Chapter 6
Guard Dogs and Other Complications
Angel gazed at her reflection in the small hand mirror she had brought with her and sighed, remembering all the pretty gowns and bonnets she had left at home.
She told herself not to be so foolish. What did she care if Mr Cleaver thought her dowdy?
What he thought of her was a matter of complete indifference.
Liar.
Still, Milly had done a decent job with her hair, and if her green gown was now rather rumpled, it did fit rather well over her bosom, which was definitely one of her assets. Oh, stop it!
Crossly stuffing the mirror back into her carpetbag, Angel’s fingers met the soft cloth that she had wrapped around her pistol.
Her dagger was in there too. Whilst this was a respectable inn, one never knew what kind of people worked in such places.
If they poked about in her things, they might think it odd for a young lady and gossip about her, worse, they might take them.
So, she carefully wrapped both her dagger and pistol and then looked for a place to tuck them. As she moved, a floorboard creaked beneath the threadbare rug. She knelt and turned the corner of the rug back to expose the loose board. Perfect.
Satisfied that the items were out of sight of prying eyes, she turned to Milly, who had been occupied with putting on her stockings. Now she stood, smoothing down her skirts, her expression one of concern. Angel smiled as Milly looked up and noticed her watching.
“Are you ready, Mrs Pettigrew?”
Milly pulled a face. “I don’t know. Do I look fine enough to dine in such a fancy place? Is my hair all right?” she fretted, patting it with anxious fingers.
“Perfect,” Angel replied with a reassuring smile, for Milly seemed to have got herself in something of a lather about this evening. “You look lovely. Now stop worrying, its only dinner, and the place is not so fancy as all that.”
Still, Angel wished now she’d been more forceful about their choice of inn.
Mr Cleaver might not worry overmuch about how much he spent, but she had to be more cautious.
A place like this would cost more than she had bargained for.
Still, if it came to it, she might find a card game and win some money that way, though how to do so in a respectable environment would certainly be a challenge.
Whilst she was fully committed to the challenge Pops had set her, she was not eager to ruin herself in the process.
Locking the bedroom door behind them, Angel and Milly made their way across the landing, the smoky sconces flickering as they passed.
A baby cried fretfully from behind a closed door, and the muffled sounds of an argument echoed from another as they reached the narrow stairs, taking care on the uneven treads.
The distant murmur of voices below grew louder as they descended.
When they reached the bottom, they stood to the side as a harassed maid bustled past with a tray loaded with empty plates, murmuring apologies as she went.
“Smells good,” Milly murmured as they approached the dining room. “You know, before last night, I ain’t never ate a meal I didn’t cook myself. Leastways not since my ma passed on.”
Angel took Milly’s arm and smiled at her. “I’m glad you are enjoying our adventure. I worried that you were wishing me to perdition.”
Milly looked askance at this suggestion. “Are you mad? I’ve never had such a fine time. No work to speak of, and seeing the countryside, staying in such fine places, and eating good food. Heaven, it is.”
“Ah, Mrs Pettigrew, Miss Baxter?”
The women startled as a short, well-padded fellow hurried towards them.
He had a jovial face, rather ruddy and flushed, and greeted them as if they were honoured guests.
“Forgive me, I am the proprietor of this establishment, Mr Kimble. I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance earlier but do come through to the dining room and we shall see you settled comfortably.”
“Thank you, sir,” Milly replied with quiet dignity, before pulling a comical face at Angel over such attentive treatment once the man had turned his back to guide them.
Mr Kimble opened the door to the dining room, gesturing for them to go through.
Angel put a nervous hand to her hair, suddenly as anxious as Milly, not only at seeing Mr Cleaver again but at being in such a public place.
Yet her father would not know to ask for a woman travelling with her sister-in-law and a servant boy.
There was no reason to suppose anyone was on the lookout for them, especially as they had not the least idea where she was heading.
“Miss Baxter?”
The deep voice shivered over Angel’s skin, thrumming inside her as she looked around to see Mr Cleaver getting to his feet.
She wasn’t the only one looking, she realised, watching heads turn in his direction.
Dressed simply, and with his usual careless grace, the rather mangled cravat did nothing to distract from the splendid sight he presented.
