Chapter Five
R osilee stood in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the mismatched group in the cramped chamber: The duke, Mr. Bishop, and Ben, as well as herself. There were two beds in the room. A big one and a small one. The large bed seemed to have sagged under the weight of its previous occupants and hadn’t been able to bounce back. In the middle, a fat gray cat sat staring at them.
The tiny bed, which had been pushed against the wall in the far corner—and had also been designated as hers—stood slightly askew, its lumpy mattress making a poor attempt at looking comfortable.
“Remind me why we must all squeeze into such a small space?” Rosilee asked, trying to fathom how they had ended up in this predicament. The duke’s presence was particularly mighty. And rather unsettling.
“Your rooms are next to Baston’s,” Mr. Bishop provided smoothly. “Unfortunately, this will have to do.”
Ah, yes. That rat Baston hadn’t left them much of a choice. Better crowded together with allies than isolated and vulnerable with him on the other side of the wall. She wouldn’t have gotten a wink of sleep. Then again, sleep would be a stranger tonight no matter what.
“This is a disaster,” the duke muttered, annoyance clinging to his brows, his gaze shooting to the bed while his hand covered his nose.
She bit back a smile, unable to imagine this perfect specimen of the male species having a more imperfect inn experience. The cat gave a faint yowl, drawing Rosilee’s gaze again. It looked cantankerous, as though any attempt to pat the animal would result in a clawed swipe. Like a certain someone she knew... Come to think of it, the cat didn’t look all that different from the duke. They seemed like a match made in heaven, in fact. Its green eyes focused on the duke, who glared back at it, his whole body clearly uncomfortable.
“That cat,” the duke spoke with the air of someone trying very hard not to lose his composure, “is going to be the death of me.”
Mr. Bishop chuckled. “Are you truly undone by a mere feline?”
The duke shot him a dark look. “I am sensitive to cats. If that creature comes any closer, I’ll be sneezing until dawn.”
Sensing an opportunity to cause trouble, the cat leaped from the bed and sauntered over to the duke, tail flicking, before rubbing its head against his leg, purring loudly. The poor man’s eyes began to water almost instantly, and he yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, clamping it over his nose. “Get it away from me,” he growled.
Rosilee stifled a laugh. “You can hardly blame the poor thing for wanting some attention, Your Grace. Perhaps you ought to be flattered.”
The duke’s blazing eyes turned to her, though it lacked any real heat. “Yes, I’m quite flattered to be besieged by an infliction in the middle of nowhere.”
Ben darted forward, scooped up the cat, and dashed for the door. With a knowing grin, Mr. Bishop swung it open, and the troublesome feline was promptly exiled to the hallway.
The poor cat. Booted from its sleeping spot!
The duke sneezed again, the sound echoing in the small room.
Rosilee chuckled softly and stepped to her designated bed, eyeing its creaky frame. It seemed hardly adequate, even for her slight form. She sat down gingerly, testing its sturdiness. The bed gave a loud groan but held.
Well, it could have been far worse than this.
“Not so ba—” She was cut off by a sudden loud creak from the bed. Without warning, the legs gave way with a startling crash, sending her sprawling onto the floor in a heap of blankets and pillows.
“Good heavens!” Rosilee exclaimed. She lay there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, before laughing into the stunned silence that followed. She had never experienced anything so embarrassing in her life!
At least I can still laugh. Leopold would definitely owe her after this!
A curse, then footsteps, and the duke’s alarmed face came into view. “Are you all right?” he asked, reaching out to help her.
“I am.” Rosilee slipped her hand in his, his heat seeping into her skin as his fingers curled around hers. He helped her up, and she quickly brushed off her skirts. How utterly... utterly...
She cleared her throat and glanced at the ruined bed. “Well, there is still the mattress, I suppose.”
The duke turned to the remaining bed, his face a picture of resignation.
“It seems we’ll all have to share a bed,” Mr. Bishop said with a dramatic sigh.
That would be a bit . . .
“Shut your mouth,” the duke snapped. To her, he said, with those solemn green eyes flashing, “This is ridiculous. You cannot sleep on only a mattress.”
What else was there to do? They could not all sleep in one bed. That was positively scandalous! Really, Rosilee? This is where you draw the line at scandalous? “The alternative is to return to my original room.”
“That won’t work either.”
“The carriage?” The seats were plush and comfortable.
“No.” He pointed at the bed. “You take the main bed.”
Rosilee crossed her arms. “I don’t think so. I have no qualms at sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I won’t be able to get any margin of sleep otherwise.”
“The lady wins,” Mr. Bishop said.
Rosilee’s gaze shifted between the stubborn expressions of the two men. The duke’s jaw was set, a determined glint in his eyes, while Mr. Bishop leaned against the door with a lazy grin. The man was clearly enjoying the unfolding drama.
“Ridiculous,” the duke repeated in a mutter.
He looked ready to argue further but seemed to think better of it when Rosilee raised a brow. Honestly, she had a mattress, pillow, and blanket. She didn’t need more.
With a resigned sigh, he nodded. “Very well, if that’s your choice.”
She smiled. “I assure you, I’ll be perfectly comfortable.”
“Yes, comfortable,” the duke echoed. He rubbed his nose, sniffing. “We will all be splendidly comfortable tonight.”
“We’ve all had worse nights, I’m sure,” she countered at his put-out tone. “We shall have to pray that the rain stops and that we can leave before Baston.”
“That may not be the best way, my lady,” Ben said.
Rosilee glanced at him. “Why not?”
“I overheard him curse the rain. He must be impatient to leave. Why not let him leave and follow behind him while he is only looking forward, and not back?”
Mr. Bishop nodded. “That is clever, boy.”
