The last of the sun’s rays slowly faded. Barely five o’clock, he judged. Good Lord. He wanted it to be later—midnight, at least—to match the exhaustion he felt.
A deep rumble of thunder echoed around them. A fork of lightening split the sky. Fat droplets of rain began to fall.
Enough.
He returned his attention to Mrs. Donnelly. “You do have some funds, I presume?”
“Of course,” she bristled. “But they must be properly managed. The way I see it, we have three choices. Do we want shelter, coach fare, or food? We can have each one, but not all three on the same day. If we budget correctly—”
“Have you enough funds to pay for our room and meals tonight?”
She hesitated. “Yes, but we couldn’t possibly—”
“Splendid. That’s all I needed to know.”
Time he took matters into his own hands. Which meant taking her into his hands. Or at least taking her arm and steering her back toward the inn.
“Mr. Brooks, I must protest. It would be very unwise to incur such an expense at this stage in our journey. If we hope to make it to London, we must economize. I have devised a simple plan which I believe will carry us—Mr. Brooks, are you listening? Did you understand what I just said? Aren’t you concerned?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m listening. Yes, I understand, and no, I don’t care. I will have a warm room, a warm bed, a warm meal, and I will have it now.”
“But—”
They reached the inn. He opened the door, thrust Mrs. Donnelly inside, and followed her into the foyer. The driver and the rest of the coach’s occupants had already been accommodated. They were seated at tables in a large, tavern-like room. Pints of foamy ale rested before the gentlemen; the ladies had received tea. Jonathon noted they had also been served loaves of dark bread and bowls of some sort of stew. The rich scent wafted through the air, making his mouth water.
He cleared his throat, signaling his arrival to the woman behind a tall wooden counter. She glanced up and spared them a look that clearly said, Wait your turn, mind your manners, and don’t drag your muddy boots across my clean floors as you leave.
“All full up,” she said, before returning her attention to her ledger. “You might want to try the blacksmith. He lets rooms over the foundry.”
Jonathon drew in a breath and sent the woman a pointed glare, ready to deliver a scathing set-down at her rudeness. Then he caught himself. What utter arrogance. He had expected to be received. Formally received. Will all the due deference and proud delight his arrival with his traveling retinue normally occasioned. Rooms for his servants and the best her house could offer for him. As though the woman should somehow be able to intuit that it was Viscount Brooksbank who graced her threshold, and not a sorely fatigued, travel-worn man garbed in clothing acquired from a charity bin.
Absurd.
At his side, Mrs. Donnelly heaved a weary sigh. She turned up the collar of her damp cloak and moved toward the door. He stopped her with a shake of his head. He might not have a farthing to his name, but he was not about to be put out into the street like a dog at a butcher’s. He removed his hat, dragged a hand through his hair, and stepped to the counter.
Jonathon guessed the woman who ran the inn to be somewhere in her fourth decade. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, but her deep green eyes sparkled with lively good humor. She wore a fine lace shawl tucked over her shoulders. Curves that once must have been spectacular now spread to soft womanly plumpness. Olmsby Inn. Mrs. Wintress, Proprietress, boasted the sign above her head.
“All booked up, are you?” he said pleasantly. “That’s a shame, when I’d heard so many good things about this place. Why, Olmsby Inn is known all the way to London.”
The woman looked up. “London, you say?”
“Indeed. That’s what all the fine folks say. If you’re on the road between Liverpool and London, best stop at the Olmsby Inn. Mrs. Wintress runs the best house in all the county.”
Jonathon teased and cajoled and flattered, getting on with the proprietress like a house afire.
Right,” Mrs. Wintress said at length. “As I said, my best rooms are already taken. I’ve only the attic available. It’s breezy and the roof is prone to leaks, but the mattress is soft and the linens are clean.”
“Done,” Mr. Brooks said. “We’ll take it.”
