one of the most unhappy, bad-tempered men I have ever encountered."

  "I had not the least problem with my temper, Miss Vickers, until I—"

  "I know! Until you met me." Gwenda choked, an unaccountable lump rising into her throat. She had never felt the need to defend herself or her family before. But his lordship's critical attitude was beginning to raise doubts in her own mind about the delightful skimble-skamble household in which she had been raised, doubts that were far more dampening to her spirits than the rain weighting down her skirts

  His lordship drew up short. "Well, my odious common sense tells me we may as well turn back. There is obviously nothing down this road but more trees."

  "There is nothing back the way we came, either." Gwenda stubbornly kept on going. When she became aware that Ravenel was not following, she turned to glance impatiently at him. She was annoyed to see that Bertie had halted as well, hanging about his lordship's heels. Even when she called his name, the disloyal hound refused to come to her.

  "We are turning back, Miss Vickers," Ravenel said. "We need to find some sort of shelter immediately. I thought I heard thunder just now, and if lightning starts up, I don't care to be walking anywhere near you."

  He had said worse to her, but for some reason this last comment brought an unexpected moisture to Gwenda's eyes that had nothing to do with the rain. "What a p-perfectly rotten thing to say." She whipped about so that he would not see her foolish tears. "You may do as you please, my lord. But I am going on."

  Gwenda had scarcely taken more than a half-dozen steps when she heard him coming after her. She dashed rain and salt water from her eyes, then stiffened, fully prepared to resist if he attempted to turn her about by force. To her astonishment, he merely proceeded to arrange his coat more firmly about her—a ridiculous gesture, for the garment was as sopping as her gown beneath.

  "You are right, my dear," he said softly. "It was rotten. I have been behaving in a most boorish fashion and I do beg your pardon."

  Gwenda tried to harden her heart against him, but it was difficult to do so when the harsh planes of Ravenel's face were gentled by the hint of warmth in his eyes. As she falteringly accepted his apology, she found that she could not meet his gaze. He astonished her further by tucking her arm firmly within the crook of his and guiding her down the road with as much solemn gallantry as though they were taking a stroll through St. James's Park. Although the rain descended upon them in even harder gusts and a threatening rumble of thunder shook the sky, Gwenda experienced a strange feeling of being warm and secure.

  Then, as if by some kind of fairy's magic, when they rounded the next bend of the road, she espied the outlines of a building set back amidst the trees.

  "Ravenel, there it is," Gwenda said excitedly. "The inn I told you about." Her spirits soared as she felt vindicated. She had been leading them in the right direction all the time.

  She was pleased to see his lordship looking considerably heartened. Giving her hand a squeeze, he said, "My dear Miss Vickers. Pray forgive my ever having doubted you. May wild horses tear me in two if I ever cast aspersions upon your judgment again."

  She giggled when, despite the rain beating down upon them, he paused to sweep her a mock-gallant bow, exhibiting a playful side to his nature that she would never have dreamed he possessed. For once Ravenel seemed to share her feelings of being nigh giddy with the relief of seeing their ordeal about to come to an end, with the prospect of a warm fire, a dry shelter, and a place to rest aching feet.

  Linking arms once more, Gwenda and Ravenel splashed through the puddles like a pair of rowdy urchins. Bertie raced ahead of them, barking, showing more frisk than he had the past mile and more. Gwenda's mood of exhilaration did not abate until they slogged through the mud of the yard itself. But as she glanced about her, her heart slowly sank with dismay. This was not any inn she had ever patronized and she found herself wishing she was not about to do so now.

  The tumbledown stables appeared fit for nothing but sheltering the most spectral sort of horses Far from the comforting bustle to be found at the White Hart, not so much as one carriage, one groom, or one ostler was to be seen. The puddle-soaked yard appeared so deserted that Gwenda jumped at the loud banging of a stable door. Her flesh prickled with the uncanny sensation of being watched. And Bertie, her friendly-to-a-fault Bertie, emitted a low growl from his throat.

  She all but flung herself against Ravenel's chest when the inn itself was illumined by a jagged flash of lightning. If she had been designing a roost for bandits or a home for wayfaring ghosts, or even conjuring up an isolated spot for murder to be done, her imagination could not have produced anything that would rival this place. It was a decrepit-looking Tudor structure: the wooden beams projected an aura of decay, the mullioned windows glared like baleful dark eyes. The inn sign creaked in the wind, its chipped paint depicting a scantily clad prizefighter, its faded letters proclaiming The Nonesuch.

  Ravenel eased Gwenda away from him. The rain pelted his face as he tipped back his head to glance at the sign and she could tell he had already forgotten his recent vow not to cast any more aspersions on her judgment His whole manner was one of insufferable resignation, as though he had been expecting all along that she would bring down some fresh calamity upon his head.

  "I am sure it is much more congenial on the inside," Gwenda said, feeling her defensive hackles start to rise.

