The man Bennett was back from wherever he’d ridden off to earlier. That was one of the most closed-mouthed chaps the marquis had come up against, off on an errand instead of giving an answer every time. The stableboy was worse. Who ever heard of a barn brat not taking a bribe for some information? If Cheyne hadn’t heard Bennett call the lad, he’d not even know his name. But there was Molly, with her voluptuous bosom and yellow hair, winking at him as she brought tankards over to a pair of workingmen, swinging her hips in exaggerated motion on her way back to the bar.
Cheyne set his bottle down on a table near the men, in case their talk should yield any clues. All he heard though was, “What’s old Molly after now, awaggin’ her tail like a bitch in heat?”
“Not for you, you old gaffer. Finer feathers nor yours, she has in mind, I figure.” And the speaker nudged his companion in Cheyne’s direction. The marquis raised his glass in acknowledgement, hoping to encourage the men’s familiarity, but they just turned back to their ale and their talk of fixing the roads, come spring.
Cheyne’s bottle finished, he signalled for the barkeep, who came over, wiping his hands on his apron. Before the marquis could even hint at a question, however, Bennett informed him that Molly would be taking over now, as Bennett had to be up with the horses in the morning. Anything his Lordship wanted, just ask Molly, he said, leaving. Aye, a knowing one was that Bennett, with the look of a horse trader in his eye.
Molly brought him another bottle. Fine French Burgundy this time. She managed to rub against his shoulder putting the bottle down, and gave him a generous view of her admirable cleavage leaning over to wipe at the table.
“Excellent wine you serve here,” he mentioned casually. “I wonder if there’d be any way I could purchase a case or so to take home with me.”
“Well, I don’t know, love. Jasper usually handles that ‘n there’s no telling when he’ll be back.”
“Surely you could procure me a few bottles at least, couldn’t you?”
“Mayhap I could, if it was, you know, worth my while.”
“And what would it take”—laughing brown eyes looked at her over the rim of his glass—”to make it worth your while?”
“I’ll have to think on it,” she said, going over to settle the farmers’ accounts. “Maybe we could talk about it later.”
Cheyne had another glass. Then another, while the workers put on their heavy overcoats, their mufflers, their mittens. Finally Molly came back to him, and he merely had to hold an arm out to have her in his lap. Like the gentleman he was, he offered her some of his wine. “Don’t mind if I do; not many of the customers offer the good stuff. You’re a real fine gent, you are.”
With a little snuggling and some friendly fondling and as much wine as it took, he hoped to find out just where this Jasper was, where the wine came from and who her other gentlemen friends were. When she started nibbling on his ear and shivering, saying what a cold night it was, with the downstairs fire put out and all, he knew the lady wasn’t giving anything away free. When her hands started roving lower, and she mentioned that maybe, just maybe, she could find the name of Jasper’s wine dealer, upstairs, Cheyne decided to make the supreme sacrifice. For God and country.
“I have to lock up down here, love. Go left at the top of the stairs; it’s the last door on the left.”
* * * *
Willy was sleeping peacefully when Cheyne looked in on him, Farrow dozing in a chair next to the bed. He’d have to make it up to poor Farrow, but at least the goosish maid wasn’t spending the night! He went back to his own room and undressed, putting on only a paisley silk dressing gown and a lopsided smile ... all in the line of duty, sir. He took a candle with him as he padded to the door in his bare feet, then came back and stuffed a few pound notes in his pocket.
At this moment, the marquis’s thinking wasn’t quite at par with the battle-heightened acumen for which he was famous. He’d been without sleep for well over two days, and had been living at a fast pace for months before. He’d had too much to drink tonight, and every night this week. He’d had the shock of Willy’s accident, his own remorse, and the affecting incident in the stable. In other words, his wits were gone begging. What he was using for brains at this moment was located entirely elsewhere.
Therefore, when he reached the top of the stairs, he went left, and continued on to the last door on the left, just like Molly had said. Of course Molly’s directions were from the bottom of the stairs, looking up, not from his room near the central hall.
