Brighton Road

by Susan Carroll

  "I'm not leaving him here in the stables! Not with that dreadful Mordred likely to come back." Gwenda began struggling with the knot of the rope looped around Bertie's neck, a difficult task in the semidarkness.

  The baron caught her by the elbow and tried to haul her to her feet. "I will take care of Bert, Gwenda. But I want you to slip back to your room before someone catches us..."

  He allowed the sentence to trail off at the sound of a heavy footfall just outside the stable door. The next instant light flashed into Gwenda's eyes, momentarily blinding her. She heard the sharp intake of Ravenel's breath. Stifling her own shocked outcry, she saw that it was Mordred. He walked with a pronounced limp, his breeches torn presumably by Bertie's teeth. In one hand he held a horn lantern, in the other an upraised pistol.

  Ravenel stepped in front of Gwenda so that the muzzle was aimed directly at his chest. He mentally cursed himself. At the first hint of anything amiss, he should have forced Gwenda back to her room.

  "You two!" Mordred flinched with dismay, then spat in disgust. "I might have known. I should have chased the pair of you and that damned dog back into the storm. But my generous nature is always getting the better o' me, I had a bad premonition about letting you stay."

  Despite how frightened she looked, Gwenda inquired, "Oh, do you have those, too?"

  Ravenel spoke up in his best voice of authority. "See here, Mordred. Don't be a fool. Smuggling is one thing, but—"

  "Quiet!" Mordred snarled, his thumb clumsily struggling with the hammer as he attempted to cock the pistol.

  Ravenel prudently held his tongue. He could tell from Mordred's awkward handling of the weapon that he was a rank amateur, far more dangerous than a man who possessed any skill. If Ravenel could only contrive to knock the pistol aside, his and Gwenda's situation would not be entirely hopeless. He was confident he could handle Mordred and then there would only be the boy, Rob, and the one referred to as old Tom Quince.

  While Ravenel assessed their chances, a rough voice called out, "Eh, what's happening here, Mordred?"

  A hulking figure lumbered out of the shadows to stand beside the innkeeper. Ravenel's hopes plummeted at his first view of "old" Tom. Quince was a giant of man with coarse skin, a broad crooked nose, and a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair.

  "Nothing's. amiss. I can handle it," Mordred said, although fine beads of sweat had broken out on his brow. "Just finish unloading those casks and get out of here before anyone else sees you."

  Tom Quince did not appear in the least perturbed by this surly command. His eyes traveled contemptuously over Ravenel, taking in his brocade dressing gown.

  "Flash cove." He sniffed. Then his gaze moved to where Gwenda knelt on the stable floor, her arms clutched around Bert's neck. The dog's tongue hung out, his bark issuing in a foolish-sounding gruff.

  A sudden gleam sparked in Tom Quince's eye, which the baron much misliked. The smuggler's mouth split in a gap-toothed leer.

  "If this be not Tom Quince's lucky day." The burly man licked his lips. "What a prime bit o' goods. Just what I've been hankerin' fer."

  Ravenel saw his own dread mirrored in Gwenda's terrified eyes. He shouted at Quince, "You lay one hand on her, and by God, you'll regret it." He started toward Quince, forgetting the weapon trained upon him.

  "You! Stay where you are," Mordred said, the pistol trembling in his hand.

  "I allers wanted me a fancy coachin' dog like that 'un." Quince hunkered down and proceeded to scratch Bert behind his ear.

  So certain had Ravenel been that Gwenda was about to be ravished by this great brute, it took him several seconds to realize it was the dog Quince desired and not her.

  Gwenda smacked the smuggler's hand away from Bert. Dragging the dog with her, she inched farther back into the stall. "No. You leave Bertie alone."

  "Quince, you damn fool," Mordred cried. "What are you doing? Forget about that cur before you queer everything,"

  But Quince ignored him, continuing to advance on Gwenda. "Now, little lady, don't raise a fuss. Old Tom ain't goin' to hurt you. Just be a good gel and give me the nice doggie."

  "No!" Gwenda crouched back, her eyes turning in desperate appeal to the baron.

  There had been times during the past two days when Ravenel thought he would have gladly surrendered Spotted Bert to the devil himself and said good riddance. But he took one look at the fear and despair in Gwenda's eyes and an unexpected rage surged through him.

