Brighton Road (8 page)

Leatherbury proceeded to offer her with
everything from a glass of wine to sal volatile. But the landlord
looked in far greater need of smelling salts than Miss Vickers did.
Ravenel could not help noticing that even under these trying
circumstances Miss Vickers had a most becoming tint of rose in her
cheeks. She waved aside all of the landlord's solicitude.

"You needn't worry, Mr. Leatherbury. I have
never swooned in my life—not even the time my brother shot me in
the foot with an arrow."

Ravenel, who had begun to make a cursory
examination of one of the trunks, paused. He knew he would be
better off not inquiring further into this startling statement, but
his curiosity got the better of him.

"Your brother shot you with an arrow?" he
repeated.

"It was over a wager. Jack thought that if I
held a quill pen between my toes, he could nick off the top of the
feathers." She sighed. "Of course, that was a long time ago, but
I've never since had quite the same confidence in Jack."

"I daresay," Mr. Leatherbury said
faintly.

Miss Vickers continued. "My father has bought
Jack a commission in the army. I hope he will learn to have better
aim with a musket."

Heaven help the British army, Ravenel
thought, turning his attention back to the matter at hand. The
maid's bed was obviously unslept in, the trunks opened by someone
who had access to the keys and didn't have to force the locks. The
conclusion was obvious to him, but all he said was, "Where is your
maid this morning, Miss Vickers?"

"I don't know." She added, almost too
quickly, "But that doesn't necessarily prove anything against
her."

Ravenel thought it proved a great deal. He
said, "I suggest we take steps to find the girl immediately.
Leatherbury, you might begin by making inquiries among your
servants. And the constable had best be sent for."

"Aye, at once, my lord." The distracted host
appeared only too eager to be doing something. He rushed out still
lamenting, "A robbery! Here! At my inn."

Miss Vickers sank down upon the cot, biting
her lip. "The poor man. I feel badly for having brought this
distress upon him."

"You might have had the consideration to be
robbed elsewhere, Miss Vickers," Ravenel agreed drily. "Most unkind
of you."

She regarded him in surprise, then her ready
smile flashed up at him. "Why, Lord Ravenel. You do possess a sense
of humor after all."

His lips twitched in response to the
marveling tone of her voice. It occurred to him that Miss Vickers
looked rather charming for a lady who had just tumbled out of bed.
Her curls danced about her flushed cheeks in appealing disarray,
tempting a man to smooth back the silken tangles from her brow. The
peach-colored wrapper served to highlight the creaminess of her
skin along her delicate collarbone and graceful neckline, And as
for the way the soft lawn night shift clung to the full curve of
her breast---

Ravenel averted his gaze, embarrassed by the
direction his thoughts were taking, He became suddenly aware of the
impropriety of their situation: alone in the maid's room, neither
of them decently garbed.

The baron tugged at the sash binding his
brocade dressing gown and cleared his throat. "You'd best summon
that witling chambermaid to help you dress. You do have something
left to wear, don't you?"

"Yes." Gwenda plucked a drab-looking gown
from the floor, regarding it with little enthusiasm.

"Then I will meet you belowstairs and we can
decide how best to proceed."

Her dark lashes swept up as she shot him a
look of mingled astonishment and gratitude. "Thank you, Lord
Ravenel. It is most gallant of you to concern yourself in this
matter."

"Not in the least," he muttered, and then
exited awkwardly from the room. If Gwenda was surprised by his
behavior, Ravenel was astounded. What was he doing meddling in this
business when his only desire was to avoid the eccentric Miss
Vickers? He put his interference down to an irrational feeling of
guilt. He could not help remembering that look he had seen on the
maid's face the night before, the impulse to warn Miss Vickers that
he had suppressed.

Not that he intended to be drawn too far into
this affair. He would simply see to it that some responsible person
was put in charge of helping the lady and then he would be on his
way to Brighton.

After returning to his own room, he explained
briefly what had happened as Jarvis helped him to dress The old man
clucked his tongue sympathetically. "Poor Miss Vickers."

