Amanda Scott (7 page)

“I am at your command, my lord.”

“That will be the day,” he muttered under his breath.

She looked up at him from beneath her dark lashes but said nothing further until she was seated in the chaise. It was light outside now, though the sun still lingered below the horizon, and she could see his grim expression quite clearly as he turned away. “Moderation begets its own rewards, my lord,” she said softly through the open chaise window to his back.

He looked over his shoulder. “You’d best put up that window, Miss Jensen-Graham. You don’t want to take a chill.”

No sooner had she obeyed him than the chaise began to move. The cobbles beneath made the carriage sway, but the feeling was not an uncomfortable one, and she was almost sorry when the pavement became smoother after they passed through the Kensington turnpike.

The chaise moved with greater speed now, through Hammersmith, across Turnham Green, through Brentford, Smallbury Green, and across Hounslow Heath. An hour and a half after they left London they were crossing the River Coln at Longford. They had traveled more than thirteen miles. Sylvia glanced out the window at Greyfalcon, who had brought his mount alongside the chaise and was moving up to talk to the postboys. She lowered the window in time to hear him shout that they would not change horses before Slough.

The chaise slowed somewhat after that, although the road was flat and free of traffic, and Sylvia realized that the postboys had decided to spare the horses. They must, she thought, have expected to change rather sooner. Slough was, after all, some twenty miles from London, more than two normal stages.

When they reached Slough, the change was accomplished with speed at the White Hart, where it was clear that Greyfalcon was known. He changed his own mount for a dappled gray at the same time, and Sylvia saw that the bay’s sides were heaving. Greyfalcon didn’t, she thought, look much better himself. His complexion was gray, his eyes dull. Really, men were so foolish. It was not as though he had not known he had a long ride ahead of him today. To have allowed himself to drink so much and stay up so late was the action of a man more foolish than she had ever believed Greyfalcon to be. What if Christopher, who had idolized him, could see him now?

Some of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for Greyfalcon, turning to catch her eye, flushed slightly and turned away without speaking, despite the fact that the window was down again.

The landlord stepped up to talk to him, and Greyfalcon smiled at the man but made no effort to pay him. When the earl was mounted again, the innkeeper waved and called out to him to have a good journey, his familiarity making it clear to Sylvia that Greyfalcon was a familiar customer, one moreover who was allowed to travel on tick.

They crossed the Thames at Salt Hill and made good speed once more through Maidenhead, where they crossed the river again and entered Oxfordshire. The team they had now was slower, but the postboys (still Greyfalcon’s own, for he had not scrupled to leave his horses to the Slough innkeeper’s care) managed to hold them together until just before Assington Cross. By the time they reached that village, however, their pace had long since slowed to a walk and the offside wheeler was showing lame. The hour was nearly half-past two. Sylvia was famished.

She let the window down as they drew into the innyard of the Bell and Castle. “I hope you mean to seek refreshment, my lord,” she called, “for I swear I shall faint from hunger if you do not.” Not to mention boredom, she thought, watching him. He was looking at the ostlers, however, and not at her. They unhitched the team rapidly and led another four horses from the stable adjoining the inn. Greyfalcon grimaced expressively and turned his own mount toward the chaise. Leaning down, he muttered, “Bonesetters, the lot of them. No doubt touched in the wind, as well. I do apologize. I had hoped to make Nettlebed before we made the change, for I know the inn there to be as trustworthy as the inn in Slough, but the last pair simply wasn’t good for a full two stages. We ought to have changed them in Maidenhead, I suppose, since there isn’t another posting house between there and Henley.”

“Why didn’t we stop in Henley, then?” she asked reasonably.

“For the same reason I didn’t stop in Maidenhead,” he said. “Thought you’d receive less attention in a smaller place. Public room here is like to be less crowded at this hour, too.”

“I am accustomed to a private parlor, my lord,” she said provocatively.

“I don’t doubt it, but you’ll not get one while you’re in my company, my girl. We’re like to set tongues wagging enough as it is. I’d prefer it if you’d take a bite in the chaise, actually, but I suppose that is too much to hope for.”

