Chapter 9 #2
MISSING. REWARD. And below it a creditable line drawing of Verity.
It had been done from the portrait painted just after her marriage.
It was a good likeness, but very much of a great lady, with high-piled hair, low-cut bodice, and diamonds around her neck.
Chastity suspected that Verity in her present guise, even as the proper matron rather than the sluttish servant, could stand by the poster and not be recognized.
Cyn caught Chastity’s eye and winked. She winked back, relieved to know the search was so handicapped.
And the innkeeper had said rooms. She wouldn’t be tempted to foolishness.
It was going to be all right.
They were discussing the rooms and dinner with mine host when a voice boomed. “Cyn Malloren! It is you! By the Lord Harry, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you’d snuffed it!”
They turned to see another officer emerging from the taproom. He had a jolly look to him, with round cheeks and big blue eyes, but he was also well over six feet and built like a stone monument. When he grabbed Cyn, Chastity half expected the smaller man to break.
“Gresham!” declared Cyn with every evidence of delight, despite the embrace. “What are you doing in the back of beyond?”
“Ah ha!” declared Gresham. “This is your lucky day, boyo. No need of rooms,” he said to the innkeeper. “Captain Malloren’ll be up to Rood House with me.”
“Rood House?” queried Cyn. “Your place?”
“No, Heather’s.” He wrapped an arm around Cyn’s shoulders and steered him toward the taproom, throwing back over his shoulder, “More of that punch, landlord, and quick about it!”
Chastity rolled her eyes and followed. Was Cyn Malloren known and loved the length of England?
The two officers sat at a table by the fire, draining the last of a bowl of hot punch.
Chastity sat on a bench close by. Apart from one quick glance to check her location, Cyn appeared to ignore her as he and his friend caught up on the news.
A handful of local residents sat in the tap, addressing the Angel’s home-brewed. They eyed the young officers with mild, good-humored interest, then resumed their gossip and dominoes. The click of the tiles soothed Chastity’s nerves.
The landlord bustled in with a new brimming, steaming bowl. Chastity regarded it with some alarm. Had this giant already drained one of those? If she was any judge, it contained mostly rum and brandy. In no time at all they’d both be under the table.
Gresham showed no sign of wear as he filled two glasses with the stuff. Nor was he unobservant. “He yours?” he queried with a nod at Chastity. “He want some?”
“Yes on both counts,” said Cyn, sprawled at ease in his chair. “But don’t feed him too much. It’s a tender sprig not long from its mother.”
Chastity grimaced at this description but enjoyed the delicious, spicy drink. She felt the hot spirits weave into her blood and relax her. She leaned her head against the wall and refused to worry about anything for the moment.
Lord, to have peace, and friends, and ordinary days . . .
She listened with half an ear to the conversation, but heard only war news and anecdotes about people she didn’t know. The two men laughed uproariously at things that didn’t seem the least bit funny to her.
She began to feel left out, cut off from Cyn’s real world. She even sniffed back a tear. At that she sat up with a jerk and stared suspiciously at the drink in her glass. ’Struth, was she becoming a maudlin drunk?
At that moment two more men erupted into the tap-room.
“Fear not,” one declared dramatically. “We are arrived to carry you from this dull spot unto Elysium!” This dark-haired gallant was not in uniform but in a magnificent, if disordered, suit of green satin, richly trimmed.
It became clear this was Heather—Lord Heatherington—owner of Rood House.
His companion was Lieutenant Toby Berrisford.
It was Toby who said, “Cyn! I’d heard you were recovered, but I’m glad of the evidence of my own eyes!”
Lord Heatherington, who was visibly drunk, focused his gaze with difficulty. “It is, by gad, the mad Malloren himself. What blessed day! Our festivities have yet another cause!”
The scene degenerated into pandemonium. The locals grinned at the young men, but Chastity scowled. Could Cyn Malloren not keep a serious task in mind once revelry was available? Perhaps there had been good reason for her to accompany him after all.
When everything was sorted out, it appeared Cyn was going to spend the night at Rood House, to help Lord Heatherington celebrate the death of his grandfather, which long-anticipated event had finally put the viscount, an ex-captain, in possession of a fortune.
Cyn took Chastity aside. “It would cause more talk if I refuse. You had best stay here.”
“No!” said Chastity. Lord knows when he’d emerge, and in what state.
“You’ll be safe enough. This place is off any main route.”
