Chapter Three
Close to nightfall, Jack had ridden far enough to leave the sprawl of London behind him.
Winter was giving way to spring, with buds forming on the trees and snowdrops among the hedgerows, but the damp air still had a bite.
When a storm blew overhead and lightning spooked his horse, he was forced to find an inn.
A half mile on, he welcomed the sight of one.
The lamps of the Old Angel Inn appeared out of the gathering dusk, surrounded by woodlands, fields, and farmhouses.
He rode into the inn forecourt, the moist air smelling of rain.
In the stables, he saw to Arion’s needs then left instructions with the stablehand, who stared goggle-eyed at the magnificent chestnut.
Then, unstrapping his portmanteau from the steed, he went in search of a meal.
During his army life, he’d eaten and slept when and where he could.
No telling when the opportunity for either would present itself after breakfast tomorrow.
Hungry, he crossed the cobbles to the thatched-roofed Tudor building.
He stepped through the door, pulled off his greatcoat, and removed his black beaver hat, hanging them on a hook near the door, then sought the proprietor.
The inn appeared to be a well-run establishment.
It appeared to be clean, and tasty aromas wafted from the kitchen.
With a room secured for the night, he entered the dining room.
It was snug, with a low-beamed ceiling and a hearty fire, which snapped and popped in the fireplace.
Most tables were occupied. Two men sat together, discussing the merits of crop rotation, while a well-dressed gentleman sat alone smoking a pipe.
In a corner, a man and a woman ate their soup in silence.
A dark-haired serving young woman swung her hips between the tables as she approached Jack, a twinkle in her eye.
He ordered ale, roast beef and parsnip pudding, cabbage with bacon and onions, and apple pie.
He smiled his thanks when she placed a tankard before him.
Whilst he drank his ale, he watched her go about her tasks with brisk, neat movements.
While the dull ache caused by the loss of his father still lodged somewhere near his heart, Jack felt at one with himself for the first time in years.
He had relished the companionship of his fellow soldiers during the war, and his friends since, but now it surprised him to find he enjoyed his own company and looked forward to his journey through Wales and across the sea to Ireland.
He didn’t anticipate trouble. But if he should encounter any, he could handle himself well enough.
Jack’s appearance gave no clue to his background.
He wore sober earth tones and leathers, the clothes of a man of relatively modest means or a country squire in buckskin breeches and oxblood leather boots.
His coat was a serviceable brown and his cotton waistcoat black.
His usual starched white shirts and intricately tied cravats had been replaced with a cream shirt and a brown scarf.
Once on horseback, he presented in a different light, however.
Arion was a gentleman’s horse, which could make Jack more susceptible to the interest of unsavory characters who roamed the roads.
He would need to keep his pistol loaded.
The meal was satisfying, good, simple fare, tasty and well cooked.
After a sadly inferior port in the taproom, Jack retired to his small bedroom and stripped off his clothes.
He folded them and put them on the chair, washed in tepid water, cleaned his teeth, and toweled himself dry.
Then he slipped between clean cold sheets in the narrow bed.
The mattress was too short; his feet hung over the edge.
He’d prefer to have slept out in a field and would have but for the storm.
As thunder cracked across the heavens, he lay with his arm under his head thinking about the life he’d left behind.
The relatives of his father’s widow were probably eyeing the silver.
He hoped Grant would give those hangers-on their marching orders.
But he was such a correct gentleman, unlike himself.
Close to midnight, he began to think about sleep. Downstairs, the taproom had finally quieted. Noise from the patrons leaving floated through his window. He turned on his side, bashed his pillow, and closed his eyes.
At the clunk of his door being unlatched, Jack rolled over. He was on his feet in a minute and snatched up his pistol, the chilly air a shock on his bare skin.
The door edged open, and a hand appeared holding a fluttering candle. A young woman’s pale face framed by long, curly, dark hair followed, then her buxom figure dressed in a white nightgown. “Were you asleep, sir?”
The girl who’d served his meal stepped farther into the room. She put a hand to her mouth with a gasp as her gaze roamed from his head to his feet and settled on his mid-section.
“As you can see, I am not.” Jack laid his pistol down and grabbed the small towel, pulling it around his waist. It was woefully inadequate.
