Chapter 5 #2
The road dropped away towards the River Medway, damp meadows thick with grasses and spring flowers on both sides.
The river was running high and fast, murky and brown with silt.
Tonbridge Castle glowered at them as they drew closer, the gatehouse and immutable stonework unambiguous.
It was a forbidding presence, watchful and moody, even surrounded by the fresh green of willow and alder and the thick slashes of spring hedgerows.
On a day where the skies had turned to purplish pewter and threatened a downpour at any moment, it was not a sight to warm the heart.
Still, it meant civilisation and a place to get out of the rain.
Angel’s fingers tightened on the reins as the gig rattled over the bridge.
This was a bustling market town, and she was aware of faces turning her way.
She glanced over at Mr Cleaver, riding beside the gig.
He met her gaze and held it, smiling. Angel turned hurriedly away, unsettled by that smile, by her desire to return it.
She ought to have got rid of him, she knew.
Despite telling herself she needed no one, he was a reassuring presence, but a troubling one too.
He was too handsome, too easy to like with his ready smile and careless charm.
His desire to discover what she was up to was a worry.
Though the idea filled her with regret, she knew she must give him the slip eventually.
Even the best of men could become avaricious and selfish when a fortune fell into their laps, and she was not about to allow anyone to steal Pops’ treasure from under her nose.
Black Jack had told her stories enough of men who had betrayed him for the promise of more than their fair share, and she knew enough about human nature to be wary.
Though it was late in the day, the wide main road was still busy, thronged with carts and women carrying baskets, travellers on horseback and in carriages of varying quality.
Milly, who had never before been farther than Rye, stared about with wide eyes, starting at the sound of a coach horn, taking in the bustle of stable yards and clatter of iron clad wheels over cobbles.
Amid the smell of smoke and manure, the pleasanter scents of roast meat lingered on the air as they made their way towards The Rose and Crown.
“It looks rather grand. I think you have expensive taste,” Angel said dubiously, glancing at Mr Cleaver, who had suggested they stay there.
“Not grand, but respectable,” he told her. “The sort of place a young lady ought to stay. Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll cover it. Just get yourself a room and I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Indeed, you will not cover it,” she said crossly, disliking the idea of finding herself increasingly in his debt. “I can do so, I assure you. What will you do, though?”
To her surprise, he did not badger her about the money, merely shrugging indifferently over her insistence to pay her way. “I will ride about for a bit and arrive in half an hour. We’ll see each other unexpectedly, old friends meeting on the road. Quite unexceptional.”
Angel frowned, grateful for his care of her reputation but indignant that he should take so much on himself. She felt sure it was done out of kindness, but all the same, he was a deal too managing.
Heedless of her impatience, Mr Cleaver carried on. “I’d suggest that Milly here becomes Mrs Someone. Your sister-in-law, perhaps. It will make things easier if you wish to keep her beside you at dinner and such.”
Angel relaxed a degree, despite her frustration.
She supposed he couldn’t help himself, and she could not deny that it was a good idea.
It was reassuring to know he wasn’t intending to get her to dine alone with him, too.
She had been bracing herself for the suggestion, knowing she must refuse it, even if there was a wicked piece of her heart that rather wished she might accept.
“Very well,” Angel replied, and watched as he returned a swift grin and rode off into the crowd.
“Can I be Mrs Pettigrew?”
Angel, who was admiring the sight of Mr Cleaver—the way his coat fitted closely over his massive shoulders, and the way those powerful thighs guided his horse with such grace and ease—did not respond.
“Miss Angelica,” Milly said, her tone reproving. She tsked as Angel turned back to her.
“Beg pardon, Milly, I was—”
“I know what you was doing, my girl, and you’d best have a care,” Milly replied tartly. “He’s a fine-looking man, but you mind you don’t go giving away for free what ought to be exchanged for a wedding ring.”
Angel blushed, rather appalled at having been caught ogling the man, but really, what else could a girl do? “I was only looking,” she replied with a huff. “There’s no harm in that.”
“So long as looking is all you do. Now, can I be Mrs Pettigrew? I think it sounds rather grand,” Milly replied, smoothing out her skirts as if she were getting into character.
Angel laughed. “You can be whomever you like, Mrs Pettigrew.”
Milly grinned.
As he’d come rather under-prepared for a journey, Hart took the time to buy himself a few essentials and a bag to stow it all in.
He badly needed a shave, and even by his standards his neckcloth looked like a dishrag, and he must have a clean shirt.
So, he bought the items he required, instructing the tradesmen to send their bills to his man of business so that he didn’t use up his limited coin.
Returning to The Rose and Crown, Hart entered the inn just as the proprietor, Mr Kimble, appeared in the entrance hall.
“My L—” he began, obviously delighted to see him, until Hart grasped him by the arm and towed him to one side.
“Mr Cleaver,” he said in a low voice, giving the fellow a stern look to get the point across.
“Oh, no,” the fellow said, laughing jovially. “You mistake, my lord, I’m Mr Kimble.”
“Yes, and I’m Mr Cleaver,” Hart insisted, waggling his eyebrows to underscore the point.
The fellow gazed at him with confusion. “I beg your pardon, my—”
“Mr Cleaver!” Hart insisted. Honestly, and people thought he was slow on the uptake.
Comprehension dawning, the fellow’s eyes widened, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Oh, I see, my lord is travelling incognito?”
Hart sighed. “That’s the ticket, so if you would address me as Mr Cleaver.”
“Certainly, my l—I mean, Mr Cleaver,” Mr Kimble replied with an indulgent chuckle. “You will have your little joke.”
“Not a joke, precisely, I’d just rather keep a low profile.”
“Not a problem at all, sir. You’ll have your usual room?” he asked, brightening at the prospect of his finest room being let, for Hart was a generous patron and wasn’t shy about spending the readies.
Hart considered this and shook his head. “No. Something average. Like I said, I don’t want to draw attention.”
“Average, sir?” Mr Kimble echoed, looking appalled.
Hart regarded him steadily. “Incognita.”
“Yes, sir,” the fellow said despondently.
“I’ll be dining with friends this evening, so give us a good spread, and I’d like a bath as soon as you can arrange it,” Hart added, feeling sorry for the man.
He considered ordering a bath for the ladies but suspected it would get him in more hot water than it would them if he were so presumptuous.
“But do me a kindness and send the bill on to my man of business. I’m a little er… light in the pocket at present.”
Brightening perceptibly, Mr Kimble nodded. “Certainly, sir.”
“One more thing,” he added. “The friends I will dine with tonight are respectable females. Very respectable. You will ensure they are well treated but charge them a reduced fee for their stay. I’ll cover the rest. They’re a little sensitive about their finances.
I’m sure I can rely on your discretion in this, Mr Kimble. ”
The fellow puffed himself up, preening a little at this welcome observation, which was entirely true, to be fair. “Oh, indeed you can, my—Mr Cleaver.”
Satisfied, Hart allowed Mr Kimble to show him to his room, ordered a bottle of claret, and set about tidying himself up to dine with the ladies.