* * * *
There was no answer when he scratched softly on the door. Maybe Molly was still closing up, in which case he could do a little snooping, though he didn’t really expect to find contraband goods hidden beneath her bed. The door he opened showed a room in darkness, except for snow-reflected moonlight through the rear window. It appeared to be a small sitting room with two equally dark bedchambers to either side. The nearest bedchamber, he could see by his candle’s light, was obviously a man’s, with jackets, boots, harness pieces and neckcloths strewn about. It didn’t take much to deduce that the missing tenant was also the disappeared innkeeper, Riddley. The room was too cluttered for any transient guest, and its corner location gave the best vantage of both the roadway and the stableyard. If this was Jasper’s chamber, the other must be Molly’s. It followed, to Cheyne’s reasoning, that Molly was therefore Riddley’s mistress, and his estimation of that gentleman, not high to start, dropped another notch. Not because Riddley had a mistress, not even because she was a rustic like Molly, but that he’d share her with anyone with the price. Unless, of course, Riddley didn’t know. It didn’t matter a ha’penny. What did was that if Molly shared Riddley’s suite, and his bed, Delilah didn’t!
With that tortuous reasoning concluded, Cheyne realised his candle was burning low and his bare feet were getting chilled and he could barely keep his eyes open. He could light the fire in the sitting room, offering Molly a chance to sit and chat when she came up, or he could wait for her under the covers. Major Richardson of the Fourth Cavalry would have braved the elements and put aside personal considerations, for the cause. Wesley Richardson, Fifth Marquis of Cheyne, after his second bottle and after bruising his toes on a pile of books, chose the bed.
Molly’s bedroom was smaller man Riddley’s, very austere by comparison. Surprisingly, there was nothing lying about except there on the bed. “Molly?” he whispered. He got no answer, but obviously she was there before him, playing coy. It seemed there’d be no genial conversation first, after all. Trying to feel regretful that it was to be pleasure before business, and failing, the marquis placed his candle on the dressing table. Then as noisily as he could, he uncrinkled the pound notes from his pocket and placed them under the candleholder, to show he understood the game. He dropped his dressing gown on the side of the bed and got in. The light was even poorer—-the moon must be cloud-covered—and his candle was on the other side of the room, so he could barely make out the light curls on the pillow, and he only vaguely noted that the figure under the blankets didn’t seem quite what the satin bodice had promised.
Moving closer, he called “Molly” again, and chuckled at her silence. He gently kissed one eyelid and then the other, and placed one of his hands on her breast. The eyelids snapped open.
Cheyne was just considering how this wondrously soft, warm, rounded breast had appeared so ... so flabby earlier, when a voice hissed in his ear: “It’s you!”
“Of course it is, sweetings, you invited me,” he answered and covered her mouth with his. This was no tentative kiss, nor sweetly intense. It was hard and demanding, with a fiery tongue. It vibrated with the intent to arouse her to passion. And it succeeded. With one arm she gave him a shove and with the other arm Lyndell gave him another clout on the side of his head.
“I never did, you ... you libertine!”
The marquis sat up in horror. My God, he thought. It’s the landlady! But no ... he couldn’t see the red-gold of her hair, or the green
eyes he was sure were smouldering, but there in the unreliable light of the moon was that same profile, that same nose and, yes, it had been that same roundhouse right. Thank heavens!
“Get out, you reprobate, you ravisher, you—”
He got out of her bed before she had the whole house out of theirs, and stood there, trying to apologise. “I ... I thought you were Molly, you see ...”
What she saw, in that same moonlight haze, was his profile, and evidence that his interest, so to speak, was at the highest. She screeched one more “Get out, you evil man” while pulling the blankets over her head.
Not even when the enemy had charged Valdoz had the marquis moved so fast. He was out of the sitting room, stubbing his toes again, and on the other side of the door before he had his sash tied, and before Lord Naybors had closed his own door, down the hall.
By Jupiter, Naybors gasped, Cheyne and the landlady! That’s bravery indeed!
Chapter Fifteen
The first thing Lyndell did the next morning, after unbarricading her door, was have it out with Molly: No flirting with the customers. No painted lips or low-cut dresses. And no men in her bedroom.
