Brighton Road (9 page)

"I've seen that performance before," she said
bitterly. "Half the actors at Drury Lane should do remorse so well.
No, get away. I will not pet you, sir. You have sunk yourself
completely beneath reproach this time."

She snatched up the boot and thrust the dog
out of her path. Bertie trailed after her as she marched into the
hall. Perhaps if she was lucky, she would find Jarvis first. She
had a feeling the elderly valet would accept the return of the
Hessian much more calmly than Ravenel would.

But her luck was out. There was no sign of
the dignified valet. The baron was far more easy to locate. Gwenda
discovered him in the stableyard, shouting at the unfortunate
Leatherbury.

"What do you mean there are no post-horses
available?"

The landlord appeared about to burst into
tears. "I am sorry, my lord, but there isn't a single one. I don't
even have a horse of my own to lend you. The best I could do is a
farmer's donkey or if you would care to wait, something might be
had from the next village."

"I don't care to wait. Between your ostler's
carelessness and that fool of a constable, I have been delayed here
long enough."

Gwenda crept up behind Ravenel, holding the
boot behind her back. Now she understood how poor Mr. Leatherbury
must have felt earlier when he had to tell his lordship about his
stolen bays.

"Lord Ravenel!" she called.

He stiffened at the sound of her voice. Then
he spun about and favored her with an impatient glance. "What is
it, Miss Vickers?"

"I—I found your other boot."

"I wasn't aware the blasted thing was
missing."

She nodded unhappily and fetched the Hessian
from behind her back.

"Thank you," he said curtly, taking the boot
and starting to tuck it under his arm. He paused, his eyes arrested
by the teeth marks on the top. Then his gaze shifted from the
ravaged leather to where Bertie stood beside her panting, his
tongue hanging in a foolish dog's grin.

Ravenel clenched his jaw until it quivered.
Something seemed to explode inside of him. "Damnation!" he
bellowed.

Gwenda took a hasty step backward. "I am so
sorry."

"Sorry!" His lordship strode a little away
from her, his hands tightening on the boot as he strove to compose
himself.

"Please. I know you've had an absolutely
beastly time of it and it is partly my fault," Gwenda said,
following him. "If you would only allow me to make amends. I could
not help overhearing Mr. Leatherbury just now about the
post-horses. My carriage is repaired. I could take you---"

"Certainly not," Ravenel ground out between
his teeth. "I desire nothing except that you should keep your
distance from me, madam. You—you are the absolute mistress of
disaster!"

Gwenda flinched. Before he said anything more
that he would regret, Ravenel stalked back inside the inn, where
Jarvis awaited him in the private parlor.

The baron plunked the damaged boot down. "Get
rid of this thing."

Jarvis said nothing but quietly took charge
of the Hessian. "I have ordered your lordship's breakfast."

"I am not in the least hungry," Ravenel
snapped. Indeed, he had a strong suspicion that even the most
delectable beefsteak would have tasted like old shoe leather at
that particular moment. He knew he was behaving like a
temperamental schoolboy, and that realization did nothing to soften
his mood.

Not that he truly cared a damn about what
that blasted hound had done to his boot. It was just the final blow
to an already foul morning. Not only was his journey delayed
another day, but he had lost his bays. He had been quite proud of
those horses. Perfectly matched, they had cost him a tidy sum.

But he wasn't even sure if it was their theft
that gnawed at him as much as knowing what a prize fool he had been
made to look. Lecturing Miss Vickers about her servant and then to
have his own groom commit a far greater crime.

Jarvis's gentle voice broke into his
disquieting reflections. "You had no luck then, my lord, in
obtaining another conveyance?"

"None, unless you wish to jog along by common
stage or in a cart behind a farmer's donkey."

"I should not mind it, my lord."

"But I should," Ravenel lied.

As much as Ravenel loathed the prospect of
lingering about the White Hart, he knew he could not expose his
valet to the hardships of the stage or the donkey. "Of course, we
could always take Miss Vickers up on her generous offer," he said
sarcastically.

"What was that, my lord?"

"To travel with her in her carriage."