  She watched the baron reach for the wrought-iron door handle and had to fight back an urge to stop him. But what could she say? That the Nonesuch gave her a very bad feeling? Ravenel would only fancy her a bigger fool than he already did. She had no choice but to suppress her forebodings.

  The rusted iron hinges screeched like an evil bird of omen as he thrust wide the inn door.

  Chapter Six

  The castle walls, cold and bleak, closed about the Lady Emeraude like a well of doom. The stones themselves seemed wrought of evil, mortared with the blood of innocents, weathered by fingers plucking at them in despair.

  "Miss Vickers! You are cutting off the flow of blood through my arm."

  The baron's protest jarred Gwenda out of her imaginings. She realized how tightly she had been clutching him as they crossed the threshold of the Nonesuch.

  "Sorry." She forced herself to release him, then nearly trippe
d over Bertie, who bounded in ahead of her. As his lordship slammed the door closed behind them, she thought she knew how her poor heroine Emeraude must have felt when thrust into the evil Armatello's lair. Gwenda resolved never again to treat her heroines so shabbily.

  Not that the taproom before her resembled in the least the Gothic splendors of her villain's gloom-ridden castello except perhaps in its starkness. The inn's walls were unadorned but for some bits of cracking plaster; the taproom housed an oak bar counter and a few crude tables and rough benches. A feeble effort at a fire smoked and hissed upon the blackened stone hearth The logs had been recently kindled and were yet damp, Gwenda judged, from the way they crackled. The room was unoccupied, but along the far wall a door stood ajar.

  "Hallo!" Ravenel called. "Is anyone within?" His inquiry was met with nothing but the rain lashing against the windows.

  "No one is here," Gwenda whispered. She looked for some sign that Ravenel shared her uneasiness, but his lordship merely appeared annoyed that his summons had not been answered forthwith.

  "Of course someone is here," he said. "That fire did not build itself."

  What an unfortunate way of putting it, Gwenda thought. She envisioned a pair of disembodied hands stacking the wood. That was one of the dreadful things about having a lively imagination, she had long since discovered. At times, it could be most inconvenient. She could not restrain a shiver that had little to do with the wet gown clinging to her skin.

  "Come over by the fire," Ravenel said. "You are soaked through."

  "As if you are not!"

  But he ignored her retort. Showing no concern for his own discomfort, the baron proceeded to remove his drenched coat from her shoulders. He undid the wet strings of her bonnet, then tugged it from her head, brushing aside the damp tendrils of hair from her forehead.

  "There. Now perhaps you can start to dry out—" Ravenel broke off as Bertie shook out his coat, spraying them both with a shower of droplets.

  "Blast that dog!" But there was more of exasperated tolerance in his lordship's voice than any real anger. Gwenda noted with astonishment that the irascible Lord Ravenel was accepting this latest disastrous turn of events with much better humor than either she or Bertie.

  While her dog suspiciously snuffled one of the benches, Gwenda's eyes roved about the room, coming to rest on the mantel where a large, sinister spider was about to feast on the blood of a beetle caught in its webbing.

  " 'This place has an aura of evil about it," she said, quoting the heroine of her last book, "An odor of death and decay.'

  The baron sniffed the air and crinkled his nose. "That's frying onions," he said. "I'll check the kitchens for the landlord."

  Before he could stir a step, Bertie flattened back his ears, a deep-throated growl escaping him. Gwenda resumed her grip on Ravenel's arm as the door at the end of the room began to creak open slowly.

  She sent up a silent prayer that the Nonesuch's landlord would prove to be a round, jolly sort of fellow like Mr. Leatherbury. Even better, he might have a plump, apple-cheeked wife to fuss over Gwenda and chase all these nonsensical fears out of her head.

  But as the host made his appearance, wiping bony hands on a soiled white apron, she let out a quavery sigh. It could not be worse than if she had strayed into one of her own novels. With stooped shoulders, a hooklike nose, squinty eyes, and coarse black hair, the wretch might as well have had "villain" inscribed all over his sallow skin.

  "What's toward—" he started to snap with a heavy frown but was cut off by Bertie. The dog charged forward, barking and baring his teeth.

  "Eh! Get back, you flamin' brute." The man retreated and snatched up a cudgel from behind the bar counter.

  "No! You monster!" Gwenda cried, rushing forward as he threatened to bring the heavy wood crashing down upon Bertie's head. "Don't you dare!"

  But Ravenel moved faster, catching hold of Bert's collar and dragging the snarling dog back out of harm's way.

  "Down, Bertie!" Ravenel thundered. "Quiet!"

  Spotted Bert stopped barking but continued to growl. The hair at the back of his neck bristled as at the next instant a set of whiskers emerged from behind the bar. A fat black cat tore off for the kitchen at a waddling run.

  The host stepped forward, brandishing his cudgel at all of them. "Clear out! The pair of you and take that slaverin' beast with you afore I bash his skull."

  If Gwenda had had any misgivings about the Nonesuch and its host before, Bertie's reaction to the man only served to confirm it. "We shall be only too happy to do so," she said, reaching for Bertie's collar.

