Brighton Road (7 page)

"You might at least have barked. Goodness
knows, you are never quiet on any other occasion."

Gwenda broke off her scolding as a thought
struck her. Perhaps Bertie had barked and she had been so deeply
asleep she hadn't heard him. But what about Colette? Surely she
must have noticed something was amiss.

Gwenda's eyes traveled toward her maid's cot
and she stiffened. So startled had she been upon first entering the
room to find her trunks rifled, she had not noticed the smooth
linen sheets turned carefully back, the feather-tick pillow plumped
to perfection. It was obvious Colette's bed had not even been slept
in last night.

As Gwenda stared at the cot, unwelcome
suspicions began to sift into her mind. The untouched bed, the
odd-tasting glass of milk Colette had pressed upon her, her heavy
sleep that was almost as though she had swallowed a good dose of
laudanum or some other drug.

Feeling much troubled, Gwenda sank back on
her heels and wrapped her arms about her dog's neck. "No, it won't
do, Bertie, to go leaping to conclusions without proof. I know it
looks bad that Colette is not here, but then she never is when I
want her. Why, for all I know the poor girl could have been
kidnapped by the thieves. As Mama would say, a good general would
never court-martial anyone without first obtaining all the
facts."

Gwenda rose thoughtfully to her feet and
walked back to her own room. At least her wrapper was still there,
laid out over the back of the chair. She tugged the soft
peach-colored robe over her linen nightgown and looked for her
slippers, but they were gone.

"I do trust that was the thief at work," she
said sternly to her dog, "and not you, Bertie."

Spotted Bert allowed his tongue to loll out,
assuming his most innocent expression.

Gwenda strode past the dog. Opening her door,
she stepped into the corridor and was fortunate enough to encounter
one of the inn's chambermaids, a strapping country lass with
blooming cheeks and a cheery smile. She bustled past with an
armload of fresh towels. Gwenda, who had a knack for recalling
names, even down to the lowest menial in the kitchens, remembered
that the girl's name was Sallie.

She summoned the girl to her side and asked,
"Sallie, have you seen my maid belowstairs this morning?"

"Mamzelle Colette? No, miss. I'm sure I
haven't." The girl sniffed. There was a disdainful edge in her
voice that Gwenda had oft heard from other female servants when
they spoke of Colette.

"Oh, dear," Gwenda said. "Well, I'm afraid
something dreadful has happened." She beckoned for the girl to
follow her into Colette's room, where she exhibited her empty
trunks.

"You will perceive that I have been robbed,"
she said.

Gwenda was completely unprepared for the
maid's spectacular reaction. Sallie emitted a small shriek and
dropped her towels. Turning pale, she shrank back against the wall,
clasping her hands over her bosom.

"Oh, lawks, miss! Lawks!"

"You needn't act as though I've just shown
you a dead body," Gwenda said, growing a trifle impatient with
these Cheltenham theatrics. "Though I will admit the thought of a
sneak thief is most distressing. And the disappearance of my maid
only further complicates the matter."

"Oh, miss!" Sallie exclaimed again.

"And I am not quite sure how I ought to
proceed," Gwenda said, thoughts of constables and Bow Street
Runners chasing around in her brain. In any event, she saw that the
excitable chambermaid was not going to be of much help beyond
wringing her large hands and moaning "Oh, miss! Oh, miss!" at
suitable intervals.

Gwenda supposed she could begin by
determining exactly what had been taken. As she squatted down, she
thought ruefully that that was not going to be difficult since, in
truth, not much of her belongings had been left. The jewels and
money, of course, were gone and most of her clothes except for her
second-best bonnet and a drab merino traveling gown. She could not
help reflecting on how Colette had always regarded those particular
articles of her clothing with scorn.

Aside from that, she found the copies of her
novels scattered by the bed, her chipped ivory hairbrush, and a
pair of stockings with a hole in it. But just beneath the stockings
she saw the glint of an object that made her cry out with joy.

Her pearl-handled pistol! The thief had
somehow missed or discarded it. It had been a special gift from her
mother.

"A general's granddaughter ought to know how
to use a weapon, Gwenda," Mama had said. "Those books you write are
quite entertaining, all about how the dashing hero rescues the fair
lady at the last possible moment. But the sad truth is, my love,
that a gentleman can never be depended upon to arrive for anything
on time."