“I agree,” the duke said. “We shall wait until he leaves before setting course. The devil is not aware you are traveling with us, so we have that advantage as well.”
Rosilee nodded thoughtfully, the last trace of doubt about her choice of traveling companions fading away. These men, for all their quirks, truly had her and her brother’s best interests at heart. If nothing else, she could rely on the fact that they shared a common enemy. She would have to wait, of course, until the very last die had been cast, until all the cards were revealed, to know all. But for now, she found comfort in the knowledge that she was not alone. Even if that meant she had to sleep on a lumpy mattress next to a broken bed.
The early morning sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones of the inn yard, where Blake stood beside their carriage and fed an apple to his horse, Beast. The smell of damp earth and fresh hay hung in the air, and he breathed in a lungful of clean, open air—so much better than the cat-infested cloud he’d spent the night in.
He stifled a sneeze, his face a mask of irritation.
To say that nothing had gone according to plan would be a gross understatement. But then, to say he even had a plan...
Let’s not think about that.
The only light in this otherwise ridiculously ridiculous situation was her .
Lady Rosilee.
Her optimism was still a marvel to him.
She had every reason to cry, to vent, to rage at the injustices of the world, and yet instead of doing that, she determinedly sought solutions and embraced the risk of them. In comparison, he was...
Nothing.
A speck of dust.
An ant.
“Good lord, man.” Bishop whistled as he approached from the inn’s stable. “What happened to your face?”
Blake glared at him, his eyes bloodshot and watery. He’d caught a glimpse of himself in the room’s mirror earlier. His normally sharp features were marred by puffy cheeks, and his nose was red, making him look as though he had been sobbing for hours. He crumpled the handkerchief clutched in his hand. His face was testament to the deuced battle he had fought—and lost—with cat hair.
“Laugh if you must,” Blake growled. “You do what you want anyway.”
“You must admit, the sight of you is a bit funny. You keep saying you are a monster. Now you look like one, too.”
Blake glared at the man. “That is not funny.”
Bishop laughed, leaning casually against the carriage. “I beg to differ. It’s not every day I see the great Duke of Crane felled by a scruffy-looking house cat.”
“I told you never to call me that.”
The man shrugged. “We are going to London. You must get used to being called by your title sometime.”
Blake grunted. He would never get used to it. He loathed the title more than anything else in the world. Even more than his father. The title, after all, couldn’t die—forever monstrous. Now he looked the part of a monster, too.
The gossip rags would have a field day.
The monstrous Duke of Crane was lately undone by a creature no larger than a loaf of bread.
“Oh, cheer up, Your Grace.” Bishop clapped him on the shoulder. “You do not look that bad. Just a bit swollen and red here and there.”
Blake turned his back on the man.
It was moments like these that made him want to toss the man back in a ditch. Bishop had a knack for blackening a mood that was even the lightest bit grey, a knack that never failed to both amaze and vex him.
“Oh, come now, don’t be like this. We have so much to be thankful for! For one, you survived the night of torture, and also, the rain stopped. Plus, we have a bit of an upper hand against that blackguard, Baston.”
Blake furrowed his brows, his mind drifting back to the events of the previous night. Despite the absurdity of their situation, there had been a strange sense of camaraderie, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It had been almost... enjoyable, even with the cat hair. But Baston was a problem.
A big problem.
“Lady Rosilee,” Blake said abruptly, glancing toward the inn. “What do you make of her?”
Bishop followed his gaze, his expression turning thoughtful. “Smart, quick-witted. Not easily intimidated. But there’s something... else about her. Like she’s hiding something.”
Blake nodded, his mind replaying the brief interactions they’d had so far. She possessed an air of confidence, yes, but it was tempered by something else, something deeper and more guarded. She was just as intriguing as she’d been all those years ago. “Does she really not remember me...?”
“You think she’s pretending not to know you?”
“I’m not sure,” Blake said, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. “She looks at me as though she’s never seen me before. And yet, she is traveling with me with such unguarded trust.” One of the perplexities of the woman, being both guarded and unguarded at the same time.
Bishop shrugged. “She doesn’t have anyone else to help her.”
Still, “She should find me suspicious.”
“Oh, don’t worry, old Duke, I think a part of her does.”
Blake scowled at the man. “She should find me more suspicious. Every part of her should find me suspicious.”
“Then you would have had a hell of a time trying to help her.”
True... “I just don’t understand,” Blake muttered. “She knows the title I bear, and yet she can still smile at me.”
“I smile at you all the time.”
“You are not her.”
“And what a good thing that is,” Bishop muttered. “No matter what, there’s an honesty to her, a genuine quality that’s hard to fake.”
Blake remained silent, his mind turning over Bishop’s words. Honesty. Genuine. Could those words truly apply to people who were practically strangers? Bishop clapped him on the shoulder, breaking his train of thought. “In any case, we’ve got more pressing matters to deal with. Like getting you out of this place before your face swells up even more.”
Blake scowled at the man. But he was right. “Agreed. The sooner we’re away from here, the better.”
He turned his attention back to the carriage, checking the harnesses and making sure everything was in order. Despite Bishop’s infuriating comments meant to lighten his mood, which never worked, there was an undercurrent of tension, a sense that they were racing against time. Baston was still out there, still a threat, and they couldn’t afford to linger even if the man had set out before them.
“Here they come,” Bishop said, nodding toward the inn’s door.
Blake looked up to see Rosilee and Ben stepping out into the morning light. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, her dress plain but elegant. So damn beautiful. Almost breathtaking. She looked tired but determined, her eyes scanning the yard as though expecting trouble at any moment.
“Can’t tear your eyes away from the sight, heh?”
Blake cursed at Bishop.
The day had only just begun, and he already wanted to throttle the man.