by Danice Allen
She hated being an innkeeper; it did not suit her solitary disposition at all. But when her husband was so disobliging as to turn up his toes, she’d had no choice but to carry on with the business or go hungry. That morning all but one guest had left the premises, and a nearly empty house suited her excellently. Besides, it would fill up again soon enough … though not with the likes of Lord Thornfield or some other rich nob. They rarely saw his sort at such a modest establishment as the Three Nuns. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair.
“Mrs. Beane? Sorry to disturb ye, mum, but there’s a gentl’man out front wishin’ to speak to ye.”
Mrs. Beane opened her eyes and glared at the timid chambermaid, hovering just inside the door. “If he wants a room, Sally, go ahead and take ’im upstairs. ‘Tis too early in the day fer me t’ want to gabble with the customers.”
“Oh, he don’t want a room, mum,” said Sally, wide-eyed. “He wants particular to speak to you.”
Mrs. Beane scowled and sat up, lifting her feet from their comfortable prop and dropping them to the floor. “What about?” she demanded shortly.
“I don’t know, mum.” Sally nervously plucked at her apron front, then added earnestly, “But he don’t look like the type o’ man what’s accustomed t’ bein’ refused.”
“What rubbish you speak, girl!” Mrs. Beane’s curiosity was piqued, but she hid her interest behind a sour face as she stood up and stalked to the door. “People get refused all the time. I’m sure this bloke’s no different than the rest.”
But when Mrs. Beane entered the parlor where the stranger awaited her, she was forced to admit that Sally was right. This man was different. In fact, she couldn’t imagine anyone ever saying no to such a commanding-looking gentleman.
Mrs. Beane kept the inn clean and in good repair, but the stranger’s imposing height, his fine patrician features, his elegant clothes, and his haughty demeanor made the small room look dingy and shabby by comparison. Though she was admittedly impressed by rank and swayed by money, Mrs. Beane was almost never truly intimidated. However, she’d never before clapped eyes on someone who so perfectly personified English highborn breeding as this man did. Convinced she was face-to-face with no less than a duke, Mrs. Beane was rendered speechless. She simply stood and gawked.
The gentleman raised a tawny, gracefully arched brow. “Are you the proprietress of this establishment?”
His voice was deep, assured, perfectly modulated.
Mrs. Beane cleared her throat. “Aye.” Her own voice sounded coarse and unpleasant to her ears after hearing his. “Yes, sir, I am. What … what can I do for ye?”
The stranger crossed his arms over a broad chest outfitted in a superfine jacket of deep Devonshire brown, worn over a waistcoat of palest butter yellow. Buff trousers and tall black boots encased the gentleman’s extremely long legs, and for the first time in her life, Mrs. Beane found herself staring lustfully at a man’s limbs.
Her reeling wits were righted, however, when the gentleman spoke again, his cool authority and aristocratic accent ready reminders of the differences between them. “I need some information, madam.”
She hadn’t the slightest idea of refusing him. “Indeed, sir, what sort of information?”
“I’m looking for someone who may have come this way recently. A man of two-and-thirty, exactly two inches shorter than myself, well dressed, and very dark. He has a scar on his right cheek.”
Mrs. Beane immediately recognized her recent guest, the Earl of Thornfield, in this description. “You must be talking about Lord Thornfield,” said Mrs. Beane, happy to be of service to such an impressive man … and, by the looks of him, he could afford to reward her generously for her trouble.
The man’s pale but vivid blue eyes sharpened with interest, but instead of smiling as if pleased, he frowned. “You have seen a man bearing such a description, but he calls himself Lord Thornfield?”
“Aye, sir,” she affirmed, then felt a prick of uneasiness. If they weren’t talking about the same man, the gentry cove would likely not deign to reward her. “Isn’t he the gent ye’re looking for, then?”
“How recently was he here?”
“He only just left this morning, about eight. The doctor cautioned ’im not to travel too soon after the accident, but he—”
“An accident, you say? The gentleman was injured?”