Though she told herself severely not to be such a ninny, Angel’s insides quivered at seeing him again.
“It is you! Well met, Miss Baxter,” he said, beaming at her as he got up from the table and crossed to stand before her.
He took her hand, his mischievous hazel eyes glinting as he bowed over it, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.
Angel glanced around, too aware of the eyes watching this exchange.
So much for keeping a low profile. “Well, fortune is smiling upon me. What a happy chance to discover you here.”
“Good evening, Mr Cleaver. Yes, we are on our way to visit my aunt. I do not believe you are acquainted with my sister-in-law, Mrs Pettigrew?”
His smile only widened as he treated Milly to the same performance, making her blush and stammer in response to such gallantry. Angel smirked a little, meeting Milly’s eye and quirking an eyebrow. Apparently, she was no more immune to the fellow’s manly wiles than Angel was.
“I beg you will join me as my guests this evening,” he said, turning to Mr Kimble. “You’ll see to it, sir?”
“Oh, at once, m— Mr Cleaver.”
“There’s a good fellow.”
In very short order, Mr Kimble steered them towards one of the best tables, close to the fire at the far end of the room.
Mr Cleaver followed them through the throng, and Angel’s skin burned beneath her gown as she felt his hand at the small of her back as he guided her.
It was a possessive as much as a protective gesture, and Angel told herself it was just another example of his presumptuous manner.
Yet, to her chagrin, she found she rather enjoyed it.
Mr Kimble pulled out a chair for Mrs Pettigrew as Mr Cleaver performed this service for Angel, smiling benignly at her as she seated herself.
Angel looked about her as she tried to gather her wits.
It was a long, rather narrow room, with tables set close to one another and nearly all of them occupied.
A family, all in mourning clothes, sat quiet and solemn next to a couple of sporting gentlemen who were enjoying a convivial evening and making their way steadily through a bottle of port as they smoked cigars.
A young couple, perhaps newlyweds, going upon the lady’s blushes, and several families with grown-up children of varying ages completed the picture.
They were barely seated above a moment before servants appeared, loading the table with so many dishes of food that Milly grasped Angel’s hand, staring at the feast with stupefaction.
“You are my guests, remember,” Mr Cleaver said mildly, before Angel could open her mouth to rebuke him. “And you must keep up your strength. It’s been a long day, and you both must be worn to a thread, so let us do justice to this splendid repast, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Milly replied, her eyes alight as she reached for the soup ladle to serve them.
“Where is Toby?” Angel asked, feeling sorry that the lad wasn’t sharing in their lavish meal.
Mr Cleaver shot her a smile. “Having a ball, I assure you. He’s eating in the kitchens tonight and I saw to it he will do just as well as we are but be more comfortable in a less formal setting.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, Angel found herself wishing he was a little less helpful.
She did not want to rely upon him too much, but she could not deny how kind he had been to them.
“You are too good, sir,” she said, though the anxiety that he might want repayment in other ways for his kindness was an idea she could not entirely disregard.
“Miss Baxter.”
She glanced up, meeting his gaze and finding, for once, no humour there. “You owe me nothing. As I have told you before, the pleasure of your company during our meal is all the payment I require. Nothing more.”
Angel let out a breath, feeling guilty for having suspected him of nefarious motives again when he’d done nothing to deserve it.
“It’s hard to know where to begin,” Milly said with a laugh, and Angel could not blame her for her reaction to the excess of food.
Though she was far more used to formal dining than Milly, it was an excellent spread.
Besides the large tureen of soup, there were various dishes of vegetables, several platters of roast meat, a fricassee of beef and mushrooms, and a raised game pie.
Whenever a dish was finished, a servant appeared to remove it and replace it with another. They ate in companionable silence for a while until their hunger was somewhat abated.
“You must try the game pie,” Mr Cleaver insisted, moving to cut her a slice. “The pastry alone is a thing of beauty.”
“Good heavens, I shall not be able to make it up the stairs if I eat much more,” Angel complained, though in truth she was enjoying her dinner immensely.
Unlike her papa, who tended to frown and look disapproving if she ate too heartily, Mr Cleaver insisted upon them both trying everything on offer and seemed anxious if they did not do it justice.