Midnight Bride (17 page)

Before nightfall Hartley was well on his way toward London, the uncomfortable jostling of the coach provided by his former host an unpleasant reminder of the ending of his visit. With every jolt his expression grew harder.

Thinking back over his visit, he admitted to himself that perhaps his timing had been less well chosen than usual. Apparently Elizabeth was still distressed over the episode with the maid. That morning she had not tried to hide her condemnation. For a moment his face blackened with anger; then suddenly he smiled and leaned back on the gray velvet squabs, his hand clenched on the strap beside him.

The First week of his visit had gone extremely well. That Susan was a saucy piece. He grinned as he remembered how eagerly she had fallen into his hands. No matter what the girl had claimed, she had been as eager as he. "Damn all maiden
ladies
who try to spoil our fun," he muttered, remembering the accusatory look in Elizabeth's eyes. If she and that silly cousin of hers had stayed away for a few days longer, he would have been able to quiet Susan and win enough money to ensure he would not have to worry about finances ever again.

As usual when he was alone and one of his schemes had gone awry, he began to review the situation. He smiled mirthlessly, his eyes glinting blue ice. Dunstan, he would have to send him the money he had lost to him as soon as he arrived in London. With quarter day still some time away, he would need to practice economy, something he hated. Still, he could not afford to have people questioning his ability to pay his gambling losses. Thinking of the comfortable existence he had been forced to give up for his small rooms made his anger flare again. He flung open the small curtain between him and the driver. "Spring '
em
," he
said,
his voice harsh.

"But, sir—"

"Spring '
em
." This time the command was quiet, so quiet that the coachman stopped trying to argue and sent his whip crackling over the backs of the pair he was driving. He ordered the groom to watch closely for approaching vehicles, for the road was bordered by rock fences and was so narrow that if another coach
approached,
a collision would be hard to avoid.

Just when the coachman was beginning to believe he was clear of the danger, he heard a loud crack as he hit a particularly deep rut. During the next few minutes the coachman had all he could do to keep the coach upright and to stop the horses.

"What happened?" Hartley demanded, jumping from the coach. His face wore an angry expression that boded trouble for someone.

"The wheel, sir.
And one of the horses has come up lame," the coachman said, his face worried.

"How bad is it?"

"We'll need a wheelwright to fix it. There's a town up ahead. We stop there sometimes on our way to London," the man assured him.

"I'll take the other horse. You stay here. I'll send someone back for you when I reach the inn. I suppose there is an inn," Hartley said, his voice mocking.

"Yes, sir, the White Hart.
It's not large, but the innkeeper is honest," the coachman assured him. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve and loosed the last rein; then he led the horse over to Hartley. "He's sound enough, sir. You should be at the inn shortly." He took off his hat and dusted it against his trousers. "Don't know what the master will say about this."

Hartley glared at him. Taking the reins, he mounted. "Make certain nothing happens to my clothes," he ordered. Then he turned the horse and headed down the road.

"Don't know anyone who'd want the things. Too
perfumy
and tight for anyone I know," the coachman muttered as he watched Hartley spur the horse onward. "Hope he remembers to send someone for us. The older
chap don't
look so good." He nodded toward the wall, where Hartley's valet sat, his back against the wall and his head in his hands, for once totally oblivious to the damage he was doing to his clothing by sitting in the grass.

Breaking his usual silence, the groom said in a dry voice, "As long as we got his clothes, he will." Together they both chuckled. Bending their shoulders to the rear of the coach, they worked to move it from the road.
A short time later the mail coach lumbered by, the passengers on top laughing at their predicament.

At the White Hart, the innkeeper listened to Hartley and gave instructions: the best bedchamber prepared and men sent out to bring in the coach and the servants. Soon Hartley was sitting in a private room, a glass of wine in his hand, waiting for his meal. He stretched lazily, looking around him with interest.

When the door opened a short time later, he sat up. "It took you long enough," he said angrily. Then his eyes opened wide. "Susan?"

"What are you doing here?" she
asked,
her voice hostile. She tossed her guinea-gold curls proudly.

"I could ask the same of you, but I can see you've landed soft." He laughed at her expression. "I thought they paid you off."

The girl plunked the dishes on the table, sloshing the soup onto the top. She swung around and faced the man, her hands on her hips. The kerseymere dress a deep red, much too good for a girl in her position, swirled around her. It hugged her curves and amply displayed her full breasts. "You have no call to laugh at me, sir," she reminded him. "Thanks to you and the mistress I am my own employer. Or I will be soon."

