Читать книгу One Night with a Regency Lord - Lucy Ashford, Isabelle Goddard - Страница 13

Rufus Glyde was in no pleasant mood. He’d been driving almost continuously for days without once ever sighting his quarry. In addition he’d had to endure the sharp tongue of Brielle St Clair when he’d dared to enquire for her granddaughter at the Bath house. It had been a terse encounter on both sides, but he’d definitely come off worse, told in no uncertain terms that his intervention in family affairs was not welcome. It had been the first intimation for Brielle that all was not well with her granddaughter. She was furious that Lord Silverdale had not come himself to tell her of Amelie’s flight, but instead left it to this sneering and patronising stranger to break the news. Most of all she was desperately worried. She felt sick when she thought of what might have befallen the young girl. Her dread fuelled a naturally acerbic tongue and Glyde was still smarting from his dismissal.

As he entered the George the idea that he was on a wild goose chase became insistent. For a while he’d thought that he might be on Amelie’s trail. At Reading where he’d stopped for the night, he’d overheard a conversation between two travellers that gave him pause. One of them had told the strange story of a stage held up on the Bath road, not for jewellery or money, but for a young woman travelling in the coach. It had caused something of a sensation when the passengers had disembarked at Bath and begun to tell their tale.

He’d been sufficiently intrigued by the news to abandon his return to London and head once more in the direction of Bath. By dint of questioning everyone he met—and most of these he castigated as ignorant bumpkins—he’d managed to discover the district in which the hold-up had occurred and then begun to cast around at various inns for news of the errant Amelie. So far it had proved a fruitless task and the George looked no more promising.

Entering the taproom, he was greeted by drab, outmoded furnishings and the stale odour of old beer and tobacco. He turned round full circle. The afternoon sunlight in its attempt to pierce the dirty windows only served to emphasise the dilapidation within. Surely Amelie Silverdale would not be residing here. The inhabitants, if there were any, were either dead or asleep. Nothing stirred. Irritably, he rang the bell on the counter and when there was no response, rang it again more loudly. Mrs Skinner appeared from the top of the cellar steps and scowled at him.

‘Did you want somethin’?’

Her voice was not encouraging. Glyde looked the woman up and down. She was gaunt, badly dressed and with a face marked by ill temper.

‘It would appear so since I rang the bell,’ he countered acidly.

‘Well, what is it, then? I’m busy.’

He tried to keep the rising anger from his voice; he needed this woman’s help. He told the same story as he’d told at the other dozen inns he’d visited. He’d been travelling with a friend, but they’d become separated. He carefully avoided mentioning the sex of his companion. His friend had not appeared at the rendezvous they’d agreed on and he, Glyde, feared that his comrade had met with an accident. Did the good lady have anyone staying at the inn who might be his friend?

‘Nobody you’d know,’ she sniffed.

‘But you do have someone staying?’ he persisted.

Mrs Skinner grudgingly admitted the fact but added, “E ain’t your friend, ‘e ain’t a top-lofty gent like you.’

‘My friend is hardly top-lofty. May I ask who this person is?’

‘You can arsk, but mebbe I ain’t of a mind to tell you.’

Again he had visibly to control his anger. ‘I’m sure we can remedy your lack of memory.’

A sneer slashed his thin white face as he took out his bill folder and extracted a note of some considerable value. Mrs Skinner blinked at this unexpected largesse and thought of extending her prize curtains to the rooms above.

“Is name’s Wendover and I’ve told you ‘e ain’t a gent, not with ‘is scruffy clothes.’

Glyde’s hopes withered. For a moment he’d thought he might finally be close to success, but a male resident who wore scruffy clothes and wasn’t a ‘gent’ as Mrs Skinner put it, was not someone who could be of any interest.

‘And he is your only guest?’

‘You’re a nosy one, ain’t you?’ Mrs Skinner’s hand closed over the tantalising money bill. ‘As it ‘appens, ‘Is sister’s staying with him. They ‘ad an accident, too. Funny, the number of accidents round ‘ere these days.’

Glyde ignored the witticism, but his mind was working rapidly. A sister of Mr Wendover might mean a young woman, and this young woman could just be the prey he sought. It was a chance in a thousand, but he had to know. He cast around for a way of distracting Mrs Skinner, who appeared to have taken root in front of her benefactor. His luck suddenly took a turn for the better. Will, who had been working in the cellar alongside his mistress, appeared at that moment at the top of the stairs.