Dearest Mama. Always so practical, Gwenda
thought as she scooped up the pistol. Somehow the loss of
everything else did not quite matter so much now. She raised the
pistol in her hands, cocking back the hammer, and lovingly tested
the balance of the finely wrought weapon.

She momentarily forgot the presence of the
jittery chambermaid, until the girl let loose an ear-splitting
scream.

Only minutes earlier, several doors down, the
newly arisen Ravenel, garbed in his scarlet brocade dressing gown,
had lathered his face with shaving soap. Bending toward a small
cheval glass, he cautiously wielded a straight-edged razor beneath
his chin.

It had been some time since Jarvis's hands
were steady enough to perform this task for his master. It
stretched the baron's ingenuity considerably to find excuses why he
should shave himself, inventing other pressing duties for Jarvis
that would salvage the old man's pride

This morning Ravenel had been unable to think
of anything else better than expressing an earnest desire that
Jarvis read aloud to him. Regrettably, the only material available
for such an exercise seemed to be Miss Vickers's wretched book.
Jarvis appeared momentarily astonished by the request, but then he
obeyed with alacrity, intoning Miss Vickers's nonsense as though he
were reading a sermon from the pulpit.

"…and the dismembered hand crept nearer and
nearer to the terrified maiden, a trail of blood dripping from its
severed stump."

"Good Lord!" Ravenel muttered. What a
ghoulish imagination Miss Vickers had. He wasn't certain he cared
to hear about blood and dismemberment when he was wielding a razor
so close to his own throat. "Jarvis, skip that bit. Go further
ahead."

"Very good, my lord."

Was it Ravenel's imagination or did his valet
sound disappointed? As his lordship negotiated the sharp steel over
the curve of his jaw, he heard the rustling of pages.

"This part in Volume Two must be of
exceptional quality, my lord," Jarvis said. "I see that Miss
Vickers has taken some pains to mark it."

The baron opened his lips to protest, but
Jarvis had already begun to read. "Count Delvadoro drew the fair
Emeraude against his manly bosom. The soft glow of adoration in his
handsome blue eyes made the lady long to weep for joy.'

Ravenel pursed his lips. That Vickers woman
was always going on about eyes, he thought, remembering her comment
about his own. He couldn't refrain from stealing a furtive glance
into the mirror, studying the skeptical dark depths reflected back
at him. Did she really think that his eyes were handsome?

Ravenel drew back feeling sheepish and
disgusted with himself.

"The count pressed his lips fervently against
Emeraude's fingertips," Jarvis contined reading in his stately
tones. "Oh, my heart's treasure, if you will not consent to be my
own, I shall—"

The count's intentions were lost in the next
instant, interrupted by the sound of a woman's muffled scream.
Ravenel was so startled that he very nearly sliced off his
chin.

"What the devil!" He swore and grabbed a
handkerchief to stem the drops of blood where he had nicked
himself. His eyes met Jarvis's alarmed gaze.

"I don't know, my lord." The valet rolled his
eyes to the book in his lap as though he half feared the sound had
emanated from the pages of The Dark Hand itself.

Ravenel heard a flurry of movement in the
corridor beyond. As he strode toward his door, he could not begin
to guess what the commotion was, but he harbored a dreadful
certainty that he was going to find Gwenda Mary Vickers the source
of it.

He flung open the door and stepped into the
hall, only to be nearly knocked down by a fleeing chambermaid
gibbering like a terrified monkey.

"Come back here at once, you goose," a
familiar feminine voice shouted at the maid.

Miss Vickers erupted from her room,
brandishing a pistol.

Good God, Ravenel thought as the chambermaid
dove behind him with a frightened squeak. That Vickers woman was
more crazed than he had feared.

As she waved the pistol about, Ravenel sucked
in his breath, bracing himself for a loud report and the feel of a
ball searing though his flesh.

Miss Vickers's eyes flashed scornfully as she
peered past him at the cowering chambermaid. " It is not loaded,
you idiotic girl." Her assurance did nothing to calm the maid, who
went off into hysterics, but the baron sighed with relief.

All the same, he caught Gwenda's wrist and
carefully forced her to lower the weapon to her side. "What the
deuce are you doing with a thing like that?"