“I’m Cassie. I wondered if you might need company.” She put the candlestick down on the table, then came forward and placed a hand on his bare chest, smiling up at him. “You’re a very big gentleman.”
Jack removed her hand from where it had begun to wander. He clasped it in his, breathing in the scent of warm woman. “And one with very little money.”
She put her hand on her wide hips. “That what you think of me? I’m not after money. I’m a bit homesick, is all.”
“Are you?” Jack’s gaze dropped from her comely face to her breasts pressed against the thin material of her nightgown. “Well, then…”
Below in the courtyard, a coach clattered noisily through the archway, raising the dogs. Loud voices erupted in the still, night air. A woman cried out.
“What the devil is going on?” Jack opened the window wide and leaned out. Four people alighted from the sumptuous coach. Two women stood by the vehicle as a man who appeared to be sick or hurt was hefted out by the coachman and half-carried toward the inn.
Jack snatched up his clothes from the chair, donned his shirt and breeches, then sat to pull on his boots. “I suggest you return to your room, Miss Callie. The proprietress might have need of you. Wouldn’t do to be seen here.”
Callie backed away to the door with a huff of disappointment.
“But thanks for the offer,” Jack added with a wry grin.
She grinned back. “Are you staying long?”
“I leave in the morning.”
“A pity.” She pouted then hurried out.
Throughout the inn, doors began to open, and guests crowded into the corridor from their rooms. Jack buttoned his coat as he went, descending the stairs, where sobbing echoed out from the parlor.
*
Erina rode into the stable block. The straggly group of houseguests she’d escorted through the wood had wandered off to view the lake. She threw the reins to their groom, Joseph, and jumped down.
The house party had begun on Thursday. It was now Sunday, and as the weather remained pleasant, few seemed intent on departing.
Mr. Harold Feather had told her he planned to accompany Miss Beckworth to view the rose garden, which was still a long way from bursting into full bloom.
He was doing his best to ignite some passion in Miss Beckworth, Erina supposed.
She wasn’t confident he’d succeed. At the ball last evening, he had danced twice with her, while she’d barely smiled, and once with Erina.
It had earned Erina a sharp rebuke from her father as she’d gone up to bed in the early hours.
“I have no control over Mr. Feather, Papa, should he prefer Miss Beckworth’s company to mine.”
“Who invited the Beckworths? They were not on the guest list. Mr. and Mrs. Beckworth are of damnably inferior stock.” He stared accusingly at her. “Did you have some hand in it?”
“Mr. Feather expressed the wish for her to be invited.”
“Did he now? If I’d known, I would have told you not to invite them.” He raised his eyebrows. “You are not trying hard enough, my girl.”
“Love is not something one can conjure up. Or desire, for that matter.”
“That is nonsense. Desire does not come into it. I expected you to be smarter than this, Erina. You have always had a good head on your shoulders.”
Suspecting he wanted to see her secure because he could no longer provide for her, she put a hand on his arm. “Perhaps I don’t wish a secure and passionless life.”
“You’re young. You understand nothing about life.”
She raised her chin. “I believe I know my own heart.”
“Sir Ambrose awaits me in the library. I’ll see how the land lies. If you must be forever on horseback, have the good sense to take Feather with you.”
“He’s not over fond of riding. Said he was seldom off a horse’s back when in the army.”
“Then show him the maze.”
She had a terrible urge to giggle. Did her father wish her to seduce Mr. Feather in the maze?
It was overgrown and very damp. She wrestled control of her emotions, which threatened to overtake her.
“If it’s fine, we’ll hike up to Hangman’s Hill.
There’s a marvelous view of Epping Forest from there. ”
“Good. Go to bed. Get some beauty sleep.”
The next morning, Erina rose earlier than she cared to.
Whilst most ladies were still abed, she waited for Mr. Feather at the bottom of the stairs, confident he would be down for breakfast, having confessed to being an early riser.
As soon as he put a foot on the hall tiles, she herded him into the deserted library.
“Goodness, but you are lively, Lady Erina.” He straightened his coat. “Can’t a man get some sustenance into him before he has to face you?”
“How are you progressing with Miss Beckworth?”
He shrugged. “Not as well as I’d hoped.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Is it your manner?”