“You need someone along who’ll keep a sober head.”
“If I know Heather, it’ll be wild up there,” said Cyn with crisp authority. “You stay here.”
Before Chastity could react to the order, they were interrupted.
“Odso! What have we here?” Lord Heatherington asked with drunken bonhomie. “Your man? Where’s Jerome?”
“Resting,” said Cyn. “His leg’s bothering him. This is just a local lad acting as groom. He may as well stay here.”
“Not at all! Room for all, and my staff are having the devil of a party as well. Come along, lad. We’ll put hairs on your chest, and starch where you need it most!”
Chastity found herself swept toward Lord Heatherington’s coach.
She threw an alarmed glance at Cyn, but he merely shrugged, though she thought he looked vexed.
It was as he said, however—to make a fuss would just raise questions.
Toby Berrisford, for example, might recognize the young man who had been with Mrs. Inchcliff, and thus start thinking about Mrs. Inchcliff and a baby.
They were cramped with five in the coach, especially as both Gresham and Heatherington were large men.
“Should have left Charles to ride on the box,” said Cyn, and pushed Chastity down on the floor in such a position that her face was hidden against her knees. “Stay down there, lad, and keep out of everyone’s way.”
Chastity grimaced to herself but knew she had to be careful. Berrisford was no fool and didn’t appear to be drunk. At least, she thought stoically, the carriage had a thick, luxurious carpet on the floor, not lousy straw as would be the case with a hired one.
As the carriage picked up speed, Heatherington burst into song and the others soon joined in.
Oh, here is a ditty, in praise of a titty,
That’s pretty as pretty can be. Tra-la!
Come give me a titty, my sweet little pretty,
And you’ll have your jollies of me. Tra-la!
Chastity glanced up between knee and hat-brim, wanting to share her amusement at this silly song with Cyn. He wasn’t looking at her at all but taking a healthy swig from a bottle between verses. He seemed thoroughly in tune with his company, rot him.
The men seemed to have an unlimited store of similar songs. The tunes were monotonous, the words lacked any claims to poetry, and the subjects were all lewd. Chastity would have received a first-rate education in bawdy matters if she understood any of it.
She frowned over it. “Nether hole” she feared she did understand, though the song which involved it made no sense. But what did drinking from the nether cup refer to? The obvious interpretation was too ridiculous.
It all sounded ridiculous anyway.
The men roared their approval of being tied up, tied down, eaten—eaten!—and having five women in a row. Chastity was distracted by the logistics of this. Did that mean actually lined up, she wondered, or one after the other?
They roared their approval of smooth shoulders, round buttocks, and enormous breasts. Chastity thought sadly of her own modest ones. They’d hardly spill out of anyone’s hands.
They sang of the glory of a great bushy thatch between a wench’s legs. Chastity lacked that too. Just a modest amount of brown curls.
In Society men paid pretty compliments to soft cherry lips and shining cornflower eyes. Was this what they really wanted? If so, what had she to offer? No breasts like melons, no bulging buttocks, no thicket between her thighs.
Now they were on about kissing a rosy bum. That sounded as if someone had had a spanking.
Ah, now they were singing of more normal matters—cherry lips. Cherry nether lips . . . ?
She was hauled up and shoved out of the door to find they had arrived at their destination. Her hauler was Cyn and he looked vexed again. In fact, he looked in a rage.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I couldn’t think of a way not to come.”
“Nor could I,” he admitted. He dragged her close. “Listen carefully. I’m going to find you a safe spot, and when I do you’re to stay there at all costs, or I promise you, you’ll have the rosiest bum around.”
She stared at him. “Is that what that meant?”
He looked briefly heavenward. “Just keep your eyes and ears shut.” His hand shackled her arm as they went into the house.
Rood House was a handsome Jacobean construction, with leaded windows and steep gables. It was made for elegance and madrigals, but behind the carved doors, Bedlam reigned.
The gracious oak hall with its wide staircase was lit by only a couple of flaring, smoky lamps, but it was full of people.
Some were felled on floor or stairs by drink and lust. Others wove before Chastity’s eyes en route to other chambers.
If the shrieks, raucous singing, and discordant music were any indication, this house was the scene of a bacchanalian revel.
The air was sickly-sweet with smoke, spirit fumes, and sweaty perfumes.
The noise deafened Chastity, but it was the smell that made her head spin. She swayed against Cyn, and his hold became less controlling and more supportive.