To Ravenel's consternation, Jarvis looked
pleased by the suggestion. "That would be most kind of your
lordship," the valet said. "I owned I have been concerned about
that unfortunate young lady. Losing all her money and now no maid
in attendance, left to travel all on her own."

"You might as well be concerned about
Boadicea, the warrior queen." Ravenel snorted. "I'll wager she left
far less havoc in her wake."

"The young lady does seem to have a penchant
for getting into trouble, my lord. All the more reason she should
not be permitted to journey to Brighton alone."

"That is her family's responsibility—not
mine."

"Very good, my lord," Jarvis said. There was
a shade of disapproval in his valet's eyes that Ravenel had never
seen there before.

He squirmed, made uncomfortable by it. Blast
it, Jarvis didn't even know the half of it. Ravenel had never sworn
or behaved with incivility to any female before. Miss Vickers had
induced him to do both within twenty-four hours of her
acquaintance.

Disquieting memories of the recent scene in
the inn yard flashed through his mind. Gwenda meekly offering him
the boot, trying desperately to apologize; the look of hurt in her
eyes when he had lashed out at her. He would have to beg her pardon
for that, but as to traveling with her---No, if for no other
reason, it would be dashed improper.

He had an impulse to simply pen her a note of
apology. It would be so much safer than going near the woman again,
but his conscience would not allow for any such shirking.

At first he hoped that she had already gone.
But he encountered her coming down the inn stairs, swinging what
was obviously an empty bandbox. She was wearing a bonnet that was
as hideous as her dress. The huge poke seemed to swallow her head,
making the piquant face sheltered beneath it seem absurdly
youthful, like a little girl got up in her mother's things. Her
usually candid green eyes regarded him with a wariness that made
him feel even more of a perfect brute.

He approached her stiffly. "Miss Vickers, I
want to apologize for my behavior in the inn yard just now."

She gave him an uncertain half smile. "Oh,
no. You had every right to be angry. It was terrible of Bertie, and
I would be only too happy to pay—"

"I had no right," he said firmly. "you have
suffered as much by these recent events as I have, and much more
graciously, I might add. Please say that you forgive me."

"Of course I do." She held out her hand, her
smile broadening into her customary expression of good humor.
Ravenel thought it was rather like watching the sun breaking
through the clouds on a dismal day and was astonished at the
poetical turn his mind seemed to have taken of late.

Instead of merely shaking her hand, he
carried it to his lips and brushed her long, slender fingertips
with a kiss, thus surprising himself again. It was a gallant
gesture he rarely felt comfortable according any lady.

Miss Vickers neither blushed not simpered in
the annoying way of most society misses. Her green eyes sparkled
with pleasure.

She gave his hand a squeeze. "Good. I am so
glad, we are friends again. Now perhaps you will reconsider my
offer to make use of my carriage."

"It is very kind of you, but it would not be
proper," he explained patiently as though to a child. "You see, you
have no female companion with you."

"But we would be in Brighton before
nightfall. And if anyone asked"—Gwenda nodded toward a point beyond
his shoulder—"we could tell them that your Jarvis there is my
uncle. Such a distinguished-looking man. I should not mind at all
claiming him for my relative."

Ravenel glanced around to see that Jarvis had
come up behind him. The elderly manservant was blushing like a
peony.

Ravenel shook his head. "No. I fear, Miss
Vickers, such proceedings would be most unwise."

"Oh, please. At least let me convey you to
another inn where you could hire a post chaise. I do feel so
wretchedly responsible for the fix you are in."

The baron prided himself on being rigid to
the point of inflexibility once he had made a decision. But he had
never in his life encountered such wide, pleading eyes. Well, he
thought, relenting, what harm could it do to go at least part of
the way with Miss Vickers and make sure she was headed safely on
the way to her destination this time.

"Very well." He sighed. "If you do not mind
waiting a few moments while I gather up my things."

Jarvis looked pleased, Miss Vickers
delighted. The only one yet suffering from qualms was Ravenel
himself. But what could possibly happen between here and the next
town?

He clung to that sanguine opinion until he
saw Miss Vickers's equipage being brought around. It was a spanking
new coach, and smart enough. But the footman who tossed the baron's
portmanteau up onto the back was a scruffy, ill-favored lad, half
drowning in a livery too large for him, the sleeve of which showed
signs of being employed as a handkerchief.

