The Road to Gretna (3 page)

Despite her constant sense of urgency. Penny had to admit that she was somewhat peckish, too.

The rumble of the carriage wheels on the cobbles of Biggleswade’s market square roused Angus. It was market day, and though the hour was still early, already stalls were being set up. The chariot threaded its way between carts loaded with sacks of carrots, potatoes, and peas, crates of runner beans, baskets of vegetable marrows, punnets of red currants and bunches of parsley.

They turned in at the White Hart, a low, timber-framed building older and less fashionable than its modem rival across the square, the Crown. Angus pulled out his steel-cased watch and consulted it.

“Fifteen mile in not much more than an hour and a half,” he said with satisfaction, as though it had been his idea to hire decent horses and tell the post-boy to spring them.

Penny was tempted to hire a private parlour, but she was afraid it would mean a battle with Angus over her extravagance. Though they would be easier to find in the coffee room, Uncle Vaughn was surely not yet on their trail. He was not even due home from his business in Hampshire until tonight. She postponed the battle.

The coffee room, its low beams blackened by centuries of smoke, was full of local farmers and London dealers come down to buy produce for Covent Garden market. A harassed waiter cleared a table for them in a corner near the door. Penny sat with her back to the wall and a clear view of the door; not that she thought it would do her any good, but at least she wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

Sitting still made her nervous. She wished they were back on the road, putting miles between them and London. Her appetite had deserted her, and when the waiter asked for her order, she requested tea and a toasted muffin with marmalade.

“You must eat something more sustaining, Penelope,” Angus advised kindly. “There is a long journey ahead of us.”

“Two rashers of bacon,” she added.

“I’ll have the same,” Mrs. Ratchett decided, “but make it three rashers, and a broiled kidney, two boiled eggs—three-minute eggs, mind!—with bread and butter, and if you’ve got some good kippers, bring me a pair. And a pint of porter to wash it down.” Her chair creaked as she leaned back and folded her plump hands in her vast lap, her little eyes bright with anticipation.

“A dish of porridge,” said Angus, “and a glass of ale.”

“Ought you not to eat something more sustaining?” Penny asked, half teasing, half concerned that he was stinting himself because of her chaperon’s large and doubtless expensive order.

“Porridge is the most sustaining food in existence,” he informed her.

In spite of the crowd, their breakfasts arrived quickly. Penny was finished with hers in ten minutes. She sat sipping tea in an agony of impatience while Mrs. Ratchett chewed endlessly at her mountain of food and Angus called for a second helping.

“Not bad for a Sassenach cook,” he commented. “‘Tis well seasoned and properly soaked overnight, not thrown together in an hour or less.”

“I daresay there are many Scots travelling the Great North Road,” said Penny, and added, “If you will excuse me, I should like to take a little exercise.”

“I cannot think it wise, my dear, not on your own. The town is crowded this morning.”

“I just want to wander about the market for a few minutes.”

“‘If sinners entice thee, consent thou not,’" said Mrs. Ratchett, cracking the top of her second egg with a teaspoon. “They’re a rough lot, miss, them from Covent Garden.”

“I shall stroll with you in the yard while the horses are hitched up,” Angus promised.

Penny might have gone anyway had she not been trapped between Mrs. Ratchett and the wall. Apart from wanting to stretch her limbs, she would have liked to see the market. The men in the coffee room were calling for their reckonings and departing. She was sure there was a lively scene outside.

Sighing, she gave up hope of seeing it except in passing.

At last Mrs. Ratchett took her last mouthful of muffin, concealed a discreet belch in her napkin, arid reached for her tankard of porter, already mostly vanished into the unfathomable depths. Angus finished off his ale. Penny was about to rise before either could order anything else when a striking couple entered the room.

Henrietta, exquisite as always in a pale blue carriage dress, was looking up archly at her escort. At him Penny frankly stared. So that was the man who had saved her from a nasty fall. He was dark, decidedly handsome but with a sardonic look; his hair cut in a fashionable Brutus. His clothes, though unobtrusive, were elegant. A superbly fitted dark blue coat, a cravat of moderate height, neat despite his journeying, fawn waistcoat, buckskins and glossy Hessians clad a form not tall but well-proportioned. That he was no weakling Penny knew from experience.

