My Lady Innkeeper

by Barbara Metzger

  Lyndell was sitting at her dressing table, scrubbing the wretched powder and the top layer of skin off her face. She had changed into her lawn nightgown, and had brushed out her hair, and had congratulated herself on her noble behaviour. She had vowed not to be swayed by his entreaties, and she hadn’t. The only problem, she thought angrily, was that there had been no entreaties! The marquis had not offered her wine, dinner, conversation—or insult. It was one thing to be ready to repulse advances, quite another when the advances did not come. She threw the towel down in disgust. Blasted unpredictable man, didn’t even give her the opportunity to say no!

  Now that she was wide awake, and in a righteous mood, she decided to see what Felicia was up to. It would not do for her to be so long in Richardson’s room, even if the man Farrow was there too. Now whose idea was that? she wondered. Either way, a valet was not adequate chaperone for a young girl’s good name. Her virtue, perhaps, but not her reputation. Lyndell put on her wrapper and the white mob-cap, just in case.

  Felicia was sleeping peacefully. No moral dilemmas there. With her hair in a braid, she looked like a child in Lyndell’s candle’s light, so Lyndell quietly shut the door behind her and turned toward her own apartment. A movement caught her eye, a man, leaving Molly’s room. How dare she, after Lyndell had expressly told her no. And how could she? As the man walked closer, nearer to the hall lamp, Lyndell could see that he was heavy and coarse-looking, with thick black hair and straggle-brows. There were even black hairs growing from his ears and nostrils— disgusting! And why was he still coming down the corridor, past the stairwell? Lyndell didn’t want any such scurvy character loose in the halls, so she waited for him to turn and leave. Except that he didn’t. He kept coming closer and closer, and suddenly grabbed at her! Before she could even think about screaming, he had one hand over her mouth and was dragging her back toward her own room. In his other hand he held a knife, right in front of Lyndell’s face. She stopped struggling and the knife moved a few inches away. She could see the black hairs on the back of his hand. Dear God, it was the last thing she was going to see!

  The marquis opened his door. “What in blazes?” Cheyne did not consider the odds—the attacker had the weight, the weapon, and his boots on, but he also had Miss Riddley. The ex-soldier lunged at the intruder, who spun around, freeing Lyndell though catching her shoulder on the knife edge. She reeled back, holding her upper arm, while the hairy brute turned on Cheyne. The man feinted once with the knife, but doors were opening up and down the corridor. Rather than take on the entire inn, the man shoved past Cheyne, clouting him against the wall, then fled down the stairs. The marquis shook his head to clear it before taking off in pursuit, down the stairs and out the door, shouting for Bennett.

  By now Farrow was out, looking for something to aim his pistol at. Willy was hobbling down the hall in his nightshirt, and Felicia was rubbing her eyes, wanting to know what was going on. Lyndell was still leaning against the wall, blood now beginning to ooze between her fingers, when Mrs. Blazer put her curl-papered head out her door and hissed, “This is not at all what I am used to!”

  Lyndell gave a shaky laugh. “Do you think I am?”

  * * * *

  By the time Cheyne returned, Felicia had swooned twice: once in the hall when she first saw the red stain on Lyndell’s arm, and again, right into Willy’s thankful arms, when Mrs. Bennett told her she looked like a fallen woman, out in the halls in a ha’penny’s worth of lace.

  Things were well under control when the marquis entered Lyndell’s room. Felicia, more than amply covered in his own paisley silk robe, was hovering over Willy’s chair. Willy, from a distance, was giving Miss Riddley—a Miss Riddley sans cap, glasses, baggy gown—a very puzzled inspection. Before he could express his bewildered thoughts to his cousin though, he was silenced with a pinch from Felicia, and a whispered, “Later,” which the marquis overheard. He would have been amused, except that he was so intent on Mrs. Bennett and Farrow, just now spreading a bandage to Lyndell’s shoulder. Mrs. Bennett covered Lyndell with the bedthrow blanket.

  “Damn!” said the marquis, astonishment turning to concern as he saw blood-stained rags. “How bad is it, Farrow?”