“If you’re worried about your ‘tips,’ you will now be receiving a salary.” Lyndell smacked Cheyne’s five pound notes down on the dresser. “Here’s your first payment.”
Gads, was all Molly could think of, roused so roughly from her sleep to hear her employer’s diatribe. What had Miss Prunes-and-Prisms in such a pelter now? She wiped her eyes. Then, as her mind started to wake up too, she recalled last night’s ruckus, and began to laugh.
“So that’s what happened to his nibs! What a shock he must have had!” She took in Lyndell’s shapeless navy wool gown and the limp cap and laughed even louder. “There’s not many women I know as would throw such a handsome buck out of their beds.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” was Lyndell’s retort as she slammed the door behind her, leaving Molly flushed with hilarity at the ways of the gentry.
Miss Markham was furious. She was burning, and this time it wasn’t with passion. It was physical yearning, to be sure, an intense desire to box that lecher’s ears. Hang the molester up by his thumbs! Pull out every one of those shiny black curls!
It wasn’t just the kiss, though that was bad enough. The kiss itself was actually one of the more stirring moments of her life. She’d never been kissed lying down, and there was a big difference, she’d found. That wasn’t the point, however. The rake had come unbidden into her rooms in the middle of the night, assaulted her virtue and, the supreme insult, apologised for mistaking her for Molly! Boiling in oil was too good for the dastard.
What she needed right now was Jasper coming forward with his evidence, even confessing his part in the smuggling if he had to. Then Lyndell could go home, taking the innocent Miss Fullerton out of the old goat’s way. What she needed was Jasper to lend her countenance. Much as she deplored the fact, a woman under her brother’s or father’s or husband’s protection was less likely to be harassed, which was why proper ladies were never unescorted. Even if she couldn’t see clear to her weakling step-brother’s defending her honour against such a virile man as the marquis, she needed his actual presence.
What she got, however, was Bennett’s report that yes, he’d located Jasper, and yes, he was hiding out with old Diccon, in the gatehouse attics where he’d go undetected. And no, he would not return to the inn. Jasper felt he did not have enough information to go to the authorities with, Bennett gloomily reported, but he knew too much of the goings-on for the criminals’ safety. If he wasn’t arrested, he’d be killed, so he was not budging. Unless, of course, Lyndell was willing to lay down the blunt to see him safely out of the country. She considered it, then discarded the idea. His name—and hers—would still have the tarnish on it, even more so if the mess was never resolved. She’d see the lily-livered coward out of the country, all right, but not yet.
* * * *
The first thing the marquis did when he awoke, after laying a cool cloth on his aching head, was to see how Willy was doing. His cousin seemed to be making a great recovery, grinning like a cat in the cream, while the little maid spooned porridge into him. As if his arm was hurt, and not his foot, Cheyne fumed. Still a little warm to the touch, Willy was in high fettle, but the girl. Felicity, was even more clothheaded than usual. Instead of blushing, as she had previously, now she jumped up and ran to the other side of the bed, spilling hot gruel on her poor patient.
It was Cheyne’s turn to blush; obviously the chit had been warned of his own wanton lust. And here he’d been about to chide Willy for dallying with a maid! His own actions looked even worse by daylight. What was he about, making great gaffes like that, nearly ravishing innocent maids? Of course his maid wasn’t quite the innocent, not if she was in Jasper Riddley’s keeping. Yet there was something so pure about her kisses, and she’d seemed so sweetly willing, up to a point. If he hadn’t had such a weathered tan, his cheek would be a discoloured yellow by now. That was the point. At least she wasn’t a lady, thank God, with duennas and chaperones and ten male relatives clamouring for his blood. He could just see some stiff-rumped baronet demanding satisfaction unless he married the girl. But a light-skirt?
He’d apologise, possibly buy her a gift if there was a store in the village with some gewgaws, a fan or parasol perhaps, and that would be that After all, not much had actually happened, certainly not as much as he wished! In order to apologise he had to find her, but without knocking on the door he knew would be locked to him. He didn’t even know her name, really, or what she was doing here. For that matter, he didn’t know what he was doing here!