  He plunged in between her and the smuggler, driving his fist into Quince's stomach.

  "Stop before I fire," Mordred warned, taking aim.

  Although Quince bent over and grunted, Ravenel's blow hardly seemed to affect the large man. He neatly blocked Ravenel's next punch, a toothy grin spreading over his face. "Oho, would you look at this struttin' gamecock? So it's a mill ye're after, laddie? Fine wit me. Ain't been no trouble wit the excisemen of late. Gettin' a mite dull. Want to fight me for the dog?"

  "I'd be only too happy to oblige," Ravenel grated.

  "Are you mad, Quince?" Mordred stepped forward with the pistol trying to take charge, but Quince jostled him aside.

  "Ah, shut yer bone box. I got to show this fancy gent'mun here the proper way to throw a punch."

  Before Gwenda's stunned senses could even register what was happening, Ravenel had stormed from the stable with Quince, Mordred trailing behind, still grumbling. Gwenda settled her bleary-eyed dog back down into the straw and got to her feet, scrambling after the men.

  When she emerged through the stable doors, she saw Quince in the middle of the yard, yanking off his coat. He spit on both his palms and doubled up his fists. Ravenel quickly rid himself of his brocade dressing gown, stripping down to his breeches. Moonlight skated off the hard contours of his chest and arms as he assumed the fighter's stance.

  Gwenda could only gape at his lordship in horrified astonishment. Merciful heavens! What the devil had gotten into the man?

  "Ravenel!" she shrieked. But her outcry proved a mistake. By distracting his lordship, she enabled Quince to land the first blow. He caught Ravenel square in the eye, sending him flying backward into the mud.

  Gwenda winced and started to run to him, but Ravenel was already jerking to his feet. He charged forward and got off a solid punch at his opponent's nose, succeeding in drawing blood.

  Quince gave a snort of surprise, then the fight commenced in earnest, blows flying left and right, both of them slipping and sliding in the mud. Gwenda stuffed her hand against her mouth, fearful of crying out again and breaking the baron's concentration. She sucked in her breath each time Quince's meaty fist connected with Ravenel's flesh.

  Completely forgetting they were on opposite sides, Gwenda turned indignantly to Mordred. "Don't just stand there. Make them stop."

  "I would if I could get off a clear shot," Mordred blustered. "Don't know why they're fighting over that vicious brute, anyway. Just look what he did to my leg."

  But he got scant sympathy from Gwenda. She wrung her hands and thought of rushing in between the two men, but they were like a pair of raging bulls Never had she seen Ravenel look so wild, a nigh savage light in his eyes, the sweat glistening on his muscular chest. His breath was coming hard; his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Yet Gwenda had the strangest notion that he was somehow actually enjoying this horrid contest.

  So desperate was she that Gwenda began to think of rushing back to the inn to retrieve her pistol and rouse Jarvis, when she saw Quince waver slightly. Ravenel's next blow dropped the big man to his knees. Although his own chest was heaving, Ravenel yet held his pose waiting for Quince to get up.

  The man turned his head to one side and spit out a tooth. He flung up on hand and gasped. "Enuff."

  Gwenda expelled her breath in a tremulous sigh, not quite trusting this capitulation. But the smuggler staggered to his feet, his split lip twisting into a lopsided grin as he held out one callused palm.

  "Here. My hand on it. Never thought to see the day one o' the gentry c
ould match Tom Quince. A pity ye be a lord, so it is. What ye might have done in the ring."

  Gwenda watched in mute astonishment as the baron slowly shook hands with the smuggler and then Quince was pressing a flask of brandy upon him.

  "Enough of this nonsense," Mordred shouted, marching forward and waving his pistol at Ravenel. "I want him locked up in the stable before he gets loose and fetches the excisemen—"

  "His Nibs would never do that. 'E's a gent'mun. Somethin' you know nothin' about," Quince said loftily. "Now give me that 'ere afore you hurt someone." With that, he wrenched the pistol away from the abashed Mordred and tucked it into his own belt.

  The entire scene grew hazy before Gwenda's eyes. As her disordered senses took in the fact that the fight was indeed over and it seemed that Ravenel had won, she felt weak with relief. She swayed on her feet, as close to fainting as she ever had been in her life.

  Then a strong hand closed upon her shoulder, steadying her.

