He laughed again. “Lord, you play a demure widow so well. You had me completely gulled.”
Everything inside her stilled. Dear God. He knows.
“I heard the story as I ate my lunch at the Duck. You can imagine my shock to discover you were the old Earl of Darrow’s whore.”
“I wasn’t.” Her mouth was dry, but she managed to say the words clearly. Firmly.
Godfrey shrugged. “Ah, well, perhaps you prefer the term mistress. I suppose it sounds better. Same thing, though. You spread your legs for the man.”
He smiled in a very unpleasant fashion. “And you’ll spread your legs for me, too, won’t you? I’ll admit I’ve been lusting for you. Was almost on the verge of offering to marry you. Lucky for me I discovered in time that you’ll sell your favors at a much lower price.” He frowned for a moment. “What is your price?”
Horror had been growing in her, icy bit by icy bit, with each word the man uttered. His final question magically transformed the ice to fire. Red-hot fury exploded through her.
“Your ballocks!” she yelled, and drove her knee up between his legs.
Chapter Four
Harry stood in the shade and looked upstream as his horse drank. He hoped to God he was almost at Little Puddledon. He’d left Grainger’s yesterday morning thinking he’d only an hour or two’s ride before him, and here it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon the next day and he still hadn’t reached his destination. He’d had to deal with washed-out bridges; rutted, meandering roads; and confusing—or nonexistent—road signs. Stopping to ask directions hadn’t helped, either. He’d swear the majority of people he’d encountered, even those employed by inns, had never strayed more than a mile from their homes.
It was no wonder Grainger knew nothing about whatever was going on in Little Puddledon. Frankly, Harry had begun to think it was a fairy village, appearing and vanishing with the mist.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. It was beastly hot.
When he’d stopped for a meat pie and a glass of beer at that tavern in Westling—the Drunken Sheep—the barmaid had assured him Little Puddledon was only a few more miles down the road. Perhaps it was—as the crow flew. It hadn’t helped matters that not one but two bridges were out, forcing him to make several more befuddling detours—and he prided himself on having a good sense of direction.
He eyed the stream. No, he wasn’t yet thirsty enough to join Ajax. He was holding out for a nice, tall mug of Widow’s Brew, the beer he’d had at the Drunken Sheep and which the barmaid told him was produced in Little Puddledon by a group known as the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children.
Quite a mouthful—and perhaps the answer to Grainger’s mystery. It sounded like the perfect place to park an illegitimate child or two.
He put his handkerchief back in his pocket. He’d know soon enough—if only he could find his way to the blasted village.
Ajax raised his head, finally finished—
No. Now he heard it, too. The snap of a twig, the crunch of leaves . . .
The back of his neck prickled. Someone was here, watching him. Where?
If I’d been this inattentive on the Continent, I’d be dead.
He turned his head casually, following Ajax’s gaze to . . .
Oh.
His horse was the one under surveillance.
“Would you like to meet Ajax?” he asked the young girl lurking in the shadows by an overgrown bush. Her green dress and old straw bonnet had helped her blend into her surroundings.
She gave him a considering look, and he waited while she took his measure. Then she looked back at Ajax. “Does he bite?”
He must be honest. “No, not if you approach him correctly. Any animal might bite if frightened.”
She nodded, and came closer. “He’s very large, isn’t he?” She gave Harry a wide berth, keeping the horse between them. Wise girl to be as cautious of a strange man as a strange horse.
“He’s a little taller than average.” Though Harry could see how the girl would think Ajax enormous, especially if she hadn’t grown up around Arabians. She was likely only about four feet tall, a foot below Ajax’s withers, and thin. He didn’t know much about children, but if he had to guess, he’d say she was somewhere around his middle niece’s age, so nine, give or take a year. “He likes to be petted on his shoulder or neck.”
