Of course, the shouting match in front of them commanded their attention. Mr. Lynsted and the others became so caught up in the angry drivers they didn’t even notice Grace’s presence until the beleaguered driver who had almost hit her stopped mid-sentence.
He stood in his phaeton and pointed at Grace. “Her. There. She’s the reason I almost ran into you. I had to swerve to avoid running her over. Stepped out in front of me.”
All eyes turned to Grace, who became conspicuously aware she was the only woman present in the yard.
“I told you to stay in the coach,” Mr. Lynsted barked without preamble. That angry muscle in his jaw had tightened and he was giving her the “glare,” an expression he appeared to be perfecting around her.
Grace squared her shoulders. “While you discuss boxing? Well, I’m in search of a fighter by the name of Roast Chicken,” she said. “Have you heard of him? I’d like him for my supper.”
Mr. Lynsted’s scowl deepened although his companions, including Dawson, saw humor in her small jest. However, they dared not laugh. They suddenly became interested in scratching their noses and looking to the ground…the cowards!
Fortunately, Herbert approached. He spoke in the ear of Mr. Lynsted, who shook his head.
“Dawson, is there another inn nearby?”
Before Dawson could answer, one of the other gentleman spoke up, “There’s not an inn for an hour in any direction that will be less crowded than this one.”
Mr. Lynsted looked to the inn and then to Grace. He obviously was not satisfied with the arrangements but gave a short nod of his head. Dawson and Herbert moved around her to unpack their luggage from the boot.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mr. Lynsted said to the two standing with him. He offered Grace his arm. “We have little choice but to stay here for the night,” he said and then frowned past her.
Grace turned to see a party of men who had been eyeing her. Mr. Lynsted’s size and proprietarial air warned them away.
“Earlier, when I told you to stay in the coach, it was for your own protection,” he murmured as he led her to the inn’s door. “We have no choice but to stay here for the night, but considering the overwhelmingly male presence, you’d be wise to obey my orders.”
“Perhaps you’d best add ‘willful’ to my list of sins then,” she informed him, stung at being talked down to.
“I already have.” He opened the door.
The inn was a lovely Tudor structure with beamed ceilings and a cozy rabbit warren of rooms.
Unfortunately it was crowded with not just men, but sportsmen. They came in all shapes, sizes, and from all walks of life. The taproom was filled to overflowing. Gentlemen crowded the narrow hallway or sat on every available surface in the side rooms. And however much attention she drew outside, she doubled it in here.
Mr. Lynsted was not pleased. That angry muscle in his jaw had appeared and didn’t seem ready to go away.
He needn’t have put himself in a pet. One sight of his big, hulking self behind her and the men quickly shifted their focus back to their drinks and conversations.
He took her elbow and directed her into a sitting room off to the left with a cheery fire in the grate. A comfortable-looking chintz-covered chair set empty beside the fire, the way to it blocked by a group of men talking.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Lynsted said, his voice deeper than usual. They were going to ignore him until, like the others, they noticed his size and Grace standing beside him. They stepped out of the way.
Mr. Lynsted offered her the chair. “I’m going to find the innkeeper. I’ll be right back.” He said this last loud enough for the gentlemen to hear. And then, in a very quiet under voice, he had to add, “This is one of those circumstances when a lady’s maid would have been a great help.”
She bristled at the suggestion. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yes, you have your knife,” he agreed with a hint of disgust and left.
The truth was, she didn’t have her dirk. She’d left it on the floor of the coach, a blunder that was uncharacteristic of her. The omission was certainly Mr. Lynsted’s fault. If she hadn’t been so frustrated and annoyed with him, she would have remembered something important like her dirk.
She studied the fire, watching the flames dance every time the front door opened and closed. More men entering the inn. She and Mr. Lynsted had obviously arrived just in time.
The air was full of masculine shouts of greetings, talk of the fight…and the mention of her name.
She’d been recognized.