  "Gwenda! Gwenda, are you all right?" Ravenel's deep voice sounded close to her ear. Someone pressed a flask to her lips, forcing a fiery liquid down her throat.

  She sputtered and choked on the brandy, but the light-headedness left her. Her world snapped back into focus. Her gaze traveled up to Ravenel's face, His brow was furrowed with concern.

  His cheek was turning purple, one eye was almost swollen shut, and he was asking her if she was all right?

  "Oh, R-Ravenel!" she said, her breath catching on a sob.

  Quince regarded her with pained surprise as he recorked his brandy flask. "Here now, there be no need to start a-sniffiling. Tom Quince allus honors his word. You get to keep your dog. You can thank your man there for that. He certainly strips to advantage."

  "I know. I—I mean I—". At that moment, the moon drifted from behind the clouds, illuminating Gwenda's expression. Her gaze met Ravenel's, her eyes shining soft with gratitude and admiration.

  It was most strange, Ravenel thought, staring back at her, suddenly conscious of being half-naked, his breeches mud-stained, his face battered. But for the first time in his life, Desmond Arthur Gordon Treverly could imagine what it was like to be a dashing knight, garbed in a silver coat of mail shining bright as the sun.

  Chapter Eight

  The late-afternoon sun charted a downward course by the time Ravenel spotted the rooftops of what had once been the sleepy fishing village of Brighthelmston, now a bustling fashionable resort owing to the Prince Regent's patronage.

  His lordship slapped down on the reins of the hired tilbury, but the gray mare pulling the carriage set its own pace regardless. He did not attempt to urge the horse again and settled lazily back against the seat. He was not in a hurry for once.

  "Brighton, Miss Vickers," Ravenel said, drawing in a deep breath, already scenting the salty tang of sea air. "I do believe we might make it this time."

  His remark coaxed only a brief smile from Gwenda. She had been quiet and unusually solemn ever since they had set out from the Nonesuch at noon. Ravenel dragged his gaze from the road winding ahead and regarded her rather anxiously. He didn't care at all for the deep shadows under her eyes. She appeared like some pale waif garbed in that overlarge frock that belonged to Mordred's wife. Although he had to admit the green shade was becoming to her eyes, they seemed so lackluster. And he could wish for a little more color in her cheeks.

  The baron trusted that a good sleep would restore her to her irrepressible self again. Goodness knows neither of them had gotten much of that last night. The only one who seemed unaffected by the previous evening's events was Bert. The dog wedged himself in between Ravenel and Gwenda, making a nuisance of himself by thrusting his head into Ravenel's line of vision and barking to be let down for a run. He appeared none the worse for the amount of brandy he had lapped up.

  I should have such a hard head, Ravenel thought wryly. When he was obliged to shift over on the seat to make more room for Bert, Ravenel winced. Damn! Was there any part of his anatomy that was not bruised from Quince's fists?

  His lips parted in a rather painful smile. What a glorious fight it had been! The sparring he enjoyed at Gentleman Jackson's seemed staid by comparison, he mused, yet marveling at his own recent behavior.

  In the early hours of the morning, he had recounted every detail of the fight with almost boyish enthusiasm to Jarvis. The old man ought to have been appalled to discover that his master had been brawling in the mud with a smuggler, then staying to tipple brandy with the rogue. But there had been a certain indulgence in Jarvis's manner, merely adjuring Ravenel to hold still as he had applied beefsteak to the swollen eye.

  Not even as a lad had Ravenel ever so forgotten himself as to engage in boisterous wrestling or bouts of fisticuffs like his school fellows or cousins frequently did. Always he had been conscious that such ungentlemanly conduct was beneath the dignity of the Baron Ravenel.

  Then what had become of his dignity in the stableyard of the Nonesuch? Ravenel still didn't know. Some ages-old constraint inside him seemed to have snapped, and he had made up for all the mischief denied him in his lost boyhood in a single night. Stranger still, he harbored no remorse, no self-recriminations at his lapse of reason. If anything, he felt amused recalling the episode with Tom Quince. When the man's wagon had finally been unloaded, the baron had shaken the smuggler's hand as though parting with an old friend.