She reached up to put her hand cautiously on Ajax. Her long fingers were pale and delicate against the horse’s chestnut hair, but the cuff of her dress was frayed. The fabric was serviceable, not fashionable like the dresses his nieces wore.
Clearly, she was not the squire’s or the vicar’s daughter. Not only would she be better dressed if she were, she’d likely not be allowed to roam the countryside unattended, and she’d be busy with lessons in needlework and numbers and such. Yet her diction and general behavior made him think she was from the gentry.
She laughed as Ajax’s neck twitched beneath her hand. The horse turned his head to look at her. “He has such pretty eyes.”
And then Ajax nudged her with his nose and she laughed again, looking up at Harry to share the joke.
Something about her expression seemed oddly familiar. Or perhaps it was her eyes. They were a striking blue, light and clear with a dark rim around the iris.
And then Ajax, the bold fellow, used his nose to knock her hat off, sending the dark hair she’d stuffed up into it tumbling down over her shoulders.
The dark hair with its silver streak.
Good God! The girl’s Walter’s by-blow. That’s why she looks so familiar.
Years of experience operating behind enemy lines and in the halls of diplomacy threatened to fail him. Fortunately, the girl dove for her hat, and that gave him a chance to recover. By the time she’d scooped it up and jammed it back on her head, he’d schooled his features to bland friendliness.
She gave him a look, part defiance, part unease. Clearly, she knew the silver mark meant something.
Of course, she knew. She might live in a rural backwater, but this was still England. His family’s distinctive blaze was no secret. Thank God he’d darkened his own hair.
He bowed slightly. “I apologize for Ajax’s impertinence. I believe he hoped you had a carrot or an apple hidden away.”
Her wary look faded and she giggled. “I’m sorry, Ajax,” she said, petting the horse’s neck again. “I wish I had a treat for you.”
Had her mother written Walter for money? He didn’t remember coming across any unusual expenditures when he’d gone over the estate records, but he would quiz his manager and examine the books again when he got home. Walter might have concealed it, not wanting his wife to find out.
Ha! How ironic that he’d come here on Grainger’s behalf only to discover that he had an illegitimate relative in the village. Was the area teeming with the nobility’s bastards?
He’d best get on with it and find out. “I wonder if you could help me.”
Her hand froze on Ajax’s neck, and she looked up at him guardedly.
Oh, Lord. Now he’d alarmed her. He spoke quickly before she could flee. “I’m trying to find a village called Little Puddledon. I’ve asked any number of people along the way, and everyone assures me that it’s just up the road—but it never is.”
Ah, she was giggling again.
“I’m beginning to think the place doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, it exists.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “It’s just up the road.”
That surprised a laugh out of him.
It was too bad Walter had never met the girl—well, he didn’t know for a fact whether Walter had met her or not. But she clearly had a lively wit.
I’ll have to make certain she’s taken care of properly. I’m head of the family now.
For once, that responsibility didn’t feel like a burden.
“No, truly, it is.” Her brow wrinkled with earnestness. “If you ju
st keep to the road, you’ll be there in no time.”
“Promise?”
She nodded vigorously.
“And is there an inn in this elusive village?”
“Yes. The Dancing Duck. You can’t miss it. Little Puddledon is rather . . .” She grinned again, the impish look back in her eyes. “Little.”
“Ah.” He laughed, but he struggled with an odd breathlessness, too. “Thank you. I’ll be on my way, then.”
She smiled shyly. “Good-bye, sir.” She gave Ajax one last stroke. “Good-bye, Ajax.”
Harry couldn’t manage more than a nod and a wave as he swung into his saddle and urged Ajax into motion.
What was it about the girl’s expression that gave him such a feeling of . . . ? He searched for the right word. Recognition.
This time he knew it wasn’t Walter she reminded him of. Walter had never looked impish.
Of course, Walter had been seven years older than he. Harry’s earliest memories of him were of a churlish, pimple-faced fellow who had zero interest in his younger brother.
