Candice Hern (11 page)

“Why, Eleanor,” Simon said, smiling broadly, “what a terribly romantic story. How unlike you.”

“Horrid man.”

Simon took her elbow and tugged her closer. “Look here:

“F.H. 1754. A poet after my own heart. I’ll wager the other window has as many messages. Let’s see who can find the oldest.”

She gave him a smile as if to acknowledge and approve his attempt to distract her. When she leaned over to inspect the window on the other side of the room, she said, “Good heavens, there
are hundreds of them. Not so many verses, though. Just short messages and initials, the usual thing. ‘I love Dolly Walker–J.B. 1733.’ And here’s ‘Sweet Jane Dorrit’ with a carved heart, dated 1714.”

“Aha. I can top that. ‘E.G. loves P.T 1706.’”

“They are not
all
messages of love, you know. ‘Peter Holdern was here—1701.’”

“Ah, but ‘Annie S—my own true love—1698.’”

“You’re incorrigible, Simon. Ever the romantic. Oh, here’s an interesting one. ‘We march with Prince Charlie—1745.’ A poignant bit of history. I wonder who it was and if he survived Culloden?”

“But I still have you beat with 1698.”

“Wait. I have one: ‘Noe heart more true than mine to you—A.W. 1636.’”

“No. Really? 1636? And such a charming sentiment. Can I top that? Let’s see. No. No, I can’t find an earlier date, but how’s this one for pure sentiment:

“J.M. 1762. You see, Eleanor? I am not the only one who dreams of lifelong love and happiness.”

“And I wish you luck in finding it.”

“Shall I carve something?” he asked.

“You have a soppy verse at hand, no doubt.”

“I trust there’s not enough time to carve one of my odes.” Besides, the ode to her upper lip was a work in progress, not quite ready for immortality
on a window ledge. “I thought something short and simple.”

“Ah. Then perhaps, ‘The Busybody—Impractical advice freely given.’”

He laughed. “No, even simpler. Just a name.”

“‘Simon—1801.’ Atrifle uninspired, but straightforward.”

“No, I would not carve ‘Simon.’”

She gave him a quizzical look. “What, then?”

“‘Eleanor.’ A simple tribute.”

Simon met her gaze boldly across the room, and a charged silence crackled in the air between them. Her green eyes darkened with an expression he would swear was longing, a look that caught at his gut and almost stopped his heart. He took a step toward her…

The parlor door swung open with an earsplitting creak and Obidiah Hackett made a noisy and breathless entrance.
Damn
. Eleanor turned away from Simon and stood in the middle of the room with a hand clasped to her breast. Her eyes grew wide in anticipation.

Hackett removed his hat and wiped his brow. “We found ’em.”

Eleanor gave a tiny gasp. “You found Belinda?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Hackett said. “A misfortunate choice of words. I meant we found their trail again. They took the Buxton road and were last seen at the Three Crowns. I’ll bet my brass buttons they returned to the main coach road at Stockport. Howsomever, I must leave now if I
am to ascertain that information tonight. Mumby’s already on his way. It’s gettin’ close to dark, so I recommend you remain for the night at the Three Crowns in Buxton. One of us’ll ride back with a report.” He swept a brief bow. “Ma’am. Guv’ner.”

Simon followed him into the corridor and slipped him a few coins. “Please hurry,” he said.

Hackett nodded, pocketed the money, and turned to leave, but then stopped. “By the by, guv’ner,” he said, “all the inns at Buxton looked prodigitous busy. You might have to slap down a few extra guineas to find a room.”

When Simon stepped back into the parlor, Eleanor had already put on her pelisse and was in the process of tying the ribbons of her bonnet. The lighthearted manner that so animated her face mere minutes ago, as well as that brief glimpse of something else, had disappeared, and she was all business once again.

“Let’s go,” she said.