  And as for Mordred--- Ravenel chuckled to himself at the memory, stopping abruptly at the twinge of pain in his sore jaw. Mordred had fallen over himself to be obliging, frightened that the baron might decide to hand him over to the authorities. Besides turning up with the gown for Gwenda, the innkeeper had offered his coach to convey Jarvis and the baggage to Ravenel's lodgings in Brighton. By some magic the host had also produced a tilbury for Ravenel to drive Gwenda home in, all this without asking for a single shilling in payment. Always eager to help a fellow creature in need, Mordred had crooned, and surely his lordship was not the man to hold a grudge against a poor innkeeper? So much for Gwenda's desperate, murderous villain. The baron wondered what she would say if he told her that he had discovered later that the man's pistol had not even been loaded.

  He stole a speculative glance at his companion but could scarce see her face. Her head drooped forward, her bonnet and curls shading her eyes. She truly was exhausted, he thought, wishing he could draw her head down onto his shoulder. She had fallen asleep in such an awkward position.

  But Gwenda was not asleep. She suffered not so much from exhaustion as from a severe attack of guilt. She could hardly bring herself to meet Ravenel's gaze all morning, astonished that he appeared so cheerful, what with those shocking bruises on his cheek, to say nothing of his poor eye.

  It was all her fault. If she had listened to him and returned to her room, not dragged him out into the night looking for Bert, none of last night's escapade would ever have occurred. She had expected Ravenel to deliver a lecture that would last all the way to her parents' doorstep or at least to put on his martyred look.

  How utterly unfeeling of the man that he chose to do neither! Here she was in the throes of remorse, willing, nay eager, to listen to a scolding in noble silence, and what must Ravenel do but sit there, looking so confoundedly nonchalant.

  With the exception of his shocking black eye, he was rigged out in his usual manner, with stiff-starched cravat, somber-colored waistcoat and breeches, his curly-brimmed beaver perched upon waves of neatly combed ebony hair. But his behavior was most unRavenel-like. The man acted as though he had not a care in the world but to enjoy the drive, the brightness of the day after last evening's storm. Why, at the moment, he was even softly whistling some tuneless ditty.

  Unfortunately, Gwenda could think of only one way to account for his uplifted spirits. He had to be rejoicing in the knowledge that he was soon to be rid of her. Not that she could blame him, but the notion only added to her misery. Had she not brought disaster to him, from the moment she had thrust herself upon his notice at the White Hart, atte
mpting to meddle in his relations with Miss Carruthers and involving him with stolen phaetons, chewed boots, coaching wrecks, treks through rainstorms and smugglers? Everything Ravenel had ever said about her was correct, Gwenda thought with a heavy sigh. Shatter-brained, heedless, impractical. And to climax everything, he had been obliged to engage in a vulgar brawl to save her dog. Gwenda was certain that was an affront to his dignity that the baron would never forget.

  At least one good thing had come out of it all. The baron obviously had given over his foolish notion that he had to marry her. He had not mentioned it once this morning. Last night's affair must have brought him to his senses. Not even his lordship's rigid code of honor would require such a sacrifice, that he should tie himself to a female absurd enough to run abroad in her nightgown and become entangled with smugglers, a woman so sadly wanting in the sort of propriety and good sense Ravenel would demand of his wife.

  She was glad of this, Gwenda told herself stoutly, for of course it was not as if she wanted to marry him. Just because the man did at times appear in her dreams as Roderigo, she certainly hadn't been so foolish as to fall in love with him. No, how utterly absurd that would be.

  The tilbury gave a sudden jolt, which forced Gwenda to sit erect and clutch the side of the carriage. She realized with a start that they were rattling over the cobbled streets of the town itself and only his lordship's expert handling of the reins had prevented their locking wheels with a phaeton driven by some reckless young buck.

  Even this did not serve to ruffle Ravenel's temper. With some amusement, he pointed out to Gwenda the distant outline of the Regent's whimsical pavilion. She eyed with little interest the classical villa with its central rotunda encircled by six Ionic columns. Beyond that a glass dome topped what was surely the most lavish structure ever built to stable horses. But the sight of the palace only served as a melancholy reminder to Gwenda that she and Ravenel were approaching the end of their journey.

  All too soon the tilbury jounced along the Marine Parade toward that fashionable area of Brighton known as the Royal Crescent. The town house her family had rented proved to be one of the newer ones with charming wrought-iron balconies and canopied bow windows. The walls were glazed with black tiles to withstand the gales and salt spray of the sea.