  “Not bad at all, my lord,” Lyndell answered for herself. Farrow nodded his agreement. “More a slice than a stab. I don’t think he even meant to do it. Did you catch him?”

  “No, he got away. He had his horse tied right out front, and took off through the hedges. By the time we could have saddled up, he’d have been long gone.”

  “Who was he, Miss, er, Riddley?” Willy put in.

  Lyndell gave him a wan smile and a nod of appreciation. “Never having seen him before, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “You never saw him before?” the marquis asked, giving her a strange look. “The boy Sam’l knew him.”

  “He did? Did he say who—no I suppose he didn’t.”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. He must have thought it important enough because he came right up to me and said, ‘Quinn.’ That’s all, just Quinn.”

  Mrs. Bennett gasped, but Lyndell murmured “Ah,” as if that answered many questions. It didn’t for Cheyne and he decided to clear the room. “Farrow, please take Will back to bed before he has a relapse, out in the night. And thank you for your help. Mrs. Bennett, perhaps you would see Miss Felicia to her room”—no one seemed to notice that he used Miss Fullerton’s real name—”and then see about some tea, with a little brandy, I think, for Miss Riddley. Thank you.” He added, “You needn’t worry about Quinn. I doubt he’ll return, now that so many people can identify him, and Bennett is downstairs with a shotgun in any case. Farrow, you keep the pistol handy; I’ll do the same.”

  When they were all gone and the door was shut, he faced Lyndell. huddled under her quilt, and demanded, “Now what is this all about? What in blazes did he want?”

  Lyndell gave a weak giggle. “I think . .. that is, it seemed, well, I suppose he wanted to kill me.” And then she was in his arms, weeping against his chest, and he was soothing her, telling her what a brave puss she’d been.

  “I’m usually not such a watering pot, you know.”

  “Of course you’re not, it’s just a reaction to everything,” he said, wiping her cheeks with his handkerchief. “Now come.” Without giving her a choice he scooped her, blanket and all, over to the chair by the fire and into his lap. “Tell me what’s going on here. You know I’ll help you.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He gave her his one-sided smile. “Most ladies in my lap manage to call me Wesley or Wes. ‘My lord’ seems a little formal, under the conditions, don’t you think, Miss ... ?”

  “Lynd—Lynn.”

  “Lynn? It’s not—no matter. About Quinn?”

  She started to tell him, without making much sense, so she got up to fetch Jasper’s letter from the pages of her book. Without a second’s hesitation, she climbed back into the marquis’s lap before handing it to him. He pulled her closer and read, “ ‘Dear Sister.’ Damn!”

  “What?”

  “You really are Riddley’s sister?” Lyndell chose not to add the “by marriage only”; she saw no reason to lay quite all her cards on the table just yet. She nodded. “And you really are a respectable female?” She nodded again; he swore again. Disturbed, she questioned: “Wesley?”

  He kissed her nose. “I was all set to offer you a carte blanche; now you’re too proper!” He read on while she blushed.

  “It seems Jasper had his fingers in a lot of pies, smuggling, robberies, but he drew the line at treason. That should save his skin. Too bad he couldn’t name the London contact. That would satisfy the War Office. Do you know where Jasper is now?”

  “Yes, he’s up at King’s Mark. That’s the manor a few miles back. There’s a connexion,” she said before he could ask. “Do you think Quinn will go after him?”

  “It he thought Jasper would talk, most likely, or if he knew anything. It’s too late to warn him now. Quinn would al
ready have been and gone. I’ll send Bennett in the morning. But tell me, precious, why would Quinn come after you? What was your part in this, and why the disguise?”

  Lyndell took a moment to choose her answer: “I really don’t know why Quinn wanted to kill me, unless he thought Jasper had told me something, or he thought I could find some evidence. That was my plan. I was going to wait for the London traitor and trap him.”

  Cheyne squeezed her harder. “Foolish beyond permission, my love. Look what it’s got you. And you’ve been tossing every suspicious character out of the inn anyway.”

