Chapter 7
A Most Inconvenient Attraction
Hart passed a sleepless night. Despite having exchanged rooms to soothe the ladies, and despite telling himself such a thing could not happen twice in the same property, his own nerves were jangling.
His instincts, always primed for trouble of one sort or another, had sensed Miss Baxter was a kindred spirit the moment he’d clapped eyes on her.
No well-behaved, docile miss would set out upon such a journey alone with only a maid and a boy for protection.
Yet he remembered how pale and anxious she’d looked, standing in the disordered room, her arms clutched about her middle.
It was why he’d been so provoking, offering to sleep at the foot of her bed like the guard dog he’d offered to be.
He had expected a set down, a tremendous scold which would put the colour back in her cheeks and chase away the lost, frightened expression that had made his heart hurt.
What he had not expected was her short little gasp, or the way her dark, watchful eyes had grown nearly black, and she had stared at him, seeing him but not seeing him as a delicious flush of pink coloured her cheeks…
as if she were imagining something she ought not.
It had been quite marvellous. He would have given most everything he owned to know what she’d been thinking in that moment.
With luck, it was depraved and debauched, two of his favourite things.
All the same, the ransacked room had been a shock.
The combination of worrying about Miss Baxter and wondering if the lady had been indulging in lustful thoughts about him combined to chase away any possibility of sleep, however. So, he was up at the arse crack of dawn, washed, shaved and dressed, long before the ladies appeared.
Making his way down to the stable, Hart sought Toby and found the lad in the stall beside the handsome gelding he’d hired back in Little Valentine.
The lad looked up as Hart approached.
“I’ve given him a good brush. He’s fine as fivepence now,” he said proudly.
“Thank you kindly. He is, indeed,” Hart said, tossing the lad a coin before leaning on the stable door. The horse snuffled at his ear as he watched the boy pocket his coin with a grin. “Did you have a good dinner?”
“Cor, it were massive. I never ate grub like that before. I had a piece of apple pie as big as my head!” Toby exclaimed, using his hands to illustrate the dimensions in case they were not immediately obvious.
Hart laughed at his enthusiasm. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
The boy nodded, picking up the brush again to stroke the gelding's sleek sides. Watching him work, Hart considered the lad, wondering which was the best tack to take. In the end, he decided against trying to be subtle, he hadn’t the foggiest notion how to be discreet and would make a mull of it.
“Have you known Miss Baxter long?”
Toby sent him a wary look and Hart wondered if he’d been instructed to hold his tongue.
“I mean the ladies no harm, lad. Quite the opposite. I’m worried about them. Did you know someone broke into their room last night?”
Toby frowned, the brush pausing as he stared at his worn boots.
Hart stared at them too, noticing now that they were too large for the child and so worn they could not be weatherproof.
A stabbing sensation in the vicinity of his chest suggested he’d be buying the young shaver a new pair in the near future.
Toby glanced up at him and nodded. “Aye. I heard. It were all anyone could talk about. They ain’t never had such a thing happen here before.”
Hart nodded, having heard the same tale from Mr Kimble. Of course, the man would say that, but Hart had believed his horror at the appalling event happening upon his premises had been genuine.
“Do you think someone means Miss Baxter harm?” he asked, wishing his heart would stop throwing itself about behind his ribs at the very idea. If there was, only let him get his hands on the devil. Now that he would not mind a bit. It had been an age since he’d enjoyed a good mill.
Waterloo did not count. He shuddered and pushed the memories of that dreadful day aside.
War had been something he’d been good at, and he might have enjoyed it too, if not for all the killing. There was a world of difference between two equally matched, healthy fellows knocking seven bells out of each other and doing a fellow to death—and then another, and another.
His stomach roiled, and he sucked in a breath, returning his attention to Toby, who was considering his question.
“Don’t reckon so.”
Hart nodded, having expected nothing else. “Do you know why she’s going to Eynsford?”
Toby looked shifty.
“I won’t tell,” Hart promised. “I only want to keep them safe, but ladies are stubborn creatures and they won’t give me a straight answer.”
The lad rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re looking for someone. A lady.”