"What do you mean?" Hartley leaned back in his chair again, smiling winsomely. He caught her hand and brought her over to him. Running his finger around the low neckline of her dress, he smiled and winked.

"I'll have none of you, Mr. Hartley. Now I know your ways, I know better than to trust you."

"You don't have to trust me for what I have in mind," he said, his voice soft and coaxing. He tried to pull her onto his lap, but she pulled away.

"What's the matter? Do I need to offer you money now?"

Her eyes glittered angrily. She whirled and crossed to the door. Lazily, Hartley rose and followed her. Just then a hearty voice called, "Susan? Here's the mail. Where are you?"

"I have to go." She reached for the latch, but his hand caught hers. "Please,
I
have to go. We have only a short while to get them back on the road."

Hartley pulled back. "Will I see you again?" he
asked,
his voice caressing.

Hesitantly she nodded. As he bent to kiss her, she opened the door and rushed from the room. Hartley stood there for a moment, looking after her. Then he headed back to the table. His face set, he came back to his meal, ripping a leg from a capon. He ate hungrily, his ears listening to the rumble of noise from the public room. When after less than a half hour the noise died and he heard the mail coach lumber away, he rang for the innkeeper. "Bring ingredients for a punch," he said quietly, taking the man's measure.

Within minutes the ingredients were assembled: lemons, nutmeg, arrack, brandy, sugar, and the rest. He watched carefully as the innkeeper heated the irons in the fire and mixed the ingredients, his round face earnest. When the punch was poured into Hartley's cup, he took a cautious sip and then nodded his satisfaction. "Have my servants arrived yet?"

"No, sir.
But the only horse I had to send is a walker. Hard to make him go. They should arrive shortly. Will there be anything else?" He stood there quietly for a moment, wishing the gentleman would hurry.

"The girl who came in here before?
Who is she?" Hartley
asked,
his voice carefully neutral.

"Susan?"
The
man
beamed. Hartley nodded.
"My wife-to-be.
Plan to marry as soon as my sister returns. It was my lucky day when she arrived." Warming to his subject, the innkeeper forgot his pressing business and rattled on. "You see, my sister left to get married. I couldn't begrudge her wanting her own home.
Left me in quite a bind, though.
No one to supervise the women.
And that meant I could hire only a certain type, if you know what I mean, sir.
No one to serve the noble ladies who stop here occasionally.
Quite a problem."
He shook his head. "Then Susan got off that mail coach. I took one look at her and struck up a conversation. Luckiest day of my life, I tell you that. Forced to leave her job because of unwelcome advances by the gentleman of the house, she was, and looking for work. Had some money
of her own
too. Together we'll make this the best inn in the area. That's our plan." He smiled and rubbed his hands. Realizing the rank of the man to whom he was talking, he stopped and stammered, "Sorry to ramble on, sir."

"No, I asked you. Did she tell you who had forced his attentions on her?" Hartley asked. His voice was guarded.

"Didn't need to hear.
That's what I told her. Many a young girl without a family has the same problem. Now she has me. I'll take care of her now." The set look on the innkeeper's face kept Hartley quiet.
Recalling his other duties, the man asked, "Will there be anything else, sir?
Susan makes good tarts. Some will be fresh from the oven soon."

"Tarts?"
Hartley laughed. "Have her bring me some while they are still warm." Nodding, the innkeeper bowed and left. Hartley sipped another cup of punch, his mind replaying the vision of

Susan in that red dress.
Before his dream became too vivid, the door to the room opened again. "Your servants have arrived, sir. Do you wish to speak to them?"

"The coachman perhaps.
And send my valet up to put out a change of clothes for me." Hartley's voice was lazy.

" '
Fraid
he can't, sir. Coachman had me send a boy for the doctor.
Seems your man has been hurt."
The innkeeper
Fixed
his eyes on the gentleman stretched out in the chair, his eyes half closed.

"Hmmm. Definitely
send
me that coachman." This time
Flartley's
tone carried the force of a whip. As soon as the door closed behind the man, Hartley stood up, crossing to the only mirror in the room. He was standing there adjusting the lapels of his dove gray coat and the folds of his cravat when Charles
Beckworth's
servant entered. Noting the straight shoulders under the close-fitting jacket, the coachman kept his distance, saying nothing until Hartley finished.

Finally the silence grew more than he could bear. The coachman asked, "You wished to see me, sir?"

Hartley let a few more minutes go by in silence. He polished the fob of his watch on his handkerchief, straightened his cuffs, and checked the shine of his boots, somewhat dimmed by his ride. Then he turned. "Who gave you the authority to call the doctor for my man?" he
asked,
his voice almost so quiet the other man could not hear.