Chapter 22 #2
“How obliging of him,” Anthony said drily. He took the boy by the shoulders and looked him in the eye firmly. “That coin I gave you is for you, not Digby. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded, a sense of awe in the shape of his lips.
“Will you see to it that my horse is fed and watered?” Anthony asked.
“Aye, sir.”
Anthony ruffled the hair on his head, then stood, and went out the way he had come.
He followed the walls around to the back, where he paused and watched Digby.
He was attempting to push one of the horses into the small gated area abutting the side of the stables.
The ground all around the fence was a bog of mud and water from the rain, with deep holes where Digby and the horse had stepped.
The horse was resisting Digby’s efforts, and Digby pulled back just long enough to throw his shoulder into its breast.
The horse was forced back, but the suction of the mud on its hooves prevented it from moving, and it stumbled and fell on its hindquarters as Digby mumbled curses against its stupidity.
Anthony’s teeth ground together. The man used and took advantage of children, extorted and threatened young ladies, had made his inn a hotbed for ton gossip, and here he was abusing animals—animals that likely did not even belong to him.
And he had made the most formidable and capable woman of Anthony’s acquaintance cry.
“Digby,” Anthony called out, striding toward him.
Digby whipped around, his eyes rounding at the sight of Anthony. “Mr. Yorke,” he said, infusing his voice with a tone of pleasant surprise, even as his eyes watched his approach warily. He brushed at his dirty clothing, ignoring the horse as it struggled to find its footing behind him.
Anthony strode to the horse and took hold of the halter, helping pull it out of the mud. His own boots were already caked until they looked like giant mud stockings.
Once the horse was standing and stable, Anthony faced Digby.
“Really, sir,” Digby said as Anthony came close enough that he was obliged to lean back to meet his eyes. “That was very kind but unnecessary. The brute is a clumsy oaf.”
“Not as clumsy or brutish as the oaf who pushed him into the mud.”
“I slipped right into him,” he lied with what was no doubt meant to be an embarrassed smile. “But tell me what I can do for you, sir.”
“You can stop threatening my betrothed.”
Digby laughed nervously, and took a step backward. The mud made a slurping noise as it released his boot, only to engulf it anew when he set it down a few inches behind. “I’m sure I haven’t any notion what you are referring to.”
“Do you not?” Anthony took a step toward him.
“Miss Mandeville and I have an arrangement, as you know. One that is mutually beneficial. That is all.”
“I saw the letter you sent her, Digby, and let me assure you of one thing.” He grasped the fabric at Digby’s chest and yanked him closer.
“Your arrangement with Miss Mandeville is at an end. If you so much as whisper her name in the presence of another person, I will see that this inn becomes a ruin of its former self, and you an outcast. Where footsteps once sounded, only ghosts will walk. Not a soul amongst London’s elite will set foot between those walls.
Everyone will know that you commissioned those caricatures, and you will be sued for libel by every peer or gentleman who has appeared in that dingy window of yours. Do you understand me?”
Digby nodded quickly, his jowls shaking under his wide eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Anthony held his gaze another moment, then retreated enough for Digby to stand straight. “And if I ever hear Charlotte’s name associated with those caricatures—”
“But, sir,” Digby said plaintively.
“What?”
Digby hesitated. “Is this reaction not a bit excessive?”
“After all you’ve put Charlotte through, this is barely satisfactory.”
“I only mean that, well, you and Miss Mandeville are not . . . truly engaged, are you?” He rushed on. “Which, I own, is a relief to me, for it cannot but sit ill to hear of a distinguished Yorke stooping to the level of a—”
Anthony thrust his fist into Digby’s jaw, throttling the last words.
Digby tumbled back into the mud, while Anthony fell sideways, thrown off balance by the way his boots insisted on sticking in the mud.
His brow made contact with the splintering wood of the fence, sending a shock of pain through his skull.
He pulled himself up with one of the posts, brushing at his brow with the back of his wet sleeve while Digby nursed his jaw.
“Never,” Anthony said breathlessly, “so much as speak of the Mandevilles again. Do I make myself clear?”
Digby’s head nodded frantically. “I swear, sir!”
Trudging through the mud, Anthony strode toward the stables.
“Mr. Yorke!”
Anthony turned to see the maid, Mary, hurrying toward him, a look of distress on her face.
“Where is Miss Charlotte?” she asked.
“In London,” Anthony said tersely, his brow throbbing.
Mary looked over her shoulder to where Digby was still struggling in the mud.
“Did he threaten her, sir?” She wrung her hands, anguish in her eyes.
“I shall never forgive myself, for I swore to her I would not tell him what I knew, but he threatened to dismiss me and tell everyone I had stolen. I didn’t know what to do, sir, and my mother is—”
“Mary,” Anthony said as the rain began to patter on the inn roof again. “I am the last person to whom you should feel the need to explain Digby’s depravity.”
She nodded, her chin trembling. “But Miss Charlotte—”
“Would never blame you for doing what was necessary to protect your family.” That was something she understood as well as anyone.
Mary’s shoulders shook, and she covered her mouth with a hand. “Please tell her I am sorry, sir.”
He nodded, his eyes flitting to where Digby had finally managed to stand on his two feet. His jaw clenched. He had better go before he and Silas were accused of murder. “If you ever wish for other employment, I will find it for you. I must go now.”
He strode to the stables, tossed the boy another coin, and swung back onto his horse.