  The endearments were being stored away for future examination. Right now Lyndell confided, “That’s the good part. Anyone who makes a fuss about staying, unless there is a good excuse, has to be a suspect. So I report him to the authorities and—”

  Cheyne burst out laughing and Lyndell could feel it up and down her body. She wriggled closer still. “What amuses you?”

  “You do, sweetheart. I’m the authorities!”

  It was her turn to laugh. “And I thought you were the spy!”

  A few minutes of friendly bantering passed, and a few not so comradely kisses. Then Lyndell asked, “But what now?”

  Tomorrow,” he told her firmly, “you let me handle it. But right now—”

  “Ahem.” Mrs. Bennett cleared her throat and set the tray down with a thud. She stood there glaring, her arms crossed over her chest, the light of battle in her eyes. All good soldiers can recognise a force majeur when they see it. The marquis retreated to the sounds of Mrs. Bennett’s final warning: “And you needn’t worry, my lord, I’ll be sleeping right here, keeping Miss Lyndy safe from harm ... from all harm.”

  Chapter Twenty

  For someone who had been shot at and stabbed, Lyndell was in a remarkably cheerful frame of mind on Monday morning. Her shoulder was stiff, but the sun was out and it was one of those nearly perfect early winter days, clear and bright without a chilling wind. Lyndell’s spirits matched the day. For the first time in a long time, she had a feeling of eager expectancy, a sense of something wonderful about to happen, almost like Felicia’s excitement over her first Season. Lyndell had been intrigued by the cloak-and-dagger adventure, like an exercise in logic, before it grew so personal. She had certainly often been pleased over a special ball or spectacular fete, but now she felt that a cloud of tedium had just been lifted, even if she hadn’t been aware of its presence. Suddenly she was living a little more fully. The air was crisper, the sky was bluer and she was in—No, she would not call it love, not yet. She would acknowledge infatuation, attraction certainly, but for that final, irrevocable and chancy commitment, no, not yet.

  What Lyndell felt was a little kernel inside her, warm and glowing, waiting to burst into full flower. She could cherish that, for now, but not let it grow. The marquis was a rake. It was simple; he could not be trusted, not to be honest or loyal or sincere, and without those qualities, Lyndell could not give herself to any man, no matter what the inclination of the moment!

  For much the same reasons, she had not revealed her real identity. If Cheyne was ever to love her, and love her enough to give up those wild bachelor ways, two very separate things, then he also had to love her for herself. Cheyne was not after her fortune, that was not even a question—but what of her social position, her family name? If he could love the plain middle-class Miss Riddley enough to offer for her, Lyndell decided, his love could be trusted. And then ... If her heart had hands, it was warming them by that little glow.

  While Lyndell sat humming, mending linen in the kitchen, the marquis was out hunting, tromping through the woods, teaching Sam’l to whistle. Their noises would scare off any game, of course, but well worth it, considering the boy’s laughter. For the very first time in his memory, Cheyne found himself thinking what a pleasure it might be having a son of his own to teach things to, things like shooting and fishing and following tracks around snow-brittled pine trees on a glorious winter morning. The whistling could not interfere, since the quarry whose tracks they were following had been long gone in any case. They traced Quinn’s trail through the hedgerows and across some fallow acres, nearing a sizable estate, then through the forest, doubling back to the road, where the prints, heading north, were obscured by cart tracks. Convinced that Quinn wasn’t lurking about anywhere close, the marquis gave his full attention to Ajax, blundering through the woodlands, crunching through the ice crust and woofing.

  A pointer he wasn’t, and it was obvious after the first rabbit that he’d never been taught to retrieve without tasting. Somehow, out of the dog’s sheer exuberance, the gentleman’s crack shot, and the boy’s quick gathering of downed prey, they managed to bag a pheasant, three rabbits and a brace of woodcock, all of which Sam’l proudly presented to Mrs. Bennett, who fussed about congratulating the hunters, fixing them hot drinks, chocolate for Sam’l, mulled ale for the marquis, and reciting aloud possible menus.

  Lord Cheyne took a seat next to Lyndell’s and recounted the morning’s activities: “The dog is a natural hunter. What he doesn’t step on, he frightens half to death, then he eats it! We’d be going hungry if not for Sam’l here. Incidentally, we followed the man Quinn’s path back to the road. He never went very near that manor you spoke of.”