The serving girl returned to the dining room, carrying a cast iron pot of something that smelled positively delicious. The scent wafted around them, reminding Jonathon how hungry he was. The other passengers of the mail coach had had the foresight to pack a midday meal. With their rushed leave-taking, he and Mrs. Donnelly hadn’t had time.
“What is that glorious aroma?” he asked.
Mrs. Wintress smiled proudly. “Only my specialty, ” she preened. “Best lamb stew you’ll ever eat.”
He let out a blissful sigh. “I do enjoy a good lamb stew.”
She leaned forward. “Makes your mouth water, don’t it?” she said. “Chunks of tender lamb, onions, carrots, peas, and potatoes, floating in a rich gravy sprinkled with fresh herbs and spices. Best you’ll ever taste.”
“I have no doubt. My wife and I will each have a large serving,” he said. “And a loaf of bread.”
Beside him, he heard Mrs. Donnelly gasp. She gave his sleeve a sharp tug. “Mr. Brooks—”
He arched one dark golden brow. “Yes, Mrs. Brooks?”
The appellation seemed to throw her off-balance, but only momentarily. Giving him a pointed glare, she tapped one finger against her reticule and shook her head. “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”
“What? Oh, of course.” He turned back to the proprietress. “My wife would like a bottle of your best wine to accompany the meal.”
Before Mrs. Donnelly could voice her objection, he continued, “If you don’t mind, we would prefer to dine in our room.” He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her snugly against his side. “We’ve only just been married, and we like our privacy. Don’t we, angel?”
Mrs. Wintress sent them a knowing wink. “Lucky girl.”
Mrs. Donnelly stiffened at his side. Jonathon could almost hear her teeth grind.
The proprietress slid a key from its cubbyhole and passed it to him. “If you don’t mind. I’ve had trouble with people passing through, not paying their bill.”
Although that was precisely what he had thought to do (with the intention of sending full payment to her once he reached London), he clucked his tongue in sympathetic dismay. “Awful.”
“So I’ll be needing payment in advance.”
“Of course you will. No trouble at all. My wife likes to handle the money. Sweet, isn’t it?” He looked at Mrs. Donnelly and nodded. “Pay up, dearest. And don’t forget to add a little something extra to thank Mrs. Wintress for her trouble.”
“Of course,” she grit out, “dearest.”
He nodded and grabbed her valise, swinging it beside him as he took off up a narrow flight of stairs.
Snippets of conversation trailed in his wake. Mrs. Wintress: “Charming bloke you got there, dearie. Handsome as sin, isn’t he?”
His disgruntled ‘bride’: “Yes. Well. He certainly seems to think so.”
He bit back a laugh and made his way up the twisting staircase to the top landing, where he found the door ajar. He stepped through, entering a long space with broad pine floors and a sloping ceiling—he would have to duck if he wanted a view out the window. Not that there was much of a view to be seen at present. Night had fallen and the storm had swept in, bringing all its dark, blustery glory with it. Gusts of wind rattled the window glass and rain pelted the roof.
The space was tidy, but sparsely furnished. It contained little more than a washstand, a small pine table and mismatched chairs, a wooden partition screen, and an oversized bed atop of which rested a puffy goose down quilt. Gratitude surged through him. At that moment, the finest room in London’s finest house wouldn’t have looked more appealing.
&n
bsp; He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his right boot. He flexed his stockinged foot and gave a blissful sigh. “Nicely done, don’t you think?” he remarked as Mrs. Donnelly entered the room behind him.
“Indeed. You could charm the skin off a snake.”
He paused and cocked his head to one side. “Hmm. That’s not much of a compliment, is it? Given that snakes shed their skins naturally.” His left boot hit the ground, joining its partner with a solid thunk.
“My point is, Mr. Brooks, going forward, we have to economize. Perhaps you are not accustomed to being inconvenienced. Nonetheless, sacrifices must be made. This is a rather reckless expenditure.”
“It’s only money, Mrs. Donnelly.”
“Spoken with the haughty assurance of someone who’s never been without it before.”