“A lady?” Hart echoed, admitting to himself he was somewhat disappointed by this revelation. “What kind of lady?”
Toby shrugged, turning to look at him. “A dead one.”
Now, that was more like it.
By a little after seven o’clock, their party was back on the road again.
Angel smothered a yawn and tried to keep her attention on the pony.
It wasn’t easy. After giving her an oddly assessing look—one that had made her feel as if he was trying to pry his way into her brain—Mr Cleaver had taken Toby up onto his horse to give him a rest from the box seat.
For the moment, they rode ahead, laughing and chatting like old friends.
She was glad for Toby, who was clearly on the verge of hero worship.
She told herself she was glad, too. It was a relief, she assured herself, to have a few moments alone without his eye upon her, trying to figure her out.
Yet every time she looked up, there he was, so big and handsome, and so thoroughly masculine.
He had plagued her through all the long night, devil take the fellow. Every time she closed her eyes, his deep, rumbling voice whispered in her ear, promising wickedness.
Though she was still very much an innocent in the technical sense of the word, Angel did not live up to her name.
At the finishing school she’d attended, she’d quickly learned how to get out of her room at night, once everyone else was abed.
She had made friends with some of the local girls, not all of whom were respectable, but who were far more fun than the stuffy, spiteful ladies with whom she spent her days.
They had shared stories of their beaus, and of their friends and relations, and told her stories of girls who were in the family way, and naughty tales of their own amorous adventures.
Because of this, she had a very fine idea of what was on Mr Cleaver’s mind when he looked at her in a certain way, and it had bothered her until she was too hot and agitated to sleep.
Every time she banished the voice, the image of him sprawled upon her mattress, would sneak into her sleepy brain, his broad chest splendidly naked, his arms reaching for her, and—somewhere in the far reaches of her brain she was aware of Milly chatting, but Mr Cleaver’s chest was so very splendid she could not make herself attend the conversation.
“How far is it to Sevenoaks? Is it a nice place? I was thinking—Miss Angelica!”
Angel started guiltily. “What?” she asked, trying her best to look innocent.
“Don’t you give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look. You were imagining him naked again, I know,” Milly said, folding her arms tightly across her bosom.
“Milly!” Angel hissed, appalled. “I told you that in private. Not so that you could inform the whole of Kent and Mr Cleaver.”
Admittedly, she had told Milly in the hope that she might take better care of Angel’s morals and reputation with more enthusiasm than Angel herself could currently muster. That didn’t mean she actually wanted her to do the job.
“Well, really. If you don’t have a care, you’ll come out of this little adventure with more than the treasure your Pops left you.” Milly elbowed her and waggled her eyebrows, staring pointedly at Angel’s belly.
“I know, I know,” Angel insisted crossly, sitting straighter. “I’ll be good,” she promised, though the words made something inside her shrivel up and die.
They made excellent time, reaching Sevenoaks a little after one. Angel chose the inn. Though the bill for last night’s stay had been a good deal less than she had anticipated—suspiciously so—Angel was not about to let Mr Cleaver’s spendthrift notions eat into their capital.
She could not deny their lodgings last night and the fine meal had been a pleasure, but she had not come upon this journey to be cosseted.
Two nights in a barn might have been utterly miserable, but what was an adventure if one did not push at limits of what one was capable of?
Mr Cleaver was wonderful and seemed to represent safety and comfort, but she was Black Jack’s granddaughter.
Surely, she must take control of this situation before it got away from her?
The Chequers was a somewhat shabby but well-established inn that certainly did not cater to the upper ranks of society.
Tradesmen and carriers and clerks seemed to be the mainstay of the clientele, and the ostlers competent enough but caring little for the niceties of polite service as they went about their business.
Mr Cleaver looked less than pleased but he tipped the ostlers generously to ensure the animals were well cared for, and slipped Toby a coin to make sure it was done.
“Would you care for a walk about town?” he offered once their rooms had been dealt with and their goods carefully stowed.
Milly shook her head. “I’m longing for a cup of tea, if it’s all the same to you. Aren’t you, miss?” she suggested, giving Angel a rather pointed look.