‘Mrs Skinner, ma’am, where d’you want the new barrels put?’

‘Where d’you think, you numbskull?’ was Mrs Skinner’s pleasant reply.

‘There’s not enough room behind the old barrels,’ Will bravely continued.

‘Dratted men,’ she muttered, ‘can’t be relied on to do anythin’.’ Giving Glyde a last withering glance, she disappeared back down the cellar steps.

Her head had hardly faded from view before he made his move. In a few seconds he’d reached the stairway leading to the top of the house and made ready to search out Mr Wendover and his mysterious sister for himself.

Gareth stared blankly through the window at the curricle as it disappeared towards the stables. From the rear it looked to be a nobleman’s carriage, but he had no idea who it belonged to or why it was at the George. Amelie had evidently gained a better view and she had recognised it. The thought came to him that this might be her previous employer, enraged by her dubious departure. He realised with a jolt that his initial suspicions had been completely lulled and now his mind could no longer consider the possibility that she was a deceiver. He dismissed the idea even as it came into his head. And common sense soon reasserted itself. If she were a dishonest maidservant, whatever she might have done and however furious her noble employer, the possibility of his seeking her out in a rundown country inn was extremely unlikely.

Annoyance at Amelie’s abrupt departure mingled with feelings of self-reproach. He’d spoiled the warm companionship of the morning. One minute they’d been laughing, joking, funning with each other. And then everything had changed. He’d touched her and he shouldn’t have. She was irresistible, but he should have resisted. God knew he’d had enough experience in escaping amorous situations, so why was this so different? He couldn’t account for it. Indignation at the notion of sacrificing herself to family duty had rendered her beauty overwhelming, her eyes a molten brown and the sheen of her skin glowing fire. But it was more than physical beauty that had shattered his restraint. In that moment it seemed her very soul had been laid bare and spoken unmistakably to his. He gave himself a mental shake: such fanciful nonsense! Whatever the reason, he’d not been able to stop himself. Even now he could feel her mouth, soft but eager, opening delicately to his.

When he heard the bedroom door open he turned, a contrite expression on his face, but instead of Amelie he was confronted by Rufus Glyde, a man he’d not seen for seven long years. Both men stared at each other in amazement. Glyde was the first to find his voice.

‘Surely,’ he jeered, ‘it cannot be Gareth Denville. Aren’t you supposed to be resting on the Continent? Surely you haven’t returned to claim the earldom? Even the blackest sheep might be expected to do the decent thing and stay away.’

Gareth stayed silent, his face impassive and his darkened eyes unreadable. For years unfounded suspicions had plagued his mind over Glyde’s role in that ill-fated card game.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down, Mr Wendover?’ Glyde tormented. ‘I’m presuming it is Mr Wendover? Why the false name, I wonder? A silly question no doubt. I imagine you would prefer to keep your identity hidden for all kinds of reasons. And staying in a place like this!’ The smirk became more pronounced.

Gareth remained standing. His voice was cold and curt. ‘State your business. Mine is none of yours,’ he rapped out.

‘Still hot-tempered, I see. Some things never change. Though you’ve aged—not quite as fresh faced as when I saw you last. Now, when was that? Ah, yes, the Great-Go. Quite a night, quite a sensation, I recall.’

‘Cut to the chase, Glyde, what do you want?’

‘Not you, for sure. Keeping company with the flotsam of society is not really my custom. But I am rather interested in the sister you appear to have acquired. If my memory serves me right—and, of course, I could be wrong, family genealogy was never my strong point—your father, another unfortunate I understand, had only one child and that child was you. So a sister?’

‘It’s none of your affair and I’ll thank you to leave.’

‘Now that’s where we could disagree, I fear.’

‘I’ve nothing further to say to you. Leave of your own free will or at the end of my boot, it’s your choice.’

‘Proud crowing from someone plainly unable to enforce their threat.’ He gestured at Gareth’s bandaged ankle. ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave as quickly as you could want. What about this sister?’

Gareth weighed up the odds of forcibly removing his antagonist from the room and decided it was probably not worth the pain he would inevitably suffer. He would give him the minimum of information and speed him on his way.

‘She is merely an acquaintance who happens to be staying at the inn.’

‘An acquaintance you call a sister. Come, Denville, that won’t wash. Who is she?’

‘She’s a maidservant, no one you know and no one of any interest.’

‘A maidservant? Pitching it rather low even for you, my dear Denville. A maidservant—and your doxy, I presume.’