Altogether his appearance was unexceptional, yet somehow he had a dashing, almost reckless air which she was sure would always make him stand out in a crowd.

Noting her interested gaze, the gentleman bowed to her with a faintly mocking smile. Henrietta turned and saw her. An expression of alarm crossed her pretty, heart-shaped face. She rushed across to their corner table.

“Penny, pray say you will not tell Papa you have seen me!” she begged, her blue eyes wide with entreaty. “I am eloping, you see. Promise you will not give me away!”

Try as she might, Penny could not contain her merriment. “I won’t,” she gasped through her laughter. “I promise.”

Henrietta looked offended. “I cannot guess what you find so funny, I vow.”

“Why, I am eloping, too.”

“You?” Henrietta looked her up and down in astonishment. “But who...?” She turned her gaze on Angus, who had risen at her approach.

“Pray permit me to present Dr. Knox,” said Penny formally, enjoying herself. “Angus, this is Miss Henrietta White, a near neighbour of mine.

“How do you do, ma’am,” he said, bowing.

The gentleman had followed Henrietta at a more dignified pace. Over her head, Penny met his dark eyes and saw that he shared her amusement at the situation. That nearly set her off again.

“Henrietta, will you not introduce us to your...er...friend?” she asked in a somewhat unsteady voice.

“To Jason?” Glancing back at him, she said doubtfully, “I suppose so. Jason, this is Penny—Penelope—Bryant. Jason is Lord Kilmore, Penny. He’s a baron."

“My lord.” Doing her best to hide her surprise that Henrietta had caught a nobleman, Penny struggled to her feet. It was impossible to curtsy in the confined space.

“Miss Bryant, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said smoothly, but with such meaning in his voice that she knew he recognized her.

She smiled at him, grateful for his discretion in not revealing their previous meeting, where she had made such a cake of herself. “My lord, may I make known to you Dr. Angus Knox—though we are travelling as Mr. and Miss Cox,” she added, remembering suddenly.

The men nodded to each other. To dispel his lordship’s bored look, Penny added grandly, “And my
dame de compagnie
, Mrs. Ratchett, who is playing the part of my aunt.”

“Now, miss, there’s no call to interduce me. I knows my place, I’m sure. Nor I don’t hold with swearing. ‘Keep thy tongue from evil,’ says I.”

“Swearing?” Penny was puzzled.

“Damn
de compagnie
,” murmured his lordship, stressing the first word. “I believe Miss Bryant-Cox was speaking French, ma'am.”

“Oh, well if it’s French, now, I’m sure there can’t be no objection, my lord,” said Mrs. Ratchett amicably.

Penny avoided catching the baron’s eye. He might have the savoir-faire to hide his mirth, but she knew that once again she would have to laugh.

CHAPTER THREE

“My, his lordship were that condescending,” marvelled Mrs. Ratchett, heaving herself into the rocking chariot. “Fancy him asking to join us at table! ‘The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb.’ What a pity you was in such a rush to leave, miss.”

“We have been here for near an hour,” Penny pointed out irritably. Returning anxiety had quashed her merriment. One more quotation, she thought, and she was going to give the woman a sharp set-down.

Angus climbed in. As the carriage began to move, he said, “I told the boy to stop at St. Neots. It is only ten miles, but Huntingdon is not much less than twenty and fresh horses will more than make up the time lost in stopping. I trust you approve, my dear?”

“I expect you are right.” She smiled at him, grateful that he was willing to indulge her sense of urgency, though he didn’t share it. True, he had taken his time over breakfast, but there was no hurrying Mrs. Ratchett in any case.

That good lady, somnolent after her huge meal, was nodding in her corner once more. Snores were probably preferable to her conversation, Penny decided, if conversation was the right word for her utterances.

“Have you known Miss White long?” Angus enquired.

“Several years, since the Whites moved to Russell Square. We have never been close friends, though. We went to different schools, and she’s three years younger than I. Mr. White is a banker. He and Papa did business together occasionally.”

“I did not care to see an innocent young girl with yon fine gentleman. He had a distressingly satirical look. Lord or no, he’s a fortune-hunter, I fear.”