"My mother gave it to me," Miss Vickers said.
"It was a present for my last birthday."

Ravenel swallowed an urge to point out to her
that most mothers gave their daughters gifts like pearls or
parasols. "No. I meant, why are you—"

But his question was broken off since by this
time the other guests staying at the Hart came rushing out into the
hallway: a stout dowager clutching her wrapper about her, her
scrawny daughter hard on her heels; several elderly gentlemen still
wearing their nightcaps; and from Ravenel's own room, Jarvis,
adjusting his spectacles to peer with interest at Miss Vickers.
Everyone spoke at once, demanding to know what had happened in
varying tones of fear and indignation. To add to the din, Miss
Vickers's dog leaped about, setting up a fearful barking.

Mr. Leatherbury charged onto the scene, his
plump face flushed red from the unaccustomed exertion of running up
the stairs.

"What?" he said, huffing. "What is the
meaning of all this?" His gaze traveled from the pistol still
gripped in Gwenda's hand to Ravenel's face. The baron became
conscious of a fresh trickle of blood going down his chin and
groped for his handkerchief again.

"Miss Vickers!" the landlord said in shocked
accents. "Never tell me you have gone and shot at his
lordship."

"Don't be preposterous," Ravenel muttered
from behind his handkerchief.

"Certainly not," Miss Vickers said. "But I
have been robbed."

Her blunt statement caused a fresh sensation:
more outcries from the other guests, more sobs from the
chambermaid, and more barking from Bertie.

"Robbed?" Leatherbury said, his face turning
purple with outrage. "Here at the White Hart? Impossible, Miss
Vickers. Quite impossible."

"It is very possible, you silly man," Gwenda
retorted. "You have but to go look in my room."

In the face of Leatherbury's obvious
disbelief, even the imperturbable Miss Vickers began to get a
trifle agitated. A most spirited quarrel developed between her and
the host of the White Hart. Several of the waiters and the boots
came crowding into the corridor to add their voices to the
hubbub.

"Eh? What's happened here?"

"Dunno. I think one of the guests has been
robbed."

"Brigands!" the dowager shrieked. "We might
all have been murdered in our beds."

"Nonsense. Utter nonsense," Leatherbury
replied huffily.

Ravenel had had all that he was prepared to
endure. He was not accustomed to tolerating confusion, especially
not in the morning before he had even had his coffee and
beefsteak.

"Quiet!" he thundered.

The authoritative tone of his command
immediately reduced everyone to silence. Even Bertie subsided after
one more small yap. Ravenel took advantage of the hush to snap out
a series of brisk orders that sent the waiters back to their posts
and the other guests scurrying for their rooms. He had the boots
lead away the sniveling chambermaid and put Jarvis in charge of
Bertie. Strangely enough, even the dog seemed to recognize the
dignity of Jarvis, for Bertie went quietly without offering to leap
upon him.

Then the baron strode back to Gwenda and
Leatherbury. All traces of her annoyance with the landlord had
faded, and she greeted Ravenel, her eyes glowing.

"Well done!" she said, clapping her hands
with enthusiasm. "You're so awfully good at that."

"Good at what?" he asked, taken aback.

"Ordering people about, taking charge. You
were like some magnificent Turkish pasha in your scarlet brocade.
You looked most formidable rapping out commands even if there is
still a small bit of shaving soap clinging to your chin."

Ravenel wondered if she was mocking him, but
there was no doubting the sincerity of her admiration or the warmth
of her smile. He flushed, his fingers moving self-consciously from
the lapel of his dressing gown up to wipe at his chin. Damn the
woman. She had a positive talent for disconcerting him.

He chose to ignore her comments, saying
gruffly, "Now, Miss Vickers. What is all this nonsense about being
robbed?"

"It isn't nonsense. Follow me and I'll show
you." Gesturing with her pistol, Miss Vickers led the way back to
her room. The baron followed her, with Leatherbury hard after him,
still mumbling, "Ridiculous. Impossible. Not at my inn."

But the landlord's manner changed rapidly
when they stood looking down at the overturned trunks in the maid's
room. He blanched and stammered, "I cannot credit my eyes. My dear
Miss Vickers. Do forgive me. That such a thing should have happened
to you here at the White Hart."