  “Yes, that’s what Bennett said. He went anyway, to warn Jasper, who is considering whether the inn wouldn’t be a better place right now. Safety in numbers, you know. I’m almost embarrassed for him, he’s such a spineless gudgeon.”

  “I’d like to speak to him anyway,” the marquis said with a smile that could mean anything. Lyndell thought it the height of ludicrousness for the marquis to ask a Riddley for her hand in marriage, if that was what he wanted of Jasper, but she had no opportunity to discuss it, since the bell at the manager’s desk was ringing, over and over.

  * * * *

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my lord ... ?”

  “Crowley; I want a room, brandy and hot food, in that order. And who, pray tell, are you?”

  “Miss ... Miss Riddley, my lord, Jasper’s sister.”

  “Didn’t know he had one.” Crowley looked Lyndell over, then said, “See why he never mentioned it.”

  Lyndell gasped at such rudeness, before recalling what she knew of the Earl of Crowley. He was one of London’s prime eccentrics, sometimes of the Carleton House set, when he chose to socialise at all. More often he was found at racing meets, horse auctions and stud farms, where his unkempt appearance and rough tongue were better suited than in the drawing room. Past his fortieth year, he had still not married, the talk went, because no mere female could interest him as much as a sweet-going mare. It was also rumoured that his whole income went to finance his obsession, perhaps, Lyndell thought, even to the point where he would be forced to crime to support his stables.

  “We do have a room, my lord, if you want it. The thing is ... well, have you ever had the measles?”

  “Measles? What’s to do with measles?”

  “You see, we had a family staying here, and the children came down with something, then the maids ...”

  “No matter, girl, just get me a key. I must’ve had the spots when I was young.”

  “But, my lord, I ... I feel I had better tell you that we fear it may be smallpox. So the inn at—”

  “Measles, smallpox. I don’t care if it’s the French pox! I’ve been riding since sun-up and I’m not putting my arse back in the leather today. That’s final!”

  He might not worry over his own health, but his horses were another matter. Lyndell was about to create a dire disease in the stables to challenge his determination to stay, when she noticed Cheyne, leaning against the door frame. He’d changed from his hunting clothes into dove-grey pantaloons, a black coat and black waistcoat embroidered with silver. What a contrast between him and the newcomer in his stained buckskins and bulky frieze jacket. Both were tall, well-built men, but the earl merely looked crudely rugged; Cheyne elegantly virile. The marquis was smiling, most
likely enjoying her discomfort, and shaking his head. No, don’t discourage the earl more, or no, don’t let him stay? Drat them both!

  “Room Five, and your groom can bed down in the stables. I’ll see to luncheon in a half hour in the tap room. Our private parlour is already spoken for.”

  “Cheyne, eh? I saw his team out back, prime goers, I’ll bet. Oh, there you are, Wesley. Had them off Folger, eh? Set you back a pretty penny....” And Crowley wandered off, forgetting about his hot bath, his brandy and his key.

  * * * *

  “Room Twelve, Lord Dodgett? I’m afraid that room is occupied by a ... a button salesman. Won’t another do?”

  “No, no, it must be Twelve! Well, perhaps Fourteen. I’m tracing the path of a certain star, you see, and I come here to check its progress every month. Mr. Riddley understood. Are you sure he’s not here? Oh, dear. My experiment, my papers for the Royal Astronomical Society—”

  “My stars.” Lyndell had to smile to herself; Cheyne was unfortunately still talking to Crowley. “If it’s that important, perhaps I can move the button merchant. Room Twelve, you say? Would you mind waiting in the common room while I see?”

  Lyndell flew up the stairs and gave Room Twelve a quick survey, opening the empty drawers and checking behind them, feeling the mattress for suspicious lumps, even tapping for loose floorboards. Stargazing indeed! A likely story for the Duke of Burfield’s second son. About as likely as pigs flying. There must be something, but Lyndell couldn’t find it. The bell summoned her back downstairs as she was wondering if secret codes could be sewn in the curtain hems. She’d have to search later.