“He had a bump on ’is noggin. His wife said he fell and hit his head on a rock when he—”
“His wife?”
“Aye, sir. Lady Thornfield was the one who brought him here night before last. He was unconscious and looked as though someone had tried to put ’im to bed with a shovel, so to speak.”
“Was he well when he left this morning?”
“Well enough. He was walkin’ and talkin’, and he ate a hearty breakfast.”
She could almost imagine she saw the grand gentleman heave a relieved sigh beneath his elegant waistcoat. “Did they say where they were going?”
“No, but they were in a great hurry.”
“Do you know what direction they were headed?”
“West, I think.”
“Can you describe the carriage?”
“Have you never seen it, then?”
“Of course I have. But I want to hear your description.”
“It’s painted a pale gray, touched here and there with white. Very modest-looking for the coach of an earl. And there’s no crest. I thought it odd, but Lady Thornfield said they was in mourning. Dressed all in black, she was.”
“Hmmm,” was all the man said, his high brow furrowed.
“Is it Lord Thornfield you’re lookin’ for, then?”
“I … think so.”
Mrs. Beane thought that was a queer comment but respectfully forbore from saying so. He stood as if in deep thought for a moment, then roused himself and plucked a few guineas from his pocket and poured them into her ready hand. “Thank you for your information, madam.”
“You’re very welcome, sir,” said Mrs. Beane, hardly believing her good luck in being useful to two such rich nobs in little over four-and-twenty hours.
When the man turned to go, Mrs. Beane thought of another bit of information that might be of interest to him and, therefore, profitable to her. “He’s lost his memory.”
The irritable look disappeared to be replaced by pale disbelief. “Jack has lost his memory?” he said faintly.
“Jack, sir?” said Mrs. Beane, puzzled by this odd insertion of someone else’s name. “We were speaking of Demetri, Lord Thornfield—”
“Yes, Lord Thornfield. You say he’s lost his memory?”
“Aye. As the doctor said himself, he was lucky he was traveling with his wife or the poor fellow would be totally at the mercy of strangers, not knowing where or to whom he belonged.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice more thoughtful than ever.
“You’re a friend of his?” asked Mrs. Beane.
The gentleman stirred, seeming to shake off the grim reverie he’d fallen into. He stood tall and gave his chin a purposeful thrust. “Yes, I’m a friend of his,” said the gentleman, “and I’m going to catch up with him and his … er … lovely wife if it’s the last thing I do!”
The stranger then turned on his refined heels and marched away, somehow managing to look dignified despite the giant strides he took to the crested carriage that awaited him. He had a brief, quiet, but extremely intense conversation with his coachman, then stepped inside the beautifully appointed vehicle and was off in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Mrs. Beane watched him go, admiring the glossy black paint of the coach, trimmed tastefully with silver, and the four beautiful black high-steppers that propelled it at such an astonishing speed.
As the dust plumed behind them, Mrs. Beane shook her head, wondering what the hurry was and why the gentleman was determined to catch up with his friend “if it was the last thing he ever did.” Certainly with all his money, the stranger could do
whatever he pleased.
Then she remembered that she’d hoped for a little more restitution from the gent for that last juicy bit of information, and he’d disappointed her. She vented her wrath by shaking her fist at the carriage, which was fast becoming merely a faraway speck on the road to Arundel.
Long before Jack and Miss Darlington arrived in Arundel, as they approached the small village of Patching, an especially deep rut in the road bounced them in their seats. Theo thought he heard an ominous splintering sound and pulled the carriage over to investigate. Upon inspection he found a cracked felloe in the front right wheel.
This condition required immediate attention, so Theo carefully drove the carriage into the village and looked about for the wheelwright’s place of business. He found the small building and stable yard quite soon and led the team into an adjacent orchard where the horses could graze, then instructed Harley and Joe to water the cattle, and went in search of the wheelwright.