I
t was late when Buxton came into view. They had traveled through bleak forbidding hills and moorland heath, past desolate plateaus and dramatic limestone cliffs to reach the new spa town. It was like gliding into a natural bowl within the peaks; the sparkling, modern town was surrounded on three sides by an amphitheater of wild green hills.

“How lovely,” Eleanor said. “Oh, look. There’s a grand crescent.” The magnificent, sweeping semicircular building with its bright new stone gleamed softly in the waning twilight. “It’s almost like a miniature Bath.”

“That’s what the Duke of Devonshire hoped to achieve,” Simon said, “when he poured so much of his money into building up Buxton. There are natural warm springs here, you know. The Romans are
said to have had wells here, though none survive. They named the place Aquae Arnemetiae—Spa of the Goddess in the Grove. St. Anne’s well has for centuries been thought to be a holy place, its waters to have healing properties. Cromwell had the well locked up in hopes of destroying belief in its power.”

“Good heavens, how do you know so much about it?” Eleanor allowed a note of mockery to color her voice. “Did you memorize a guidebook to impress me?”

“I know the area well. I have a small house here in the Peak.” He smiled then, almost disarming her with the twinkle in that cornflower gaze. “But I am pleased to have impressed you.”

She would not be disarmed again. “I thought you lived in your formidable father’s house in London.”

“I stay there when I happen to be in London. But I actually spend much of my time up here in Derbyshire. I have good friends with a home nearby, and we spend a lot of time together in leisurely conversation, writing, or tramping about.”

“Communing with nature, I daresay.”

His smile broadened. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I find the country much more inspiring, more
romantic
, than the city.

Eleanor’s brows lifted in surprise. This was not quite what she would have expected from the overwrought pen of the Busybody. “Yours?”

“Wordsworth.”

Ah. It figured.

“But like him, I love the area with its wild moorland scenery and its bracing air. Some of the towns and villages are quite charming. Buxton”—he nodded his head in the direction of the town as they made their way toward its center—“though quite old, is newly developed. So far, however, it has not quite achieved Devonshire’s expectations or gained the level of popularity he had hoped.”

“Really? It looks fairly popular at the moment.”

The postillions had slowed their pace due to an extraordinary amount of traffic in the supposedly sleepy little spa town. The High Street as well as all other roads and byways within sight were crowded with all manner of vehicles: large traveling carriages with caped coachmen at the reins and pairs of liveried footmen standing at the back; postillion-mounted teams pulling private escutcheoned chaises and hired yellow bounders; sleek two-wheeled curricles with their owners at the ribbons and young tigers seated behind; and an assortment of more humble country gigs and dog carts. Men on horseback wove between the vehicles and pedestrians strolled about.

It reminded Eleanor of Hyde Park on a late afternoon, though not quite as fashionable. Many of the gentlemen looked to be nattily attired dandies, but she saw no women sporting the latest bonnets, preening and posing in an open barouche or landau. Even so, it was not the sort of crowd one expected to find in the middle of Derbyshire’s Peak district.

“Hackett mentioned that the town was crowded,” Simon said, “but he didn’t say why. I wonder what is going on? The town doesn’t appear to be decked out for a fair, and it’s not much of a market town.”

“We might not be able to find rooms for the night with all this crowd. Perhaps we should just wait for another report from Hackett or Mumby and move on.”

“I agree,” he said, “but we can’t be certain when one of them will return. It might not be until quite late, or even early tomorrow morning. I’m afraid we’ll be at the Three Crowns for some time.”

They soon reached the large coaching inn to find its yard jammed with carriages. The postillions somehow managed to find a clear spot and led the team to it. Simon jumped down and came to help Eleanor out. “I’d better see about a fresh team first,” he said. “With the inn so busy, I want to make sure we have horses in the morning. You can wait here if you like.”

“No, I’ll just go inside and see about the possibility of rooms. Maybe there’s an innkeeper susceptible to a bit of flirtation.”

Simon grinned, showing the dimples. “No man could resist those flashing green eyes. I have no doubt that when I return I shall find you have secured the best rooms in town.”