Ajax suddenly quickened his pace, and Harry pushed the girl from his thoughts. “Are we finally there?”
They were. As soon as they came round the next curve, he saw stone houses lining the lane, and then just a few moments later, the village green with its church and—yes, the Dancing Duck—came into view. Splendid.
He rode into the innyard—and the ostler’s eyes almost popped out of his head. Unlike the girl by the stream, this man knew an Arabian when he saw one.
“Ohh, milord,” the man said reverently. “The horse, milord. I’ve not seen such a fine one in Little Puddledon afore.”
Perhaps he should not have ridden Ajax if he wished to avoid attracting attention.
“Yes, Ajax is a fine fellow, aren’t you, Ajax?” Harry said, patting his horse on the neck. Then he swung down, took his saddlebag, and smiled at the man.
The ostler spared him only the briefest glance. He’d taken Ajax’s bridle and was murmuring horsey praise. Ajax’s ears twitched and he nickered his approval.
Harry had been quite forgotten.
“I’ll leave him in your capable hands then, shall I, Mr. . . . ?”
“Thomas, milord. Just Thomas.” The man tore his eyes away from Ajax briefly. “Ye can be sure I’ll take good care of this handsome fellow.” He tilted his head toward the front of the inn. “Ye can ask Bess about a room.” Then he led Ajax off.
The Dancing Duck was like every other small hostelry Harry had ever stayed in. He entered through the tavern, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the low lintel, and glanced around. Fortunately, it was a few minutes after two o’clock, so most people had finished their midday meal and left, but there were enough men lingering over their mugs that he knew he’d end up being the main topic of the day’s gossip.
Well, that was to be expected. Any new face in a small village provoked intense interest.
He removed his hat—thanking God once more that he’d blackened his streak—smiled, nodded, and walked over to a short, plump woman who seemed to be in charge. “Good day, madam. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find Bess? I was told she was the one to see about a room.”
The drone of conversation behind him had all but stopped. He imagined the men’s ears twitching like Ajax’s, trying to catch every word he uttered.
“I’m Bess,” she said, looking him over carefully.
At least his clothes wouldn’t betray him the way Ajax’s all-too-obvious bloodlines had threatened to do with the ostler. His breeches, waistcoat, and coat were plain, worn, serviceable items he’d bought from one of Grainger’s tenants.
Hmm. Now that he thought about it, he’d better come up with a plausible story to explain Ajax before he saw Thomas again—or to have ready when the news of an Arabian in the stables went through the village men.
Oh, blast. Bess had finished her inspection and was now tugging her bodice lower, giving him a sultry look from under lowered lashes. She was a pleasant-enough looking woman, but he was not interested in bed play at the moment.
“Come this way, Mr. . . .” Bess let her voice trail off as she raised her brows inquiringly.
At least they’d stepped beyond the men’s hearing. “Graham.”
Her brows rose higher. “Oh? Are you part of the Earl of Darrow’s family, then?” She glanced up at his temples. “Though I see you’ve missed the silver streak.”
So, the girl by the stream knows she’s Walter’s by-blow.
“Right.” He gave Bess his best smile, hoping to distract her from pursuing that line of inquiry. He could deny the connection, but he’d found it best not to lie outright unless forced to.
His smile worked rather better than he’d intended. Bess blinked and then gave him a slow, suggestive smile of her own before turning to lead him up the stairs, her hips swaying provocatively in front of his nose.
“You’re in luck, Mr. Graham,” she said as they reached the landing. “Our nicest room happens to be available.”
She opened a door at the end of a short corridor and stepped aside—barely—so he could brush past her. Then she followed him into the room.
The small room. If this was the best the inn offered, he’d hate to see the worst.
He put his bag on the floor and then stepped round it to look out the window. Ah, he could see the stream below and what looked like a path along it.
“What brings you to Little Puddledon, if I may ask, Mr. Graham?”
