Chapter 2 #2
Angel reeled a little, somewhat dazed by its impact. “Oh, as for that. I don’t think—” she began, for whilst she cared little for propriety, sharing a meal with a man they’d just met did not seem the most sensible of ideas.
That she was about to refuse him must have been obvious, for he spoke over her, trying to dispel any reservations before she could voice them.
“All of you, I mean, as my guests. That is assuming you’ve not eaten already?” he asked, looking a little crestfallen at the idea they still might reject his kind offer.
At this opportune moment, Milly’s stomach gave a loud, insistent gurgle. Mortified, Milly slapped a hand over it and blushed scarlet.
Angel sighed. She might deny herself food and the comfort of a warm fire, but she could hardly refuse when Milly and Toby were here on her behalf.
“You are too good, sir. We should be delighted to join you, though we are most certainly in your debt.”
He beamed, his open countenance alight with pleasure. “Nonsense, nonsense. You know, we’re not too far from Benenden. There’s a fine alehouse by the church. It’s not fancy, but the food is good.”
Angel sighed with relief at the idea. No one looking for her would think she would stop at such a rough-and-ready place. “That sounds just the thing,” she agreed, and the company took off again with their new escort.
Hart glanced down at the gig, thanking providence for putting him in the path of such charming companions.
The young lady—and, from the way she spoke and the quality of her dress, rumples and mud stains notwithstanding, she was a lady—was a rare beauty and no mistake.
Thick tumbles of black hair framed a heart-shaped face that had made his own heart leap upon first viewing it.
Add to that flashing dark eyes and a pert little nose, and Hart was a fair way towards being smitten.
Better yet, he suspected the lady was not all she appeared. He had the strong conviction that she was a lively creature, and quite possibly on an adventure.
Not that she had said so. Indeed, whenever Hart made enquiries about their destination, the young miss got all poker-faced and tight-lipped, which rather gave the game away. The little minx was up to no good, he’d lay money on it. He only hoped she’d let him help her.
All the information he had gleaned so far was that she was Miss Baxter, travelling with her maid, Milly, and a boy servant named Toby. Hart wondered if Baxter was her real name, and decided he must be a cynical devil, for he strongly doubted it.
Though the road had improved since he’d pried the gig free of the mud, it narrowed as they reached the village.
Hedges rose on each side, the edges of the muddy track studded with pale butter-coloured primroses and the jollier bright yellow of celandine.
The poor things seemed to shiver in the unseasonably cold weather, searching for any glimmer of sunlight.
Benenden arrived with no fanfare, no sign to announce itself, simply a scattering of cottages and an oast house or two. The sturdy crenellations of the church tower stood stolidly at the village centre, a reassuring presence that the simple dwellings huddled about.
The alehouse stood a little apart from the rest, a low, shabby building beside the green.
Bent and twisted with age, its whitewashed walls were dulled by soot and too many winters of neglect.
Still, a plume of pale smoke curled from its crooked chimney and the prospect of sitting by a fire was a welcome one.
Besides, Hart knew the exterior was misleading. Inside was presided over by a formidable matron who kept the place spick and span.
He watched approvingly as Miss Baxter guided the pony and gig neatly around the narrow turning at the back of the alehouse and stopped, setting the brake. Steam rose from the animal’s flanks in the cold air and it let out a huff of relief at being allowed to rest.
A rangy old fellow hurried out the back door, took one look at Hart and doffed his hat.
“Sir?”
“See to the horses, if you would. Make sure they’re well fed and watered and give them a rubdown,” he ordered, tossing a coin at the fellow who caught it, blinked and nodded his agreement.
“At once, sir.”
Hart hurried to the gig and helped the ladies down. The maid clucked and fussed over the young lady as she took in the state of her muddy boots.
“I’m sure we can get our boots cleaned up and set to rights while we’re here,” he told the girl, ushering her towards the building.
He was famished and wanted his dinner and a glass of ale, though his conscience twinged somewhat as he wondered what Blake was up to.
Probably best his valet could not see the state of his boots at present; he’d fall into hysterical fits, and Hart had no patience for such theatrics today. He was having far too much fun.
They went inside, Hart having to bend low to pass beneath the ancient beams. He watched his footing on the uneven flags that lined the floor, the thick stone worn smooth by the passage of generations of travellers and locals alike.
A fire burned in the hearth of a massive fireplace, almost as wide as the room, which was snug to say the least. A large pot hung over the flames, and a delectable smell drifted from it.
There were only two tables, though they were polished to a nicety.
One was occupied by two workmen in smocks.
They glanced up briefly, nodding a polite greeting before returning to their ale.
The woman Hart remembered from a previous visit looked up from behind the heavy oak counter as they entered.
As she wiped her hands on her apron, her gaze swept over them, estimating their worth and adjusting her prices accordingly, if Hart had to guess.
Her expression was frank and forthright rather than welcoming, but she gestured to the empty table.
“Sit yerselves down, sir, ladies. I’ve no fancy meal to serve you but there’s pottage, simple but made fresh this morning, and there’s bread and cheese and a very fine ale.”
“That all sounds splendid to me. Ladies?” Hart asked, looking at them.
“Yes, please,” Miss Baxter said earnestly.
Hart smiled at her. The poor girl looked worn to a thread.
Her nose and cheeks were red with cold, though it did little to dim her beauty.
Her companion nodded fervently at the suggested menu, and Hart knew the lad would likely begin gnawing the table leg if he didn’t eat soon, so he lost no time in confirming their order.
Moments later, they were sitting together with steaming bowls of thick vegetable stew studded with carrots and leeks, parsnips and cabbage, and seasoned with herbs.
A large loaf of bread on a wooden chopping board with a wickedly sharp knife beside it adorned the centre of the table, as did a dish of creamy butter and an enormous slab of cheese.
A tankard of ale sat at Hart’s elbow, with small beer for the ladies, and a large glass of milk for Toby.
They ate in convivial quiet as everyone silenced their clamouring bellies.
After a while, the young lady looked up from her meal and smiled at him.
Hart gazed at her, thanking his lucky stars that he’d been the one to come across her, for it was the kind of smile that made a fellow want to go out and do something heroic.
“This is very welcome, sir. I do not know how to repay you for your kindness.”
An odd little glow of pleasure warmed Hart at her words. “You owe me nothing at all. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance.”
“Except we are not acquainted,” Miss Baxter pointed out. “We do not yet know your name.”
Hart blinked at her. Really, he was the most ramshackle fellow.
No wonder Blake accused him of having the manners of a farmhand, and yet…
he did not wish for them to know who he was.
The moment they heard his title, the easy atmosphere about them would disappear in a puff of smoke and he did not want that.
He’d best stick to Leo, but Leo Cleveland was still a bit too distinctive.
“Leo,” he said, reaching for his tankard. “Leo, er… Clee-ever. Leo Cleaver,” he repeated with more assurance.
Miss Baxter gazed at him doubtfully. “We are pleased to meet you, Mr Cleaver.”
“Likewise,” Leo replied, feeling a weight drop away along with the title.
Well, the day might have begun badly, but it was turning out to be quite splendid. Yet Miss Baxter was watching him, her expression thoughtful, and Leo wondered if he’d been entirely convincing. Only time would tell.