“Ah.” He sobered and regarded her with newfound sympathy. “Have you ever been without it before?”
She brought up her chin. “Actually, no. Because I know how to manage my money.”
She clearly meant for this to be a teaching moment, but her advantage was lost as a light knock sounded at the door. Two young serving girls entered. One carried a pewter tray with their meal, the other held a basket of kindling.
He stood and moved to the washstand. He poured the water, politely gesturing for her to go first. She took off her damp cloak and hung it on a hook by the fire to dry. Her bonnet joined it. She washed her hands and face, then smoothed her hands over her hair to tidy her bun.
He followed, grimacing at the unfamiliar stubble that coated his cheeks and chin. He was in desperate need of a shave. A hot bath wouldn’t be unwelcome either. But as there wasn’t anything he could do to remedy his appearance, he shrugged the matter off.
When he turned, he found the serving girls had finished their tasks and left. A fire blazed in the grate, snapping and crackling and banishing the chill that hung in the air. His gaze moved to the table. Mrs. Wintress, (apparently a romantic soul, bless her) had outdone herself. In addition to the food, which smelled positively divine, she’d provided them a few extra touches. A lace cloth covered the rough pine table. Wildflowers filled a pewter jug, a candle flickered.
He took that all in with a quick glance, then his gaze moved to Mrs. Donnelly. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, her dark eyes wide and doe-like as she surveyed the room, her gaze returning over and over to oversized bed which dominated the space. She stood uncertainly near the door, as though seriously considering grabbing her valise and bolting through it.
Biting back a smile, he endeavored to put her at ease. “Going forward,” he said, “I shall endeavor to follow your financial judgment to the letter. For the moment, however, I am exceedingly grateful for the blessing of a warm meal and shelter from the storm.”
That seemed to take the bluster right out of her. She gave a tight, fleeting smile. Her gaze met his, hesitant, yet searching.
Her stomach chose that moment to issue a loud growl. Her eyes widened in shocked embarrassment as she clasped her hands tightly over her belly.
His lips quirked. Somehow he managed to maintain a courteous expression. He held out a chair and inclined his head. “Mrs. Donnelly, will you do me the honor of joining me for supper?”
She drew herself up and gave a regal nod. Summoning an inner poise worthy of a duchess, she strode to the small table and allowed him to seat her. Once he was seated across from her, she reached for her glass and drank deeply of the rich, ruby wine, as though needing something to steady her nerves. Next she lifted her fork and ate a bit of lamb. She chewed slowly, swallowed, then let out a sigh of rich contentment. Her eyes fluttered shut.
“Mmm. That’s delicious,” she breathed, in a husky voice that struck him as wildly, albeit unconsciously, erotic.
Sharply reining in his thoughts, he forced himself to focus on his food. It tasted every bit as savory and delicious as their landlady had promised. They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire, the soft clatter of their flatware against the ceramic plates, the rhythmic drumming of rain on the roof.
As he watched, Mrs. Donnelly seemed to slowly put herself at ease. “It’s been ages since I enjoyed a meal like this,” she admitted.
“Oh?”
“The food aboard ship was dreadful.”
“The clipper from Canton?”
She nodded.
They had finished eating, but neither of them was in a hurry to leave the table. Mellowed by the fire and the wine, Jonathon refilled their glasses and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”
“The ship or the food?”
“China. I’ve never been.”
Mrs. Donnelly toyed with her glass as she collected her thoughts. Haltingly at first, then with the fluidity of a natural storyteller, she described the exhilarating, noisy, tumultuous port that had been her home. She described the scorching heat and the press of bodies, the sounds, sights, and smells. How she had grown up running through Canton’s maze of streets, dashing in and out of market stalls, and racing down to the docks to watch the ships pull into port, their holds bulging with exotic cargo. How she’d picked up the languages surrounding her the way a sponge soaked up water.