  "No we won't," Ravenel said, although he released the dog to her care. "I have no intention of being thrown back out into the storm."

  He turned the full weight of his formidable stare on the landlord. "If this is how you treat your customers, I am not surprised to find your establishment empty."

  "I'm closed today," the man grumbled, but he lowered the cudgel. "And I never have aught to do with beggars."

  "We are not beggars but victims of a coaching accident," Ravenel said in his most lordly tones.

  "What's that to me? I don't repair coaches here. Be off with you."

  "We are not seeking repairs, but a place of shelter. Then I need some horses and a coach to be sent to fetch the servants and baggage we were forced to leave behind. The lady and I will require some dry clothes, and later, a bit of supper."

  Gwenda, struggling to keep a grip on Bertie, blinked at the baron in astonishment. He rapped out his commands as though he truly expected this surly rogue to obey him.

  "Lady?" The man's squinty eyes flicked over Gwenda. "That's rich, upon my word."

  Ravenel moved so quickly that Gwenda hardly had time to gasp. He wretched the cudgel from the host's hands and fairly lifted the weasely fellow off his feet by his collar. It took all of Gwenda's strength to restrain Bertie, who seemed eager to join his lordship in the assault.

  "The lady," the baron repeated with stony emphasis. "Is my sister, Miss Gwenda Treverly,and I am Lord Ravenel. We are both accustomed to being accorded a little more respect."

  Although the man's gaze roved fearfully up the baron's towering length, he choked out, "It wouldn't matter if you was the Prince Regent hisself. There's nothing I can do for you. This inn is closed."

  "Perhaps I can persuade you to open it." Ravenel released the man.

  The host staggered, one bone-thin hand snaking up to rub his unwashed neck. His lordship groped for his waistcoat pocket. He took great pains to display both the chain of his gold pocket watch and the ruby signet ring he wore as he drew forth a thick wad of damp bank notes and flicked them.

  Gwenda made a small sound of protest, which went unheeded. She could not believe the sensible Lord Ravenel could be so foolhardy. Did he not see the gleam of greed in that villain's eye? Did he not notice the furtive licking of the lips?

  She bent down beside Bertie and huddled the dog protectively closer. With a feeling of dread, she noted the immediate change in the host's manner. Rubbing his hands together, he purred, "Well, there might be somewhat I could do. Never let it be said that Orville Mordred turned his back upon fellow creatures in distress "

  "Mordred? His name would be something like that," Gwenda muttered into Bertie's ear. The dog let out a low wuff as though in agreement.

  Mordred scratched his long, pointed chin. "Happen to have an ostler I could send off with my own rig to fetch your servants,"

  "Good. Make arrangements to do so at once." Ravenel returned the money to his pocket, blind to all of Gwenda's efforts to catch his eye, "And if you have a woman on the premises who could attend to my sister---"

  "Alas, no, there isn't." Mordred attempted an ingratiating smile that revealed two brown stumps where his front teeth should have been. "My missus was called away unexpected-like to her mother in Leeds."

  More likely he murdered his wife and stuffed her up the chimney, Gwenda thought. That's why it didn't draw properly. Feeling that she had kep
t silent for far too long, she straightened and cleared her throat.

  "My lord." Belatedly, Gwenda remembered the relationship the baron had bestowed upon them. "Brother dear, might I have a word with you?"

  Ravenel looked startled, then quickly recovered himself. "Oh. Er, certainly, my dear sister."

  As he approached, Gwenda caught him by his wet sleeve and tugged him closer to the fire. She stole a glance at Mordred. Although the man appeared nonchalant enough, she could have sworn the villainous rascal's ears grew by several inches in an effort to hear what she whispered to the baron.

  Gwenda kept her voice so low, Ravenel was obliged to bend his tall frame to the point where the curve of his cheek was but a breath away from her lips.

  "Lord Ravenel, I must tell you the truth. This was not the inn I was looking for. I have never been to this place in my life."

  "I rather guessed that, my dear." The baron's brief smile would have been intolerable if not for the unexpected gleam of tender amusement in his eyes.

  Her pulse gave a little flutter, but she ignored the sensation as she whispered urgently, "We cannot stay in this dreadful place. That fellow is likely plotting to slit both our throats."

  "Miss Vickers! This is not the time to let your imagination—"

  "It is not my imagination. You have only to look at that man to see what a scoundrel he is." She gestured vigorously to where Mordred leaned against the bar, feigning to remove some of the dirt from beneath his nails with a small jackknife. "He has mean eyes and," she added, as a triumphant clincher, "Bertie growled at him."

  Ravenel sighed with weary patience. "Bertie was growling at the cat."

  "He was not. That was not Bertie's cat-chasing growl. He—" Her protest was cut off by Ravenel's laying his fingertips upon her lips.

  "I perfectly agree with you, Gwenda," he said gently, lowering his hand. "I am sure Mordred is a rogue, but the worst I anticipate is his charging me thrice for whatever miserable service he offers."

  "But—"