He looked back at Bess. Good. His bag was acting as the wall he’d intended, keeping her at a distance. He’d been afraid she was going to try to plaster herself up against him.
She smirked. “Though I suppose I can guess. It must be Harriet, right? I mean, we’ve all noticed her hair, but I never imagined until just today—no one did—that she could be the last earl’s daughter. And now you show up. It can’t be an accident, can it? That’s what I say.”
Harriet. So, that’s the girl’s name. And what happened today?
Best play dumb. “I’m sorry. Who’s Harriet?”
His carefully bewildered tone must have been convincing because Bess frowned. “You didn’t know about Harriet?”
“No.” He could answer that truthfully. Until he’d stumbled upon her at the stream, he’d had no inkling she existed. “I came to sample the beer I understand you make here.” At least something useful had come from his many stops to ask directions.
“Oh.” Bess frowned, clearly having some difficulty adjusting her thinking. “You mean Widow’s Brew?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” She obviously didn’t see, but at least she was willing to move on from Walter’s daughter. “Well, then, you’ve come to exactly the right place. I’ll pour you a large tankard down in the tavern, shall I? And if you like it, perhaps you’ll put in a good word with your friends in London. I mean, being related to an earl, you must have friends there, right?”
She paused, clearly expecting a reply, so he nodded. It was true. He’d reconnected with some of his military and school friends and had finally begun to find his place among the ton.
“That’s very good. Caro—she’s our brewer—has been dying to get our beer into a London tavern or two. She’ll be delighted to meet you.”
She stepped back to the door—and Harry tried not to sigh with relief.
“Now, shall I pour you that tankard? Most of the men downstairs are finishing up and will be leaving soon, so I’ll be able to spend some time answering any questions you might have”—she gave him a coy look—“about anything.”
She was giving him an opportunity he could not refuse—but he was going to refuse it, at least for now. The trick would be to decline gracefully enough that he didn’t offend her and lose a source of information.
“Thank you, but after hours in the saddle I feel the need to stretch my legs.” He smiled to take the sting out of his refusal. “Perhaps I could take you up on your kind offer later?” At least the part abo
ut the beer.
She pouted briefly and then shrugged. “Suit yourself. You know where to find me.”
“Thank you. Oh, and before you go”—he gestured at the window—“I see what looks like a path down by the stream. Is that a pleasant walk?”
“If you like looking at water. Take it upstream and then come back through the village.” She grinned. “When you return, I wager you’ll be ready for that nice tall tankard of Widow’s Brew.”
“I’m sure I shall be.”
He waited until Bess had left and then hurried down the stairs. He took a quick look in to be certain Ajax was well settled and then headed for the water, turning upstream as Bess had suggested. He did need to stretch his legs, but he also needed time to think.
He should have adopted an alias rather than use his family name. Graham was rather common, but once he’d seen the girl—Harriet—he shouldn’t have risked people making the obvious connection. Stupid of him not to think of that. He really was losing his touch. Now he would have to—
A flock of crows erupted from a stand of trees up ahead, cawing and wheeling through the sky over the stream. Something must have startled them. A stag? A wild boar? He’d keep an eye out—
And then he heard what sounded like a woman’s scream followed by a male roar of pain or anger.
He broke into a run.
* * *
Godfrey knew an impressive number of swear words for a vicar.
Pen scrambled away from him, backing toward the stream, while his hands were busy gripping his . . . legs. It must hurt too much to touch the part she’d injured.
I wish I’d hit him harder.
He’d been holding her too tightly for her to get a really good angle on her target or as much force behind her thrust as she’d wanted.
“You bloody bitch.”
“Tsk, tsk, Godfrey. What would your congregation say to such language?” She should be frightened, but the churning emotion in her gut didn’t feel like fear. It felt like anger.
She also should run while Godfrey was incapacitated. He was much larger than she—not that much taller, but far heavier—and he had a man’s strength.
What Ales the Earl Page 5