Gareth’s knuckles tightened until they were white. ‘Get out!’

‘Dear, dear, that temper again. Yes, I see, your doxy, and to pacify that dreadful harpy downstairs, you pass her off as your sister. You’re right, of course, I have no interest in her. The woman I seek would not pass the time of day with you, and as for impersonating a maidservant and sharing this vile refuge, the idea is laughable.’

‘Now you’ve had your laugh, you’re at liberty to leave.’

‘Indeed, and I shall do so very shortly. But first tell me how the cardsharping business prospers in Europe. Did you make a living?’ Glyde glanced down at the elegant coat of superfine he was wearing and then at Gareth’s outfit, daily looking more frayed.

‘And I always thought such practised tricksters went on prosperously,’ he murmured, ‘but it would seem not.’

Ignoring the intense pain in his ankle, Gareth moved with unexpected swiftness towards his enemy and clasped him violently round the throat.

‘If ever you call me a cheat again, you will not live,’ he ground out.

The door had remained open throughout their acrimonious exchange and with his hands still wrapped around Glyde’s neck, Gareth thrust his adversary through the doorway and down the stairs.

At the moment Glyde had been dismounting from his carriage, Amelie had escaped through the back entrance of the inn. She ran wildly past the crumbling outbuildings and through the small wicket gate that led on to open pasture. Dismayed and frightened at the turn of events, she ran without thinking where she was going. Her mind was in chaos, refusing to accept that Sir Rufus had tracked her to this remote place. It was impossible. Nobody except Gareth Wendover knew her whereabouts and he was ignorant of her true identity.

Slowly through the confused toss and tumble of thoughts a chilling idea began to emerge. Was it possible that they were in alliance together, that Gareth knew who she was and had been Glyde’s accomplice all this time? Was it coincidence that Rufus Glyde had appeared out of nowhere, just after she’d been abducted from the stagecoach? The fact that his carriage had mown Gareth down and thrown him into a ditch was probably an accident in their plan. Gareth had resolutely refused to tell her anything about himself. Was that in case she would unmask him too soon, before Glyde could catch up with them? And to think that she had so nearly put herself into his power, so nearly succumbed to his seductive charm.

By now breathless, she was forced to come to a stop. It was pointless running any farther across the fields. She had no idea where she was going and if she turned back again to regain the road, Glyde could overtake her in his curricle at any moment. A nearby clump of trees would provide shelter and from this vantage point she could observe the inn from a distance. She settled herself beneath a sturdy oak, her back against its grainy trunk. The gentle summer sun filtered through the leaves above and birdsong filled the air. It was hard to imagine there was anything wrong with the world. Gradually her breathing returned to normal and her disordered thoughts began to settle. It was madness to imagine that Gareth was in league with the man who was hunting her. How could he have arranged to be outside her house at the precise moment she’d climbed from the bedroom window? It was ridiculous. Even more ridiculous to think him an accomplice. She knew, as well as she knew herself, that he would loathe and despise a creature such as Glyde.

The time passed tantalisingly slowly. She told herself that her pursuer wouldn’t be at the inn long. Even if he ran into Gareth, he would not know him and any description of Miss Wendover’s appearance was unlikely to match that of the aristocratic woman Glyde sought. He would be eager to leave an inn as insalubrious as the George and make once more for the pleasures of London. And once he’d driven away, she could take shelter for one more night. Early tomorrow morning she would get her lift to Wroxall and be on the stagecoach to Bath and safety.

She waited for what seemed an age, although in reality only half an hour had passed since she’d fled the inn so precipitately. In that time she’d neither glimpsed any activity nor heard a sound from the distant building. Maybe, after all, her hiding place was too far away to hear the noise of any departure? She debated what to do. At this rate she could be sitting under the oak tree until nightfall. Gathering her courage, she decided to chance a return. With some stealth she began slowly to approach the inn and, meeting nobody, crept through the back entrance to the passage that ran the length of the building to the open front door.

Almost immediately she became aware of Glyde’s carriage being led back into the courtyard and turned to flee again. But at the same time raised voices sounded above and she was sure one of them was Gareth’s. She strained to hear what was being said, but the voices were too indistinct. As she listened, there was a sudden noisy creak of bedroom floorboards overhead. In a trice she’d whisked herself into the shadows beneath the stairs. Just in time. Rufus Glyde clattered down the staircase, his face twisted in fury. He was so close that had she reached out her arm, she could have touched him. She remained frozen to the spot as he stormed past her and out into the sunlit yard, throwing himself onto the driving seat of the carriage and whipping up his horses in a frenzy.