“And if I don’t, I shall ask for the innkeeper’s wife, and allow you to work your wiles upon her. You do have a way with them, as I recall.”

Eleanor walked away with Simon’s laughter in her wake. No matter how sarcastic or disparaging her words, Simon never seemed to take offense. He had an almost unbearably cheerful nature. It probably came from having dimples. It would be so easy to succumb to such a man, but she was determined not to do so. She would admit to finding him attractive, but that was as far as she was willing to go. She would not, under any circumstances, allow herself to be charmed, wooed, or seduced by Simon Westover. She knew exactly where such foolishness might lead; she had been down that path once before and had no intention of going there again.

The first door she came to seemed to be the public room. The sounds from inside indicated a boisterous, even rowdy clientele. Blast. She had little hope of finding available rooms with such a crowd. But neither did she relish a night on a hard bench in a noisy taproom.

She squared her shoulders, and her confidence, and pushed open the door.

“Well, well, well. What have we here? Look
what a pretty little thing the wind blew in, fellows. Come here, sweetheart. Give us a kiss.”

Eleanor was a frustrating enigma to Simon. She had been cross as sticks ever since leaving Ashbourne. She never missed an opportunity to disparage his idealism and poke jibes at the Busybody. Even her joking and bantering was likely a prelude to a rousing but good-natured argument over dinner. He never minded their debates. She was an intelligent woman, and conversation with her could be exhilarating. He just wished she weren’t so damned cynical. And afraid.

It seemed that each time they had experienced a pleasant moment together, even a chaste moment of mutual attraction, she withdrew afterward into this other more contrary, combative mood. He suspected she had the need to feel in control of every situation, and the possibilities of physical attraction threatened to break down that control.

Poor Eleanor. He wondered what had happened to make her so afraid to feel, so afraid to allow herself a little passion. Who had hurt her? Mr. Tennant? Whatever it was and whoever it was, the harm was deep and solidly rooted. She would not let go of it, no matter how hard she might want to. Instead, she used mockery and censure as a sort of armor.

There had been moments—when their eyes met in an intense, brief melding, when they had kissed—
when Simon was certain she felt the same charge of physical awareness he did. And there had been that blatantly sexual moment between them at the time of the carriage accident, after their chaste kiss. Each incident, though, had lasted barely an instant, and no more, before Eleanor had pulled away.

Simon decided his own private quest on this journey would be to gain her trust so that he might teach her how to stop being afraid.

He wandered over to the stables and made arrangements to have four fresh horses and two postillions available in the morning. The inn was popular and accommodated a large stable. The current busy state simply meant more work and more postboys to put up for the night, but no shortage of teams. Just to be safe, he dropped a few extra coins in the head ostler’s outstretched hand.

“Right you are, sir. We’ll have a team o’ four and two boys ready to leave whenever you say. Might be sooner’n you think, though. Don’t expect old Shorthose got a free cubbyhole or press this night. Three to a bed already, most like.”

“What’s all the activity, anyway?” Simon asked.

“The mill, o’ course.”

“Good Lord. There’s to be a mill?”

“You mean you ain’t here for it?” The ostler shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Silly time to come to Buxton if you ain’t here for the mill. Every Lad of the Fancy from Birmingham to York has come to see Crawley and Duggan go at it tomorrow.”

For the first time, Simon took closer note of the crowds of people milling about the inn yard and the streets. With the exception of a couple of old bawds, there was not a single woman in sight. The town was crowded with men. Lots of men.

Good God! Eleanor had just gone alone into the public room of an inn teeming with men who’d come to see a fight. High-spirited Corinthians out for a lark. Men who had no doubt already hoisted a few too many in honor of tomorrow’s match. Rowdy sportsmen who would not expect to see a respectable lady walk into their midst.

Simon took off at a run. He flung open the door to the noisy public room, and his heart plummeted to his boots.

Eleanor!