She’d lived with her parents—her mother was Chinese, her father British—in a small flat in the foreign quarter. To their backs lay the sprawling, mysterious land of China, walled off and forbidden to foreigners. Directly before them was the South China Sea, which brought a steady influx of people, goods, and news from around the globe.
She touched briefly on the state of Indo-China trade. They bantered back and forth as to how to resolve the trouble between the nations. Of particular contention was the matter of whether Chinese officials had the right to search ships coming into their ports, seize and burn all confiscated opium stocks, or whether the drug, contraband though it might be, was the property of the vessel that carried it and therefore protected by the rights of sovereignty.
After a few minutes, she held up her hands and laughingly declared a truce. Then she rested her small chin in her palm and collected her thoughts.
“I can’t imagine a more exciting place for a child to grow up,” she said, her tone conveying both wistfulness and contentment. “I could see everything from the window in my room. I used to pretend I was a princess, poised on the edge of the world.”
He smiled. “Hence the search for castles.”
“Actually, that didn’t come about until after The Prince of Thorncastle.”
Ah. So that’s what had her searching for castles. He’d heard of the books, of course. Fanciful drivel about a cold-hearted prince abdicating his kingdom after falling madly in love with a lowly servant girl. Romantic adventures, they’d been called. Utter nonsense prettily packaged—they’d been all the rage a few years back.
“Have you read them?”
Read them? Good lord. He’d rather waste his time chewing boot leather. Aloud he replied only, “No.”
“Oh, but you should,” she enthused dreamily. “I used to read them aloud to Arthur at the end of the day, when we finished our work at the pub.”
“Arthur?”
“My husband.”
Her husband. Arthur. Now there was a subject that caught Jonathon’s attention. She’d mentioned earlier that he had died, but had volunteered no more information about him. Jonathon found himself intensely curious about the man. How had they met? What had he been like? Had he provided well for her, or had he mistreated her? Had he been mature and settled, or young and brash? And finally, had she been broken-hearted when he died?
But those were questions propriety wouldn’t allow him to ask. So instead he said, “Tell me about the books.”
She gave a small shrug. “Oh, I suppose they’re all the same. Another chapter in Philomena’s Grand Adventure.”
Jonathon shook his head. “I know I’ll hate myself for asking, but apparently I’ve imbibed enough wine to throw caution to the wind. What, pray tell, is a Grand Adventure?”
Mrs. Donnelly’s eyes sparkled with lively enthusiasm. “What isn’t it—that would be the better question. Fighting thieves, outwitting kidnappers, scaling castle walls, leaping over waterfalls, engaging in swordplay, securing runaway coaches, wrestling wolves—”
“Should I mention that wolves have been extinct in England for centuries?”
“Well, I suppose that particular volume was a bit far-fetched.”
Jonathon nodded, only half-listening as she continued her lively description of the books. He liked the way her hands danced through the air as she spoke. He liked the way she used her voice—conveying an exciting thrill one moment, earthy delight the next. He admired her intelligence. Hell, very few members of the House of Lords could summarize the intricacies inherent in the China trade as eloquently as she had done.
Then there was her appearance. Amazing what candlelight could do for a woman’s skin. Or at least, her skin. The woman positively glowed. Warm honey, he thought, battling a ridiculous to press his lips somewhere against her person, to judge if she tasted as delectable as she looked.
He allowed his gaze to drift slowly over her features. Not fully English, nor was she fully Asian. Her look was subtle, elusive, and vastly more intriguing. Dark, luminous eyes. Plump, pouty lips. Delicate wrists and finely boned hands. And her smile. Endearingly lopsided, with a tendency to quirk upward on her right side. When she spoke, he caught glimpses of gritty determination, fierce loyalty, and strength of spirit. All in all, she presented a compelling mixture of unaffected femininity and rock-solid backbone.
Mrs. Donnelly was small in stature, and given to wearing large bonnets and plain, almost drab garments, as though to shield herself from unwanted attention. To a degree, the cloak of plainness she draped around herself worked. She was not the sort of woman who would stand out in a crowd.
Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Page 6