She found she was shaking uncontrollably and her first thought was to seek the sanctuary of her bedchamber. But there were questions burning through her brain that needed answers. The angry scene she’d come upon in its dying moments made no sense. Her old suspicions began to return; she needed to know what connection existed between these two men.

Contempt was written large on Gareth’s face. His ankle throbbed angrily, but it had been worth the pain to knock the sneering smile from the face of his foe. Glyde would be for ever associated with the scene of his disgrace and his heart rejoiced that he’d routed the man so completely. But if he were honest, it was the image of Glyde and Amelie together that had spurred him to extreme action. That image was seared on his mind’s eye, even stronger for being intangible. He had no idea why Glyde had turned up at this remote inn or what connection he had to the girl, but speculation gnawed relentlessly at him. He doubted he would ever get the truth from her; he’d been a fool to believe that she was trustworthy.

He was still standing by the window, exactly where she’d left him. If she hadn’t just heard that furious altercation, she might have imagined she’d been away for only a few minutes and that the intervening time was simply a bad dream. But Gareth’s face told another story. She could see immediately that he was in a thunderous mood. He turned as he heard her footsteps, his eyes now blue flint and his mouth close-gripped. She started to speak, but was cut off abruptly.

‘Why did you leave like that?’ he flung at her. ‘What is that man to you?’

She steadied her racing heart and replied in an even voice, ‘He’s nothing to me. I ran away because I feared being discovered.’

‘Why should it matter that he saw you?’

‘I told you, I feared being seen—by anyone.’

‘Anyone? Do you take me for a fool? He came looking for a woman and I think that woman was you. You turned white when you saw his carriage in the yard. You fled. Can you really expect me to believe that it was because some stranger had suddenly arrived?’

‘Believe what you wish, I don’t know who he was seeking. I escaped from the inn because I didn’t want to be found here. I’m an unmarried woman and have been living under the same roof as you for the last week.’

‘You would have me accept that a girl who thinks nothing of throwing her lot in with a man she doesn’t know is worried that others will see her with him?’

‘I never threw my lot in with you. You forced me to accompany you.’

‘It doesn’t seem to have pained your sense of propriety too greatly.’

‘You can mock all you wish. You may not have a reputation to defend, but I do. I have a living to earn and I can’t afford to attract any gossip.’

She hoped that this was an inspired invention, but instead Gareth immediately pounced on her words and shredded them to pieces.

‘If you don’t know this man, then how could it affect your reputation one way or another?’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t know him,’ she conceded.

‘At last,’ he muttered grimly, ‘we’re getting near the truth or as near as we’re ever likely to with you.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Her anger sliced through the airless room.

‘Simply that you appear to have a rather slippery relationship with honesty.’

‘If we are to call each other liars, then you hardly fare better. What about the lies you told my fellow passengers on the stagecoach? That was blatant.’

‘And this isn’t?’

‘I was telling the truth when I said that I didn’t want to be discovered. But I am acquainted with this man. He’s an intimate of my young mistress’s brother and visits the house regularly. Although I was only a servant there and beneath his notice, I was worried he might recognise me.’

Gareth was silent, seeming to turn this over in his mind. She was unsure he believed her and, to deflect him further, renewed her attack.

‘I’ve told you how I know him, though I can’t understand why it’s any business of yours. Now perhaps you’ll tell me how you’re acquainted with him.’

He stared sightlessly through the window, once more in that overheated, overfurnished salon. The babble of rich men intent on their pleasure filled his ears, then the sudden silence, the incredulous stares, the shuffling of feet and finally the cool withdrawal of the well-bred from the social disaster in their midst.

Unrelenting, Amelie waited for his response, never taking her eyes from his face. Aware at last of her scrutiny, he raised his gaze to her, his expression bleak.

‘My acquaintance with him is very slight.’

His discomfort was palpable and she decided to press home her advantage.

‘You were quarrelling,’ she insisted. ‘You must know the man well enough to quarrel.’

‘He angered me. He invaded my room without permission and then wouldn’t leave.’

‘And that was enough for you to throw him down the stairs?’

‘A slight exaggeration? He’s a particularly obnoxious man and I didn’t care for his tone.’

‘If all that annoyed you was his attitude, you seem to have argued for a long time. Why didn’t you get rid of him earlier?’