Thoroughly awake now and refreshed by his long nap, Jack opened the door and squinted into the noon sunshine that bathed the autumn-frocked countryside. “God, it’s a beautiful day,” he ventured, sliding a speculative look toward Miss Darlington.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she snapped, obviously very frustrated by the delay and determinedly avoiding Jack’s eyes by looking out the window on her side of the carriage.
“Why don’t you get out and stretch your legs?” he advised.
“We won’t be here that long.”
“Surely, Miss Darlington, you overestimate the efficiency of country wheelwrights,” Jack said with good-humored reason. “I daresay we’ll even have time to get a bit of lunch while we wait.”
“I mean to have lunch in Arundel,” Miss Darlington said stubbornly.
Jack rubbed his chin and eyed Miss Darlington consideringly. “I know how desperately you want to get to your destination, Miss Darlington, but sitting uncomfortably in a stuffy carriage when you could be outside in one of the last truly beautiful days of the season will not get you there any faster. Nor will your self-induced discomfort speed along the process of repairing the carriage wheel. You can’t control every event of your life, Miss Darlington, so you might as well enjoy each moment you can and grasp each lovely opportunity that comes your way… such as this glorious, sunny day.”
He watched the effect of his little sermon on Miss Darlington. Her chin went up a notch and she flitted an embarrassed glance toward Joe and Harley—who were pretending not to listen—but she said nothing.
“Such intensity,” he remarked teasingly. “Such devotion! Indeed, you must be in such a great hurry to resume your journey because you have an assignation with a lover!”
Miss Darlington’s head jerked round, and she glared at Jack. “If you must know, sir, I’m going to a remote spot on the coast called Thorney Island to pick up my nephew. My … er … sister and her husband are going on holiday, and like a good and useful spinster aunt, I’ve agreed to take the child back to my home in Surrey till his parents return.” Her eyes gleamed a challenge. “Now are you satisfied?”
Jack raised a brow, not the least satisfied because he knew she was lying. Who would trust giving over the care of their child to an eccentric aunt who jaunted about the countryside wholly without escort? “I only wonder why you’ve been so reluctant to explain yourself before now,” he remarked.
She turned away and said petulantly, “I never supposed it was any of your business, sir.”
“But we’re friends now, are we not, Miss Darlington? I think we got to know each other rather well at the Three Nuns.”
Miss Darlington’s face took on a delicate pink hue, as if she were remembering just how well she had got to know him. That she’d seen him naked pleased Jack rather than embarrassed him. The forced intimacy brought an edge of excitement to their relationship that he enjoyed, even though he knew he could never act on his attraction to the lady … simply because she was a lady.
Jack wished he knew the true reason for her visit to Thorney Island—a quaint sounding place, that—but he knew he’d never find out by directly asking. He had to be subtle. He had to bide his time and watch for an opportunity to ferret out the information, taking Miss Darlington unawares. But Jack had all the time in the world. Any appointments he might have made for the near future were blessedly forgotten.
Jack got out of the carriage, took a deep breath of the unpolluted country air, and stretched his arms above his head.
A slight sway of the carriage alerted Jack to the fact that Miss Darlington was preparing to descend as well, despite her declarations to the contrary. He stood at the door, ready to assist her in stepping down. However, after a narrow look his way, she chose to alight from the opposite side. Jack hurried to the other side of the coach to offer his hand, but she was too fast for him. By the time he got there, she was out and already striding into the shady interior of the grove.
Undaunted, rather enjoying the chase, so to speak, Jack followed. “Why are you so prickly today, Miss Darlington?” he asked her. “You act as though I’ve got the typhus.”
Miss Darlington turned and looked Jack over scathingly. Confused, he glanced down at his clothing, looking for a spot or a wrinkle. “Is there something amiss with the way I look?” he inquired.
Miss Darlington shook her head. “Oh no, John,” she answered wryly. “You look fine as a fivepence. You’re a very dashing fellow, indeed.”
“Is there something wrong with putting one’s best polished foot forward, Miss Darlington?” asked Jack, a laugh in his voice.