“That was my first thought,” Penny agreed. “But if he were in the basket they would not be travelling in such a splendid carriage, with four horses.”

“How do you know which vehicle is theirs?”

“I saw it in the mews, when I was waiting for you. And I saw him, too, just enough to recognize him now. There is something...distinctive about him.”

He frowned. “If he is a lord with well-lined pockets, why does he need to elope?”

“I wondered whether perhaps he is...well, not quite respectable.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she regretted them. For some reason she felt she had betrayed Lord Kilmore. “Mr. White is excessively protective of Henrietta,” she hurried to add.

“‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’" observed Mrs. Ratchett, startling Penny, who had thought her asleep.

“He may well be both a rake and one step ahead of the bailiffs,” Angus pointed out. “I daresay he has paid for the journey by borrowing on his expectations, or perhaps Miss White is providing the wherewithal.” He looked conscious. Penny knew it irked him that she was paying the post charges.

“Henrietta couldn’t do that. She was used to complain to me because her father never gives her more than a little pin-money. He says she has not enough common sense to pay her own bills as I do. He’s quite right, too. She is sometimes positively shatter-brained.”

“A pretty young lady cannot be expected to be practical,” said Angus with unwonted indulgence. “I wish I could be sure she will not regret running off with his lordship, but as long as she appears contented with her choice, we have no grounds for interference.”

“No, it’s none of our affair,” said Penny firmly.

He was quite capable, she thought, of attempting to thwart Lord Kilmore if he considered it his duty. His sense of responsibility was too strong to be overawed by a title. Indeed, unlike Mrs. Ratchett, he had not appeared particularly gratified by his lordship’s condescension, and Penny had to admire him for it.

As the chariot rattled across Bedfordshire between flat fields of vegetables bordered by willows and poplars, she compared the two men. With his sandy hair, his round, freckled face, his clothes neat and respectable but neither new nor elegant, stocky Angus was no match in appearance for the baron’s stylish dress and handsome face. In that respect each couple was well suited. Henrietta’s dainty, golden-haired beauty was the perfect foil for Lord Kilmore’s dark good looks. Sighing, Penny recalled thinking them a striking couple when they entered the coffee room of the White Hart.

Having once heard herself described as a “strapping great carrot-headed wench,” she was all too aware that she was as unable to compete with Henrietta as Angus was with his lordship.

In manner, too, Angus came in second. Not that she cared about fashionable polish, or really minded carrying her own bag. But Lord Kilmore’s ready appreciation of the humour of their meeting was more attractive than she wanted to admit. Angus hadn’t seen the absurdity of it.

Yet again she herself fell short of the ideal. She was a practical person with a mind of her own, and gentlemen preferred helpless, clinging females. Even Angus thought no worse of Henrietta for her lack of common sense. His reaction was a gallant impulse to rush to her rescue.

That was true chivalry, much more important than carrying a portmanteau. Where character was concerned, Angus was the winner. His argument had convinced Penny that Lord Kilmore was more than likely a fortune-hunter. She had no doubt of Angus’s motives in that respect, having been put to a great deal of trouble to persuade him to elope with her. Had he wanted her money he would have agreed at once, but he had persisted in refusing to believe she was in genuine need of his protection from her uncle’s scheming.

Glancing across at him, she felt guilty. He didn’t really want to marry her. She had traded shamelessly on his kindheartedness, for that and his dedication to medicine were the only characteristics she knew of him. Until she had decided her only option was to run away, their conversations had mostly concerned her aunt’s multitudinous ailments.

“Tell me about Scotland,” she said impulsively. “You trained at Edinburgh, did you not? Is it a pleasant city to live in?”

He looked surprised but complied. “A fine city, and the finest medical faculty in the world.”

His description, more of his training than of the town, carried them as far as St. Neots, where they pulled in at the thatched Sun Inn. Unfortunately, the stop woke Mrs. Ratchett. Though her appetite for sleep was as gluttonous as her appetite for food, she was sated with both after her post-breakfast nap.

Penny resolved to ignore her presence as much as possible.

After a quick change of horses, they were about to leave when Lord Kilmore’s carriage pulled up beside them and its occupants descended. Feeling that it would be rude to depart without exchanging a word, Penny let down her window. Henrietta danced up to her.