Yet it was the coachman, Fitch, who was
Ravenel's chief concern. The man perched upon his box. Beside him,
Spotted Bert panted as though eager for the journey to begin. The
dog looked far more ready than Fitch. The poker-stiff coachman's
tensed hands knotted about the reins in a way that Ravenel knew
marked the most amateur of whips.

As for the team, his lordship's expert eyes
knew a mismatched set when he saw it. He would have wagered his
last groat that those restive wheelers were beset with a tendency
to break into a gallop every chance they got.

This is a grave mistake, a stern voice warned
him, but Miss Vickers was smiling, waiting to be handed into the
coach. Ravenel had no choice but to do so. He leaped up after her,
wondering what he had let himself in for now.

As the carriage lumbered away from Godstone,
Gwenda settled back against the squabs, wondering why she felt so
absurdly pleased with herself. Perhaps it was a sense of
satisfaction from having persuaded one of the stubbornest men in
England to change his mind; perhaps it simply soothed her
conscience to be able to make some amends to his lordship after all
the difficulties she had brought down upon him: the eavesdropping,
the stolen bays, the ravaged boot.

But it was a satisfaction his lordship
obviously did not share Tensed into an attitude of pained
resignation, Ravenel sat opposite her, his broad shoulders braced
against the gentle sway of the well-sprung carriage. The reed-thin
Jarvis appeared quite lost in his master's shadow, as Ravenel's
large frame seemed to dominate the coach. Gwenda was conscious of
her knees almost brushing against his, of the tight-fitting doeskin
trousers that emphasized the muscular outline of his legs.

Gwenda was obliged to admit the real reason
she took pleasure in Ravenel's accompanying her. The man intrigued
her, with his stiff mannerisms so at odds with his gypsy-dark eyes,
the humor and the temper that he took such pains to suppress even
if it well nigh choked him, the gruffness that concealed a shyness,
an uncertainty she found rather endearing in such a
formidable-looking gentleman. Before they arrived at their
destination, Gwenda resolved to coax him into relaxing the rigidity
that threatened to carve premature age lines about his mouth and
eyes and to wring at least one smile from the man.

As though becoming aware of her earnest
regard, Ravenel shifted uncomfortably on his seat and then stared
out the window with frowning concentration. His long fingers
drummed upon his knee, beating out an impatient rhythm.

"Miss Vickers, I don't wish to sound as
though I'm complaining," he said, "but if we continue along at such
a snail's pace, I doubt any of us will reach Brighton this side of
Michaelmas."

"Certainly we will. We always travel this
slowly and still arrive well before nightfall. You see, Fitch—"
Gwenda broke off and coughed discreetly into her hand She had been
in Ravenel's company long enough to realize he might find it
unsettling to be told that her coachman was afraid of horses. She
continued, "Fitch is a most cautious driver because my dog oft gets
down to run with the carriage. Our nearest neighbor, Squire
Bennington, tried to train Bertie as a coaching dog, but I am
afraid he found Bertie rather lacking in gentlemanly reserve, so he
gave the dog to me?'

A chuckle escaped Gwenda. "Sometimes Bertie
even—" She halted again. She'd best not mention that, either—that
instead of running beneath the rear axle, her reckless dog would
insinuate himself under the pole tip and race the forefeet of the
wheelers and the leaders' flying hooves, wreaking such havoc on
poor Fitch's nerves that he needed a drop of whiskey to steady
himself. No, that bit of information would not help Ravenel to
relax. His lordship already had little cause to be fond of
Bertie.

But she had paused so long in her answer, she
found the baron regarding her rather suspiciously. She concluded
brightly, "Ah, sometimes Bertie runs the longest distances. You
would be quite astounded."

"I sincerely trust not, Miss Vickers,"
Ravenel said. "I have been astounded enough for one day."

"Of course," she said demurely, folding her
hands in her lap and reassuring herself how right she was to
withhold certain facts from his lordship. After all, Fitch had
faithfully promised after the last time that he would never get
foxed again.