Chapter 7 #2
Angel knew she ought to agree and sit meekly beside Milly, but knowing what she ought to do and sitting meekly had never been in her nature. “I’d love to take a walk with you. I’m so stiff after sitting on the gig all day I feel like a marionette.”
“Excellent,” Mr Cleaver replied cheerfully. “Mrs Pettigrew, please order yourself tea and whatever else you fancy. My treat. Come, Miss Baxter, let us see what Sevenoaks has to offer us.”
Hart offered Miss Baxter his arm, which she refused.
He grinned, not entirely surprised. She had been doing her best to keep him at a distance, replying to his questions politely but keeping their interactions to a minimum.
Yet he had felt her eyes upon him more than once, though she was always looking elsewhere if he turned to check.
He had expected her to refuse to walk with him too, however, so that was a step in the right direction.
They walked together towards the narrow entry to the yard, and Hart reached out, grasping her arm and tugging her out of the path of a young man driving a curricle which came around the corner far too fast.
“The bottle-headed gudgeon!” Hart growled crossly, turning back to the yard to give the fool a piece of his mind.
“No, don’t,” Angel said, taking hold of his arm. “I’m quite all right. I should have paid more attention. Come along. Don’t spoil our walk with a silly argument.”
As she had kept hold of his arm, Hart only made a small show of reluctance before going along with her. Things were looking up.
They made it out of the yard in one piece and out onto the street.
Opposite the inn, two men lounged against the wall of a building that appeared to be a professional office of some kind, perhaps a land agent.
The building seemed to be closed for the day, or else whoever owned the business would have told them to move on, for they looked thoroughly disreputable.
Though they were built like farm labourers, their rather ill-fitting but somehow swaggering mode of dress spoke of city life and, Hart suspected, of a manner of earning a living that was less than respectable.
One stood picking his teeth nonchalantly, but the other watched them from under heavy-lidded eyes.
Hart’s instincts prickled, for they looked like ruffians ripe for trouble, but he told himself last night’s upset had put him all on edge.
You found rough sorts everywhere and, despite his advice, Miss Baxter had insisted upon staying at The Chequers rather than somewhere more upmarket.
Still, he met the inquisitive fellow’s eye, intending to warn him off, but the man’s gaze slid smoothly away, and he turned to speak to the fellow beside him.
“You know him?”
Hart glanced down at Miss Baxter to find her regarding him with interest.
“Certainly not. I just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, insolent hound.”
One black eyebrow quirked. “Is that not the way you look at me?”
“Certainly not,” he replied, regarding her indignantly. “I look at you like an insolent guard dog. It’s entirely different.”
She laughed at that, and his heart gave a foolish little leap in his chest. He was forgiven then, for now at least.
He guided them down the main street, past Miss Eliza Beek’s greengrocers, which seemed popular this afternoon, thronging with ladies carrying heavy baskets of produce.
Angel lingered outside Crampton’s, a milliner and straw bonnet maker, admiring a bonnet trimmed with bright pink ribbons.
He felt rather than heard her wistful sigh and wished he could it buy it for her.
Out of the question, naturally. A fellow couldn’t do such a thing unless the lady was his wife, or his mistress.
Hart glanced down at her, wishing he could figure her out.
At times she was so bold he felt certain she was not half so innocent and respectable as she appeared, yet at others…
. She was a conundrum, and one he felt compelled to unravel.
They walked on, past the linen draper’s and butcher’s, heading towards the church.
Perhaps a walk about the gravestones would soothe her and make her feel more like confiding in him.
“Have you been here before?” he asked, hoping to uncover a little more about his mysterious lady.
“No, never,” she admitted. “I’ve not seen much of the world at all.”
“Do you wish to?” he asked, remarking the pensive way she said it.
She glanced up at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Hart snorted at the idea, remembering his father’s refusal to allow him to go to war and ‘die in some stinking foreign land.’ It had been as much the thought of Hart going abroad that had upset the old devil as the idea his heir might get his head blown off.
When Hart had returned from a year in France as a young man, his father cited his time there as the reason behind every ill-thought-out decision and scandal Hart had been caught up in since, blithely disregarding the fact his son had been a troublemaker from the time he could walk.
“Good heavens, no. My father believes England is the only place in the world and the idea of setting foot outside of it makes him bilious. Getting him to Scotland or into Wales is hard enough and we have—we have family there,” he amended hastily, having been about to refer to the vast properties the dukedom held the length and breadth of the country.
“He sounds a little like my papa,” she said, her smile turning grim.
Ah, so there was no love lost between her and her father, he thought. Had that contributed to her decision to leave on this adventure?