Kicking and clawing, she was in the clutches of a beefy drunken lout. He had pulled her onto his lap, and though she fought to get away, he held her fast. One of the man’s large hands covered her breast, and he was trying to kiss her.

Rage cut through Simon like a sharp knife and took full possession of him. In two long strides he was standing next to the lecherous oaf. He grabbed the man’s wrist and removed the impudent hand from Eleanor’s breast. He kept hold of the wrist in a viselike grip while he hauled back and rammed a solid fist straight into the great lummox’s face.

The drunken fool tilted backward like a felled tree and hit the floor with a resounding thud.

Eleanor had never been more glad to see anyone in all her life. Simon put his hands on her shoulders, and his anxious eyes searched her up and down, making sure she was unharmed. “My God, Eleanor. Are you—”

“Simon, look out!”

He spun around, straight into the fist of one of her assaulter’s cronies. Simon rolled back on his heels with a grunt, but did not fall.

The assailant glared at Simon, his fists held at the ready. “That’s what you get, you impertinent, rufous-headed varlet, for moving in once a man’s staked his claim. Yon fellow’s my friend, you see, and we don’t take kindly to strangers cutting the ground from under a chap.”

Simon took a nonchalant step forward and smashed the man’s jaw with a powerful right. “And that’s what
you
get for insulting a lady.”

And suddenly all hell broke loose as the entire taproom erupted in a mad frenzy of fisticuffs, shouting, and flying furniture. The man Simon had hit roared in outrage and lunged at him, delivering blow upon blow. Eleanor dropped to her knees to avoid a wayward fist and crawled behind an overturned table for safety. She was near the door and could have easily escaped, but some imp of mischief made her want to stay and watch.

Poor Simon
. There were at least three men attacking him at once, and though he valiantly defended himself, he was badly outnumbered. Eleanor felt
around on the damp floor and found a pewter tankard. She took aim at one of the men battering Simon, threw, and the heavy vessel struck the man just above the ear. Enraged but uncertain of the source of the blow, the fellow began swinging madly in all directions. He connected with the nose of a nearby man, who retaliated, and the two of them began to pound each other in earnest.

Just when she thought she’d have to launch a second missile to distract another of Simon’s assailants, a very large gentleman shoved his way through the crowd. When he reached Simon, he took hold of one of the men attacking him, lifted him as though he weighed nothing, and threw the man over his back as casually as if he were tossing table scraps to a dog. Two other gentlemen, somewhat smaller, appeared to be companions to the large fellow, and the three of them, along with Simon, began to stage a mighty defense.

At least now the numbers were more even.

The noise was deafening: a cacophony of shouting, laughing, cheering; the crashing of furniture; the shattering of crockery and glass; the thwack of fist meeting flesh and bone; the grunts and howls of pain and fury; the rumble of walls quaking and windows rattling; the reverberating thud of fallen bodies; the high-spirited, tumultuous, and perfectly idiotic excitement of men having fun.

Amid the melee, Simon kept looking anxiously about the room, no doubt seeking out Eleanor. She signaled from behind the table to let him know she
was all right. He caught her eye, looked relieved, and took a punch to the gut for his trouble.

He ducked the next few blows and began to make his way backward toward Eleanor’s table sanctuary, swinging out defensive and very accurate fists to all would-be attackers. The large ally kept close by Simon, engaging in a series of one-on-one clashes with any who threatened him or Simon or either of his two colleagues.

By now, though, there were no particular sides to the battle—just general brawling for the sheer pleasure of it. No one seemed to focus anymore on Simon as the thrower of the first punch. In fact, no one seemed to notice, or care, that he was swinging less often and was making his deliberate way toward the door.

He had almost reached Eleanor, who was by now thoroughly sick of the whole business and wanted to leave, when a man leaped out of nowhere and clipped him with a left to the ear. In an instant, they were raining blows upon each other, and Eleanor was forgotten.

Disgusted, she rose from her safe haven, picked up an overturned stool, and brought it crashing down on the head of Simon’s opponent. The man collapsed like a house of cards.