“Indeed it is,” she retorted with asperity. “I have been cooped up in this vehicle for far too long already, and if you do not wish to hand me over to my father’s keeping in a demented state, you will certainly not ask such a thing of me.”

“Well, it goes against my better judgment, but I should detest being confined for so long, myself, so come along.” He dismounted, handed his reins to an ostler, and opened the chaise door for her. She stood, waiting for him to let down the steps, but instead, he merely grasped her lightly under the arms and swung her to the cobbled pavement.

Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she looked up into his face, but he had already turned his attention to the inn, and catching her hand, he tucked it into the crook of his elbow and began moving toward the front steps. She had no choice but to move with him, though she could still feel warmth where his hands had grasped her waist and could feel, too, an extraordinary awareness of his body so near her own.

Inside, her senses returned to normal. The coffee-room proved to be empty, and the innkeeper’s wife bustled about them, providing bread, a hearty beef-and-vegetable soup, and a whole roasted chicken. Greyfalcon ordered tea for Sylvia and ale for himself; then, before taking a single bite, he got suddenly to his feet again.

“I ought to give orders to the boys,” he said, a shadow of guilt passing across his face. “They’ll not see to their own needs, otherwise.”

Sylvia also knew a pang of guilt. She had not so much as thought about the fact that the postboys must be as hungry as she was herself. They deserved at the very least to have some bread and meat and some ale, if not a full meal.

She looked up to find the innkeeper smiling obsequiously down at her, and she smiled back.

“We didn’t hear his lordship had got married,” the man said, watching her rather narrowly.

Without thinking, she responded, “He hasn’t.” Then, noting the man’s look of blatant disapproval, she said evenly, “He is my cousin. I had word of an emergency at home, and he very kindly offered to escort me there.”

“Home?”

“Near his own, about five miles upriver from Iffley,” she said.

“I don’t know his lordship personally, only by reputation,” the man said. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment before he murmured more to himself than to Sylvia, “I daresay he’s good for what he puts on tick.”

Sylvia opened her mouth to assure the man that Greyfalcon was a man of honor, but before the words came, her evil genius intervened. “He is not going to pay you at once?” She raised her eyebrows, then looked away quickly as though she had said too much. Indeed, she had.

The innkeeper regarded her suspiciously. “He be an earl, right enough, if he be who he says.”

“Oh, yes, he is Greyfalcon. Only—”

“Only what, miss?”

“Well, I really should say no more,” she began, then bit her lip sharply when Greyfalcon himself loomed up behind the innkeeper.

“That’s taken care of,” he said on a note of satisfaction. “Bring me another mug of ale, innkeeper.”

“As to that, my lord, I fear I’ll need to see the color of your money first,” the man said stoutly.

“What? I thought we had already made our arrangements. You’ll be paid, man, and soon enough.”

“I’d as lief be paid now, sir, no offense intended.”

“Well, offense
is
taken,” Greyfalcon said sharply. “What the devil is this, then?” He glanced at Sylvia, who looked quickly away, unable to meet his gaze. “I see,” he said slowly. “Very well, man, what’s the damage?”

The innkeeper named a sum that seemed vast to Sylvia. Indeed, it seemed just as vast to Greyfalcon, especially when the innkeeper informed him that either the inn’s own lads would go along to look after the team, or there would be no team provided. That meant either hiring extra mounts for his own postboys or putting them up at the inn until they might be sent for. Greyfalcon opted for the latter, suggesting that the full amount owed might be paid when his coach came back to collect the boys.

“I don’t think so, my lord,” the man said evenly, more determined now than ever. “For a man so certain he can pay, you appear downright slow to do so.”

“Well, the fact of the matter is that I didn’t expect to have to lay out much blunt on this journey,” Greyfalcon told him. “The decision to make the trip at all was made at short notice, and I had no time to provide myself with any great amount of cash. Moreover, I’ve always been able to travel on tick before. I just haven’t come this way in some time, and a good many houses appear to have changed ownership in the meantime.”

“I don’t doubt it, my lord, but I’ll have my money, if you please.”

“Look here, we’ve still a full stage and more ahead of us. I can’t give you every cent I have. What if your horses pull up lame?”

“My lads’ll look after ’em,” the man retorted. He said no more, merely gazing expectantly at the earl.