Grace dared not look around her and invite unwelcome attention. She kept her head low, listening.
Then, she heard several men mention Mr. Lynsted’s name. Their voices sounded patronizing as well as mildly surprised at his presence.
She had to look to see who was speaking and was shocked to recognize Lord Stone standing in the doorway surrounded by a group of his cronies.
It took all of Grace’s courage to not jump behind the chair and hide. Stone was the man who’d attempted to bribe the stagehands, porters, and watchmen for access to her, the one others had warned her to stay far away from. She’d been blessed the stagehands and others had protected her. In the way of underlings, they’d managed to talk their way out of doing his bidding.
Stone was the son of a duke and impervious to the law. One of the girls in the opera company had been his mistress until a broken jaw, reputedly by Stone’s hands, had left her unable to perform, and then he’d tossed her out.
There were other stories, whispers of behaviors so degrading and mean-spirited, Grace had not wanted to believe them. She hadn’t wanted to grow closer to him either.
And now, here he was, looking down the hall and mentioning Mr. Lynsted by name.
Grace turned her back to the door, even as she strained to catch a word or two of what Stone was saying without drawing attention to herself—but it was too late.
A stool was plunked down beside her chair. Stone himself sat upon it. He was a tall, gimlet-eyed man with a lacy neck cloth and dark hair he combed forward in the style á Brutus. Many women thought him attractive.
Grace thought him reptilian.
“Miss MacEachin, who would have thought I’d meet you in the wilds of Biggleswade.”
Her first instinct was to ignore him…but she knew that would only antagonize the situation.
“Who would have thought I’d meet you here as well, my lord?” She kept her voice cool, her back straight.
His gaze warmed in appreciation. “You are more lovely up close than you are on a stage.”
She didn’t answer. She held herself still.
He smiled as if sensing her apprehension. “Perhaps it is fortuitous that we are here together. I now have the opportunity to know you better. You have proven to be a difficult woman to know. I’ve tried my best to gain your attention.”
“My career has kept me busy.”
“But you are not busy now.” His smile widened, turned wolfish—until Mr. Lynsted’s voice cut in.
“She’s also not alone.”
Grace could have collapsed in relief.
The smile disappeared from Stone’s face. He stood. “Lynsted.”
“Stone.”
Grace was stunned by Mr. Lynsted’s curtness. It was as if he, of all the people of his class, was not intimidated by the rake.
“I have our rooms, Grace,” Mr. Lynsted said, using her given name, and she understood. He was offering her the only protection Lord Stone would respect.
“You’ve won her? You?” Stone’s accusation and disbelief rang off the ceiling beams.
Mr. Lynsted didn’t answer him but took Grace’s hand and led her from the room, Stone’s mates stepping back to let them pass.
She could feel their gazes follow her and Mr. Lynsted as he led her down the hall to the staircase, where a girl waited to escort them up to their rooms.
“How do you know Stone?” he asked her in a low voice as they reached the top of t
he stairs.
“How do you know him?” she countered.
“I went to school with him. He’s the devil incarnate.”
“For once, Mr. Lynsted, we agree. He’s been after me. Wanted to win that wager.”
The girl opened a door on the right side of the hall.
“This is your room,” Mr. Lynsted murmured. “Mine is across the hall. We’re fortunate to have secured them. I’m not certain there are any others left.”
“Yes, sir, we are full,” the girl confirmed.
Grace walked inside. The room was a little larger than a good-sized horse stall but the sheets and the floor appeared clean, and a small fire gave the room warmth. Herbert had seen that her valise was waiting for her on her bed.
“Is the water warm in the pitcher?” Grace asked, nodding to the wash stand.
“Yes, miss,” the girl answered. “And the soap is new, too.”
Grace nodded her appreciation and the girl withdrew.
“I’ll give you a moment to freshen up,” Mr. Lynsted said, “and then I’ll escort you to dinner. Let’s say in fifteen minutes. There is a rather nice dining room overlooking the garden.”