“But my grandfather told me such marvellous stories,” she blurted out, and Hart turned to her, aware of how her dark eyes sparkled, how much lighter her voice had become. “He travelled to so many exotic places—oh, and the things he saw and did. You would have liked him, I think. He was—”
She stopped suddenly, everything about her that had been glowing suddenly snuffing out as she remembered herself.
With regret, Hart watched her tuck all the light and excitement away behind a mask of cool respectability.
Still, it had been a glimpse, a chink in her defences.
Where there was one, there would be another. He could wait.
They reached the church, and Hart led her through the lychgate.
“Do you think it’s strange that graveyards are so peaceful?” she asked, a sorrowful note to her words now.
Hart considered this, wondering if she grieved for her grandfather, or for someone else.
She had spoken of him in the past tense, he’d noted.
“Not in the least. The dead are untroubled, why ought they not sleep peacefully? It’s the lot of us left here running about like headless chickens that are all in uproar. ”
She smiled, and he got the sense that he may have soothed a concern. He was glad of it. Yet, then he remembered the dead lady of whom Toby had spoken. The desire to prod at that intriguing nugget of information was too much to resist.
“Why are you looking for a dead woman?”
She started, dropping his arm and gazing up at him in horror.
“Toby!” she exclaimed in frustration.
Hart held out his hands in a peaceable gesture. “Now, don’t be cross with the lad. He trusts me at least, and before you get all hoity-toity, I know you don’t know me from Adam. I don’t expect you to tell me the whole—though I’m dying of curiosity—but can’t you give me a clue?”
“No,” she said coldly, walking off down the path alone.
Nicely played, Hartwell, good job.
“Miss Baxter,” he called, hurrying after her, but the path had become narrow, and he could only dog her steps.
She turned suddenly, all stiff and unyielding, her arms folded across her splendid bosom as she awaited his apology.
Hart took a breath, hoping he could find the right thing to say to cool her temper.
“I’m sorry. I know I’m a blessed nuisance.
It’s just that I have a nose for trouble and…
but never mind that. Please forgive me. You don’t owe me an explanation, or anything else.
I shan’t plague you about it. Not for a while, anyway,” he added with a lopsided grin.
It was a smile that usually got him out of trouble with ladies, who found it charming and boyish.
Miss Baxter only regarded him stonily.
“My business is my own, Mr Cleaver. I am a woman travelling alone and you offered to escort me to Eynsford. I accepted that escort. I did not agree to anything else.”
He sighed heavily, but nodded. “I know. Quite correct. I’m in the wrong. I am a devil for sticking my nose in where it don’t belong. Forgive me?” He spoke this last as a question, not wanting to presume anything.
She snorted. “As if you think I wouldn’t. You are too used to getting your own way, I suspect, Mr Cleaver. It is about time someone thwarted you.”
“Certainly it is, and you do it so well,” he replied, grinning.
He watched as she walked off again, muttering something under her breath.
He didn’t catch the words which still sounded a little cross, too involved in watching the delicious sway of her hindquarters, sadly camouflaged under what he considered an excessive quantity of fabric.
Still, what he could see was magnificent.
Hart shook his head and sighed sadly. Must try harder.
They left the church, walking up towards the open green and wooded land that marked the boundary to Darenth Knoll, the home of the reclusive Earl of Darenth.
“What’s that?” Miss Baxter asked, noticing the two small stone and flint lodges either side of the road that marked the entrance to the vast parklands. The ornate iron gates were firmly closed, and from what Hart knew of the owner, were likely to remain that way.
“Darenth Knoll. One of the largest properties in the whole of England. The house alone covers over four acres of land.”
“Good heavens,” she said, gazing at him in wonder. “I cannot imagine the scale of such a place. It must be like living in a museum, or a small city.”
She shivered and pulled a face. Her reaction gave Hart an oddly hollow sensation in his gut he could not quite place, but it made him uneasy.
“Come along. We’d best get back to the inn. Mrs Pettigrew will wonder where we’ve got to.”
She sent him an odd look, as if she sensed his disquiet, but could understand it no more than he could. “You do remember she’s not really Mrs Pettigrew?” she remarked as he led her back towards the town.
“I remember. Just as I remember, you are not Miss Baxter,” he replied, though she had not told him any such thing. He felt sure it was true, though.
Her lips compressed into a thin line, and she narrowed her eyes.
“Sorry, sorry. None of my business,” he replied briskly, and said nothing more on the subject.
They got back to the inn, and Hart looked to see if the two men were there still.
They were not. Relieved, he escorted Miss Baxter to the front door, turning as the back of his neck prickled.
Looking around, he saw the two men farther down the street, slouched nonchalantly against a wall.
As he looked at them, they stood and walked away.