He had to do better than this, he told himself. Where was all that vaunted intellect, the perspicacity that had kept him alive through all those years of war? If he couldn’t untangle this little inn’s messy web, he’d be ashamed to face the general again.
* * * *
“This is the most ramshackle hostelry it has ever been my misfortune to visit. Poor rooms, discourteous service, midnight carryings-on. This is the last you’ll have of my custom, Miss Riddley, and I’ll be certain to tell all my friends. Good day.”
Good riddance to bad rubbish, Mr. Blackburn, Lyndell thought, nearly biting her tongue to keep herself from sending regards to Lady Naybors. No sense in drawing attention, nor in speaking more than she had to, lest he think her voice was familiar. Yet it was remarkable, Lyndell thought, how little people really noticed, especially the upper classes. If you weren’t fashionable, or good ton, you barely existed. Just by wearing unfashionable gowns, a cap and spectacles, she faded right into the background. Cheyne had barely nodded to her when they met; Naybors felt he could treat her like a servant; Jamison like a half-wit. A Mrs. Cox, in ermine and emeralds, took one look at Miss Riddley, the squint, the stoop, and requested her rooms through her maid, as if she needed an interpreter. Of course, when a Mr. Bushnell arrived, in corsets and eye-threatening shirtpoints, asking for a room next to his sister, Mrs. Cox, Miss Riddley-the-nonentity took great pleasure in announcing that the inn was full.
* * * *
Lyndell was wrong, at least about the marquis. At the moment he was very much interested in her. He had just finished shaving and was about to tie the neckcloth Farrow had handed him when a commotion of shouts and snarls and screams in the stable yard below drew him to the window. His first thought on seeing the crowd of people out there was that his red-haired vixen wasn’t one of them. His next thought was that with the drab Miss Riddley outside, it was a good time to search the rest of the upstairs rooms. But what in the blazes were those people doing out there? Bennett was holding a pistol, in a very businesslike way. Mrs. Bennett was doing the screaming, flapping a blanket in the air. The sulky stableboy had a jar of something, and Miss Riddley, wielding a large knife, was advancing on a mangy cur that was growling and snapping. The marquis left without tieing his neckcloth.
* * * *
It vaguely registered in Chey
ne’s mind that Miss Riddley wasn’t wearing her spectacles, but his attention was focussed on the dog. Bennett explained the situation to him, in the most pessimistic of terms, and the marquis assumed charge. He took the blanket from Mrs. Bennett, admonishing her to be still, lest she upset the poor beast further.
“Bennett, do you know how to use that thing?”
“Aye, well enough.”
“Let’s hope so,” the marquis said, advancing closer to Miss Riddley and the dog Ajax, the blanket loosely wrapped around one arm. “Miss Riddley, do stand to the side more, that’s it, out of Bennett’s line of fire. Right. You, sir,” to Ajax, “stop that noise. Down, Ajax!”
Ajax was weak, and terrified of all the people surrounding him, but he heard that voice of authority, the same firm voice used to give orders to the greenest of raw recruits. He was not conceding to it yet, certainly not lying down to be kicked or beaten or whatever, but he did stop lurching about. The marquis approached touching distance.
“Miss Riddley, at the count of three, you will clap your hands and shout, to get his attention. One ... two ... three.” As Ajax turned to the new threat, the marquis made his move. With one fluid motion he had an arm around the animal’s neck and the other hand firmly encircling the dog’s mouth, keeping those jaws tightly shut. Ajax whined and struggled to get away, but the marquis’s grip was like iron. “Good fellow, steady there. Now Miss Riddley, whilst I hold the mouth, take the blanket—no, take my neckcloth. Tie it firmly about his snout.”
Lyndell did as she was told, having to come closer still to remove the white linen from his neck. She was blushing furiously, but luckily Cheyne was concentrating on the dog. She had to brush his fingers with hers, wrapping the cloth. Hers trembled; his were strong, brown, unmoving. She lapped the cloth two or three times around the beast’s jaws before the marquis directed her to tie a knot, tightly, behind Ajax’s head, “So he can’t just scratch the muzzle off.”
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