“That sounds like heaven,” she said, her dark thoughts of Lord Stone vanishing.
“Good. Now, don’t open this door until you hear my knock.”
“I won’t,” she agreed.
He paused by the door. “By the way, I took the liberty of ordering supper.”
“What did you order?” she asked.
“Roast chicken.” Something suspiciously like a smile crossed his face as he closed the door.
“If you aren’t careful, you may develop a sense of humor,” Grace warned, but there was no response. She heard the door across the hall open and close.
Fifteen minutes passed very quickly. Grace was barely ready when he knocked on her door, ready to escort her downstairs.
The crowd of men in the taproom and hallways seemed to have doubled in size, if that could be possible. Other than the serving girls in the dining room, Grace was the only woman there—and she was glad for Mr. Lynsted’s presence.
By now, word had spread as to her identity and she could feel the men strip her naked with their eyes, but they kept their distance.
Their dinner was delicious. Of course, Grace was so hungry she have been eaten crow’s meat and thought it tasty.
Conversation between her and Mr. Lynsted was sparse. He appeared as aware as she that, in spite of being seated at a table in the far corner, they were the center of attention. The situation seemed to make him as uncomfortable as it did her, which she found interesting. Any other man of her acquaintance would have preened over the impression he’d claimed her and won the wagers.
Mr. Lynsted acted awkward and almost embarrassed. Grace wasn’t certain she ought not be a little offended.
Lord Stone sat with a group of comrades at a large table in the center of the room. Grace tried not to pay attention to them but they were loud and drinking heavily. New wagers were being made over whether the Scotsman McGowan could beat the current champion, Tom Cribb, when they met next month around London.
And then she heard Stone say to a man, “Ask her to sing. Tell her we want a song.”
The man he’d given the order to was young, foppish, and had pretentions of being a Corinthian. He was also very deep into his cups. He leaned back in his chair, turning in Grace’s direction, and shouted, “Sing us a song.”
Stone kicked a chair leg out from beneath him and the man crashed to the floor. “I could have done that,” he chastised the man and then sent an insolent grin in Grace’s direction. “My apologies, Gracie love. Young men today lack manners.” The others around him snickered.
Grace chose to ignore them and was pleased Mr. Lynsted did, too.
And then Stone called out, “So how are things with you, Dickie? Has life grown better or are you still the same shivering worm? Remember when we used to make you lie on the floor and pretend to shiver? Worm, worm, worm?”
Heads from other tables turned in their direction. Mr. Lynsted carefully buttered a slice of bread and took a bite.
Stone sighed heavily as if annoyed. Grace had finished with her meal and wished they’d leave. Mr. Lynsted seemed at ease.
A few moments later, Stone said to one of his comrades, “Natty, fetch that kitten over there. Bring it to me.”
Grace had to look and sure enough, there was a curious kitten peeking out from behind the hallway door. It was a yellow cat with two white front paws.
“A cat?” Natty protested, even as he rose to catch it.
“A cat,” Stone insisted. “I have a new wager.”
Grace folded and unfolded her napkin. Mr. Lynsted appeared oblivious to Stone’s presence.
“What sort of wager?” one of the gentlemen at his lordship’s table asked.
“I’ll wager five hundred guineas I can make that cat run a straight course from one side of this room to the other.”
“You can’t make a cat do anything,” the gentleman said and his companions agreed.
“A straight line,” Stone promised, taking the purring kitten from Natty. “Are you in?”
Before anyone could answer, Mr. Lynsted pushed back his chair and stood. “Let the cat go.”
“This isn’t your concern, Dickie,” Stone answered.
“Yes, it is.”
Stone laughed. “You tried to stop me one other time, remember?”
“I did stop you,” Mr. Lynsted said.
“Not for long. I did what I wanted anyway.”
Mr. Lynsted’s jaw hardened, not with anger but resolve. “Leave the cat alone.”