Glancing at Sylvia again with a look that boded no good for her immediate future, Greyfalcon said tightly, “Very well, but I shall not want another horse. I shall ride in the chaise from here on. I haven’t enough on me to cover the whole amount, and I’ve no wish to be without any money at all, but I can leave my watch with you if you’ll take it.” He drew a large, gold watch on an intricate gold chain from his waistcoat pocket. “The chain alone is worth your charges, but I’ll leave the watch as well. Will that suit you?”

“Indeed, sir, and I’ll keep it safe by until you are able to redeem it. I’m an honest man, I am, and I can see that the watch is valuable.”

Indeed, he was so impressed by the earl’s gesture that Sylvia half-expected him to relent. Clearly Greyfalcon expected the same thing, and when the man simply turned away to go about his business, he released his breath in a sigh of angry frustration.

In the chaise, Sylvia waited breathlessly and somewhat fearfully for him to vent his anger, but beyond giving her another angry look, Greyfalcon said nothing, merely climbing in behind her and sitting beside her in silence. That silence continued most uncomfortably for the last twelve miles of their journey.

As the chaise turned onto the tree-lined gravel drive leading up to her father’s house, she drew a long breath of relief. Her mission was accomplished. She had brought Greyfalcon home, and now that he was here, he would see how greatly he was needed. His mother would be delighted to see him, and his tenants would be even more so. No doubt the worthy MacMusker would greet his arrival with unmixed joy, grateful to have a master home again at last. She let down the window and leaned out a little to watch for the first view of her father’s house.

Moments later the thick growth of beech trees on either side of the road seemed to part, giving view of the tall stone manor house. The arched, sixteenth-century gateway, with its central oriel and porter’s lodge above, seemed to be set off by the red-tiled roof of the house behind.

Greyfalcon spoke for the first time since leaving the Assington Cross innyard. “The approach to this house always seems to take one back in time. One almost expects to be met by men at arms.”

His tone was not particularly friendly. It was more as though he merely muttered his thoughts aloud.

Sylvia answered just as evenly, “I doubt there were many men at arms here at any time, sir. The original house was erected by one of our ancestors, Sir Robert Jensen, during a brief lull in the Wars of the Roses. Since there is no record, despite his knighthood, of his ever having served either York or Lancaster, one must assume that he kept himself to himself as much as it was possible at that time to do so. There were extensive alterations made during the time of Elizabeth and James the First, so one must assume that Sir Thomas Jensen, whose badge is to be seen above the arch of the gateway, must have been in royal favor then. But that was a peaceful time in Oxfordshire, so—”

“I did not request a history lesson, Miss Jensen-Graham,” Greyfalcon said absently. He was watching now out his own window as the chaise drew into the courtyard and pulled up before the narrow stone stairway leading into the hall. One side of the courtyard was occupied by a row of buildings built by Sir Thomas to connect the gatehouse with the parlor, but the other side was occupied primarily by her father’s library, and she knew that he would most likely be disturbed by the noise of their arrival and look out his window, so she took no exception to Greyfalcon’s tone; indeed, she wished only that he would open the chaise door, so that she might get into the house before her father took it into his head to come to greet them.

Instead, to her dismay, when the front door opened, Lord Arthur himself appeared upon the threshold.

Greyfalcon did open the door then, opened it and jumped down, letting down the steps himself, then reaching to take her hand. His eyes gleamed a little as his gaze met hers, and Sylvia knew at once that trouble loomed ahead.

“Hallo, Sylvia, pleasant journey?” Lord Arthur called out as he moved down the steps to greet them. “Greyfalcon, that you? Never thought she’d do the thing.”

Greyfalcon’s teeth grated together as he replied, “I’d like a word with you, Lord Arthur. At once, if you please.”

“To be sure, lad. I suppose you’ll be wanting to know just how things are fixed. Thought I’d be hearing from you long before this, if you want the truth of the matter.”

“Oh, I want the truth, all right,” Greyfalcon said grimly, with a look at Sylvia, who still waited with one foot on the step of the carriage for him to help her down. “I want to hear from your own lips just how you had the impudence to think you might address public letters to my creditors and how you dared to send copies of those letters to me by your daughter’s hand.”