"Yes," Ravenel agreed with a frown, noticing
for the first time that Bertie was still in his room The dog had
made himself quite comfortable, falling asleep on the baron's bed.
Bertie didn't stir until Ravenel made ready to leave. Then the dog
stood up, yawned, and followed him.

Anyone would think the beast belonged to him,
Ravenel thought, as he made his way downstairs. He found Miss
Vickers already there, ensconced in the same private parlor that
had witnessed their first unfortuitous encounter the day
before.

Garbed in that unbecoming gown, she sat in a
straight-backed chair fingering her bonnet with a forlorn
expression on her face. She took no notice of the cup of tea the
solicitous Leatherbury placed upon the table beside her.

When Ravenel entered, the host met his
questioning look with a frown. "The maid seems to have vanished, my
lord, and Miss Vickers has been telling me her fears that a
sleep-inducing agent was introduced into her milk last night. We
have no choice but to conclude that Mademoiselle Colette was the
culprit."

This information occasioned the baron no
surprise, but Miss Vickers's expression did. Earlier she had not
been in the least perturbed to find her belongings plundered; now
she appeared excessively troubled.

"It is not that I mind so much about my
things," she said. It was only a parcel of frocks and fripperies
after all. But it is most distressing to be betrayed by a person
one knew and trusted."

Aye, thought Ravenel. Miss Vickers, for all
her grim imaginings about villains and evildoers, was exactly the
sort of lady who would trust everyone, who cherished complete faith
in her fellow creatures. As he observed the puzzled hurt welling in
her luminous green eyes, he was astonished to feel a strong urge to
find that French trollop and wring her neck.

He strode up to Gwenda, took her hand, and
patted it. "My dear Miss Vickers, a dishonest wench like that is
hardly worth fretting over. I am sure it will be only a matter of
time before she receives her just punishment and your belongings
are returned."

Gwenda glanced up at Ravenel, astonished by
both the gesture and the gentleness of his tone. The kindness and
sympathy on his face did much to mitigate the natural severity of
his features. She wondered if the man had any notion how
devastating his eyes were when they glowed softly like that. His
hand was quite large and strong, engulfing her slender fingers in a
warm clasp. She felt oddly breathless and had difficulty
concentrating on what he was saying.

"Perhaps there might be some clue in your
maid's background, Miss Vickers. Who referred her to your
service?"

His palms were slightly callused, likely from
riding. She could picture him masterfully gathering up the reins of
a fiery black stallion, its glossy mane the same midnight color as
his hair.

"Miss Vickers?" Ravenel prodded gently.
Gwenda came out of her daydreaming with a start. He had been asking
her something. What was it? Oh, yes. Colette's character
reference.

"She didn't have one," she replied.

"Didn't have one!" the baron echoed, looking
nonplussed.

"No, we met her one day in a millinery shop.
Mama hired her because she spoke such beautiful French."

Neither Ravenel nor Mr. Leatherbury appeared
to be following her logic, so Gwenda explained patiently, "My
mother is deeply concerned about Napoleon, the threat of a French
invasion. She thought it would be good if we perfected our command
of the language."

"But—but," Mr. Leatherbury protested, "why
didn't she engage a tutor?"

"I didn't want a tutor," Gwenda said. "I
needed a maid."

"Of all the cork-brained—" Ravenel dropped
her hand and fixed her with a stern eye. "Are you giving me to
understand that you simply plucked this woman out of the
streets?"

"Not out of the streets," Gwenda said,
resenting his tone. "Out of a hat shop."

He shook his head in disgust. "Then I fear
you have gotten exactly what you deserved, Miss Vickers."

Gwenda was stunned by his change of attitude.
But if he had suddenly lost all sympathy for her, she was beginning
to feel out of charity with him, especially when he launched into a
long homily about the folly of hiring servants without
references.

This was Lord Ravenel at his positively most
stuffy, Gwenda thought. When he squared his shoulders in that
pompous manner, she longed to stick a pin into him. She crossed her
arms over her chest, wondering how such a man could ever have made
her heart skip a beat, even for the barest instant.

The baron was so caught up in lecturing her
that he appeared not to notice the ostler who slipped into the room
and beckoned to Mr. Leatherbury. Whatever the burly groom whispered
to the landlord, poor Leatherbury went chalk-white, darting a
glance of terror at his lordship.