Ignoring the question, she continued warmly, “Furthermore, you’re a dreadful flirt and have no qualms about vexing a poor spinster woman like myself, who, I might remind you, has only tried to help you ever since—”
“Ever since the moment you ran me down with your coach?”
Miss Darlington was about to make an angry reply but was diverted by something or someone behind Jack. He turned and watched Theo approaching with the usual scowl he wore whenever Jack was anywhere near Miss Darlington.
“What’s the matter, Theo?” said Miss Darlington.
“I can’t find the wheelwright, miss,” he answered, lifting his hands in an exasperated gesture. “I can’t find no one nowhere. The town seems deserted.”
Intrigued, Jack walked out of the grove to stand at the edge of the road and look up and down the short row of principal buildings that made up the small village. Theo and Miss Darlington followed and stood beside him. Together they listened … and heard nothing.
“Heavens,” said Miss Darlington in a whisper, which seemed appropriate for the ghostlike atmosphere of the place. “Where could they all have gone?”
“There’s evidence of recent occupation,” Jack observed aloud, “so they can’t have gone far.”
“But what could make them all disappear at once?”
“A funeral or a wedding,” Theo offered.
“Is there a difference between the two?” Jack muttered.
“In a small town where folks know all their neighbors,” Theo continued, tactfully overlooking Jack’s cynical aside, “when there’s a marriage or a wake, everyone turns out in their best togs for the festivities.”
“There’s a church just down the road a bit,” said Jack, spying a brown stone building with a steeple, surrounded by a weathered picket fence and a graveyard. “Maybe we should investigate.”
Miss Darlington agreed with a nod, then turned to Theo and said, “Wait with Harley and Joe at the coach, please. Hopefully we’ll locate a wheelwright soon and bring him to the grove.”
Theo obeyed reluctantly, with his usual suspicious glance toward Jack. Then Amanda and Jack walked down the road till they stood opposite the arched front doors of the ancient church. Suddenly the doors burst open and throngs of people spilled out. As if carried forward by the sheer enthusiasm of the group, in the middle of this mass of happy humanity were a bride and groom.
“Well, it’s not a funeral,” Jack said
glumly.
He’d had that dream again last night, the dream with the anonymous bride and his own neck caught tight in the nuptial noose. Now his nightmares seemed to be haunting his waking hours, too.
But at least in this case he was not the groom. For that wondrous fact alone he was grateful. Very grateful, indeed.
Chapter Eight
It appeared that the whole town, indeed, had turned out for the wedding of a most popular couple. Amanda was astounded and curiously moved by the sight of so many merry people streaming through the chapel doors to congregate on the freshly scythed lawn and in the quaint and pretty graveyard.
These were country folk in their best finery: little boys in homemade short pants running pell-mell through the tombstones; beribboned little girls with ruffled pantalettes showing under their skirts; blooming, envious young women in sprigged muslins and bonnets festooned with crimson autumn roses; dowagers in faded silk and fusty old hats twenty years out of style; young bucks with red necks uncomfortably chafed by starched collars; and grand old squires, shopkeepers, and farmers with florid faces and middle-aged bellies straining against wildly patterned waistcoats.
And somewhere in that colorful crowd was the wheelwright and their only hope of resuming their journey in the foreseeable future.
“How shall we ever find him in such a throng?” said Amanda, her voice reflecting her discouragement. She couldn’t believe all the encumbrances that kept cropping up on her way to Thorney Island. At the rate she was going, her sibling would be a grandparent before she arrived!
“We shall simply ask someone to point him out to us,” John said matter-of-factly. “We’ve already drawn a great deal of attention.”
John was right. They were the object of many curious eyes. Suddenly feeling shy, Amanda impetuously grabbed hold of John’s arm just before he crossed the street. He peered under the brim of her unadorned black bonnet and smiled at her. She braced herself for some sort of teasing remark, but he surprised her by saying only, “Don’t worry, Miss Darlington, I daresay these people are just as friendly as they look.” Then he took her arm and tucked it against his side in the manner of a promenading couple.