Grace had never heard of anyone standing up to Lord Stone. People usually dodged him, talking around him, mollified him. No one defied him.
The room had gone quiet.
Stone grinned, obviously enjoying being the center of attention. “We used to lock you in your trunk, Dickie. Do you remember that?”
“I do.”
“We’d hear you crying.”
Mr. Lynsted did not say a word.
“And there was the time we pushed the trunk down the stairs,” Stone continued. “What did you break?”
“You know.”
“But the others don’t,” Stone reminded him.
“I don’t believe the other gentlemen in this room are interested. Or they have too many of their own stories of being tortured at the hands of bullies to care about my own.”
“Tortured, Dickie? Such a strong word.”
“I’ve grown up, Stone. I don’t cry any longer.”
“We shall see,” Stone answered, and before Grace knew what he was about, he held the cat down with one hand as he took the candle off the table and set her on fire.
Mr. Lynsted was across the room in the blink almost before the cat’s howl hit the air. He doused the flame with Stone’s own mug of ale, throwing the contents right into his lordship’s face as he did so.
The cat took off running as Stone jumped to his feet, wiping his eyes as he did so. “You bastard. I ought to call you out.”
“Please do,” Mr. Lynsted answered.
Stone wiped his hands on his napkin. “There would be no sport in it.”
“There never was sport in it, Stone. And we’re not boys in school any longer. These men can think for themselves.”
“No one likes you.” Stone spat the words out as he threw his napkin down, and then realized he sounded exactly like a small-minded schoolboy.
The snorts and titters from his companions and the surrounding tables were now at his expense.
Mr. Lynsted leaned forward. “You’d best leave the cat alone. This isn’t like last time.” He turned to Grace. “Are you ready?”
She was more than ready. She’d listened to the whole exchange with wide eyes. She’d jumped to her feet when Stone had burned the cat and now hurried over to Mr. Lynsted’s side. He didn’t linger but took her arm and directed her from the room.
“
Be certain that whore doesn’t give you a case of the spots,” Stone called out after them. “I didn’t like her when I had her. She’s too hairy.”
His insults shocked her. Grace started to turn around, ready to tie his tongue in knots. She was still shaking at what he’d been about to do to the kitten and really wanted a go at him.
Mr. Lynsted held her in place. “Don’t take his bait,” he warned. “He’s been exposed for the ass he is. But he can be dangerous.”
“Someone should set fire to him,” she answered.
“Agreed, but no one will. They’ve all been drinking steadily all day and are the worst for wear.”
They started up the stairs. “What did you mean about what happened last time to a cat? What did he do?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask.”
A dozen possibilities filled her mind, all of them horrifying. “And the things he said to you. Was he truly that mean?”
“Worse,” Mr. Lynsted said, “but there were some who were more evil. Lower schools are beastly places.”
He opened the door to her room. Grace went inside. He followed, shutting the door.
“And his comments about he and I—” She was shaking, she was so angry. “He’s never touched me. He’s wanted to but I’ve warded him off. The closest he’s been to me is a few flowers.”
Mr. Lynsted leaned back against the door, his expression somber.
“You believe me, don’t you?” she demanded.
“Yes, I do.”
“Good.” Grace paced from one side of the room to the other. The only light in the room came from the hearth. She stopped when she was in front of it. Turned to him.
“Saving that cat has raised my opinion of you,” she declared.
There was a beat of silence. “Thank you,” he replied and then added, “I think.”
Grace ignored the gentle jab. This was a serious matter. “I confess my opinion of you was not high. Your father and uncle destroyed my family. I realize that is not your fault,” she said, raising a hand to stave off any protest he might offer. “I also understand you are traveling with me because of your sense of integrity and you have no obligation to entertain me although I was bored senseless riding with you…however—”
She broke off, not certain how to phrase herself and then decided honesty was best, especially between them. Mr. Lynsted had been bluntly honest with her. She could be the same in return. “I don’t trust men.”
The Marriage Ring Page 8