"... and I have never had a servant in my
employ," Ravenel was saying, "upon whose character I could not
stake my own reputation."

"My lord," Leatherbury said. He approached
the baron with all the abject timidity of a rabbit coming to impart
bad tidings to a fierce-maned lion. When the host momentarily lost
his power of speech, Ravenel prompted impatiently, "Yes, man. What
is it?"

"More misfortune, your lordship." Leatherbury
swallowed. "We now know how the wench made her escape. She took
your phaeton and..." the host concluded in a voice that was barely
audible, "your bays."

"My bays?" Ravenel choked, then repeated in a
much louder voice, "My bays! Your grooms allowed that scheming
baggage to take my horses!"

Leatherbury cowered away from him. Even
Gwenda felt herself tense at the fury vibrating in the baron's
voice. So that was how a man looked when he was enraged enough to
commit murder with his bare hands. She made a mental note for her
next book.

The ostler spoke up. "Nay, me lud. 'Twas one
o' the young stable lads wot made the mistake. 'Twas during the
confusion when the night stage was coming through. The girl had yer
ludship's tiger with her, a-wearing yer own livery and he says as
how they was off to fetch a doctor fer yer ludship."

"My tiger?" Ravenel repeated numbly.
"Dalton?"

"Aye, the same, me lud,"

Gwenda tried to remain nobly silent but
couldn't. "How shocking! I suppose the man had a great many
character references, Lord Ravenel?" she inquired sweetly.

His lordship spun around, the fierceness of
his gaze causing Gwenda to shrink back in her chair. "It so happens
I dismissed that man from my service just yesterday, Miss Vickers.
But as to character, Dalton was quite satisfactory until your doxy
of a maid got her hooks into him."

"I suppose Colette abducted your Dalton and
forced him to steal your horses. Gwenda paused in the midst of her
indignant little speech, and mulled it over in her mind. "Goodness,
that would be a diverting twist to a tale, wouldn't it? I wonder
what my publisher would think."

She wasn't sure, but she could tell full well
what Ravenel thought. His mouth was pinched together in a thin
white line to keep from cursing aloud.

"Where the dev— Where is that constable,
Leatherbury?"

"I'll just find out what's keeping him, my
lord." Leatherbury scuttled out with Ravenel hard upon his heels.
Gwenda bit back a smile. She liked the baron much better when he
was on a rampage than when one of his stuffy spells came over him
She supposed it was too bad of her to have teased him. The loss of
a few trinkets and clothing was nothing compared to the loss of a
fine pair of blooded horses.

But she doubted a village constable was going
to prove of much help to his lordship. He would be better off
pursuing the miscreants himself or hiring a professional
thief-taker.

The only bright spot of the morning came when
her footman James sought her out to tell her the carriage brace had
been fixed. She could depart for Brighton any time she was ready,
which was not likely to be long, Gwenda thought philosophically. It
was not as though she had a great deal to pack.

With Bertie whisking by her side, Gwenda was
on her way upstairs to do so, when the boots passed by her, going
down. The lanky young man appeared just as agitated as the rest of
the inn staff by all the untoward happenings.

"Ain't it just awful, miss?" the boots
moaned. "Such doings at the White Hart I never thought to see. And
to top it all, someone's gone and pinched one of them Hessians his
lordship gave me to polish. I ask you, what would anyone want with
just one boot?"

Thankfully, the man rushed on his way without
waiting for an answer, as Gwenda froze upon the stair, glancing
down at her dog. "Oh, Bertie," she said. "You didn't."

The innocent wag of his tail told her
nothing. She knew Bertie could contrive to look guileless even with
bits of leather sticking between his teeth. With a sinking feeling
she returned to her own room.

She finally located Ravenel's boot under the
bed. The rolled-down leather top looked as though it had been
attacked by a party of rabid squirrels.

"Bertie, how could you?" Gwenda moaned. "Out
of all the guests at this inn, why did you have to single out Lord
Ravenel's boot?"

Bertie whined and hung his head, looking
suitably ashamed