‘You may not have noticed,’ he replied scathingly, ‘but I’ve sustained an injury. You fled on the instant and I was left alone to deal with him. In the end I got tired of his importuning and decided to risk the ankle. It hurt like hell, but I’m glad I assisted him on his way.’

He seemed to have regained something of his poise and his face no longer bore the icy expression that she’d come to dread. She was almost encouraged to tell him her true situation—almost, but not quite. To do so might jeopardise her plans entirely. If Gareth were the man she believed him to be, he would be impelled to pursue Glyde when he knew the full extent of his infamy. That would cause a scandal she would never live down. And if he were not that man, if he were untrustworthy, then she could be in real peril, in danger of kidnap or blackmail once he knew her true identity.

‘Does he know that you have a sister staying here?’ she ventured tentatively.

‘He knows,’ came the short reply.

‘You didn’t tell him my name?’

‘No,’ he said in a distant voice.

Her face wore such an expression of relief that his distrust once again blossomed.

‘Your fears are unfounded, my dear, your identity is safe.’ His tone was caustic. ‘I doubt that a man of Glyde’s position would consider it interesting or worthwhile to spread scandal about a maidservant, even if he knew her name.’

Euphoric at her escape, Amelie hardly noticed his tone and unwisely pushed onwards.

‘Thank you for not giving me away.’ And when he didn’t reply, she said again, ‘Thank you.’

‘Spare me the gratitude,’ he grated.

There was a pause as he looked her fully in the face, wondering how he’d allowed himself to be taken in by a girl so adept at lying. He’d begun to believe his judgement of womankind faulty, but it seemed that she shared generously in the attributes of her sisters—she was no different from any of the women who’d passed briefly through his life.

‘He thinks you’re my doxy,’ he said deliberately, then added with undisguised bitterness, ‘And who could blame him? You behaved like one—scuttling for cover instead of facing him honestly.’

The words came out of nowhere and fell like hammer blows on her ears. Scarlet with mortification, she ran from the room. How could he throw such a vile insult at her? Even if she were the simple maidservant she purported to be, she would be justified in protecting her good name. Yet by his reckoning she’d committed an unforgivable offence in running away; she was no better than Haymarket ware.

Once in her bedroom, she grabbed the faithful cloak bag and hurriedly packed the few items she still possessed. Then she ran down the stairs and out into the backyard. Will was busy washing the cobbles.

‘Will, come here,’ she called urgently to him. ‘Mr Wendover has taken a turn for the worst. He needs the medicine that the doctor prescribed in an emergency. I must get to Wroxhall immediately.’

Will rested from his labours, leaning on the broom with one hand and scratching his head with the other.

‘Mr Wendover were fine this morning. Happen he’ll come about again soon.’

‘No, Will, he won’t. He’s been feeling poorly for hours, but didn’t like to complain. Now his fever seems to have returned. We must get to Wroxall.’

‘I’d like to help, Miss Wendover,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but I’ll have to ask the missus. Mrs Skinner do like to know where I am. And she don’t like it if the horse is taken out without her permission.’

‘Mrs Skinner is out,’ Amelie lied recklessly, ‘and Mr Skinner, too. I saw them on their way to visit neighbours.’

Will shook his head slowly. The image of the Skinners visiting their neighbours was one he was having difficulty with.

‘Please help me,’ she pleaded urgently. ‘You don’t want Mr Wendover to become really ill again, do you?’

Will shook his head, but still looked unhappy.

‘It could be a matter of life or death, Will. I wouldn’t ask you otherwise.’

She felt guilty about deceiving him, but refused to think of his likely punishment for helping her. She had to get away. Unwillingly, Will put down his bucket and brush and went towards the trap, which stood backed into the corner of the rear yard. He carefully moved it into the centre and arranged the leather ties. The mare had then to be led from her stable and harnessed. For Amelie, desperate to leave the inn behind, every minute seemed an impossible age. One or the other of the Skinners could put in an appearance at any time and ruin her escape.

Will might be slow, but he was methodical. Finally the trap was ready and she jumped up on to the passenger seat.

‘Please make haste,’ she enjoined him as they turned out of the yard onto the highway.

Will, who had begun to enjoy his freedom from cobble washing and enter into the spirit of the adventure, whipped the placid bay into something approaching a trot. They were very soon out of sight of the inn and she sighed with relief. She never wanted to see Gareth Wendover again. His words flung at her so coldly and dismissively had finally cut whatever cord existed between them.