“Never?” Mira sputtered.
Hiding a coy smile behind his fingers, Harry thought furiously, mentally mapping out the location of Marcross, who must never know anything of what had just happened at his feet; Sir Anthony, who was Harry’s best hope for an ally, but who Harry presumed had gone in pursuit of the shooter; Lady Crenshaw, who was even now beginning to lift the tablecloth from the far side of the table; and his would-be assailant who could be just about anywhere, all of which were paltry concerns compared to producing a suitable reply to Mira’s challenge.
“Uh, well … Oh! Was that you?” Harry asked, his eyes wide with innocence all the while feeling himself the vilest of creatures, the kind who could forget kissing such a girl as Mira, young as she had been at the time, or worse, lie about it. With a mental wince, he plunged on. “I hadn’t remembered, no, not remembered it was you.”
Mira glared at him and clearly would have stamped her well-shod, little foot were it possible to stand. “You know very well it was me! The possibility that there haven’t been any others is highly questionable and, rest assured, I have questions. Meanwhile, Harry or Bertie or whoever you are, something dubious, impugnable and indeterminate is going on, not to mention crepuscular and downright hazy, and I intend to put my faculties to their utmost in discovering what it is that you are hiding!”
“I should not if I were you,” Harry said in an ice-cold voice he barely recognized as his own. He had heard it said there are times when one must be cruel to be kind, but he never believed it until this moment. “I suggest you tend to your mother before she finds it necessary to join us, then drag the caterwauling George to safety, followed by your complete and utter forgetfulness of all that has occurred in this accursed inn.”
“I suppose this means you intend to forget that you kissed me under one of the tables of said inn, as well as the fact that you, sir, are nothing but a liar,” Mira hissed.
Harry was persuaded no collection case butterfly could possibly feel as skewered as he. Time and circumstances, however, did not allow for explanations. To turn away from Mira’s anguished, sapphire-blue eyes framed by glossy ringlets he longed to touch was doubtless the most difficult thing he might ever hope to do — but do it he must. Without a word, he ducked his head between his shoulders, crawled from beneath the table, and nimbly under the next as quickly as limbs, both of wood and flesh, would allow.
As luck would have it, the supply of tables did not run out before he gained the back door to the yard where he was vastly relieved to find Higgins, shot and bleeding but alive, in close consultation with Mira’s father. Harry was touched to see the pleasure in Sir Anthony’s eyes when he spotted Harry, a sentiment that vanished the moment the vacuous expression of Bertie filled his face.
“Oh, my friends, my friends, how happy I am to see you!” Harry cried as, gingerly, he made his way between one mound of steaming muck after the other. He felt confident that riding boots were created to withstand animal excrement, but suspected Bertie was strongly opposed to anything odiferous hanging about his personage. “I feared I should never see either of you again!” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab his non-existent tears, surprised to see that his hand shook ever so slightly. Apparently, the shock to his nerves was greater than he supposed, but not anywhere near as great as they must have been to Bertie’s. He resisted the urge to quell the shaking and embraced each man in turn with a cry of surprise at sight of Higgins’ injured arm, whereupon he proceeded to make a dreadful fuss over it. “Whatever, I say, whatever are you to do about that, my dear man?” he wailed as if he hadn’t applied his share of tourniquets over the years.
“Tis but a scratch, my lord,” Higgins replied in a grave voice. “I am far more concerned about the hare brain who opened fire and where he’s got to.”
“Yes,” Sir Anthony mused, “it was quite shocking, though it should not have been terribly surprising in light of certain nefarious circumstances I have experienced in connection with this particular coaching house,” he said, his expression wry. “I spotted the shooter running from the room and went after him. He must have had a mount waiting close by for he was gone by the time I had made it out the door.” He clapped a hand to Harry’s shoulder and added, “You disappeared so fast, I thought perhaps you had been hit and collapsed under a table somewhere.”
“Hit?” Harry squealed. “I? But where?” he demanded, though his alarm had more to do with assignations under tables than with gunfire. “Higgins, do you see any bullet holes?” he asked, and twisted this way and that to inspect his person for damage, including the lace at his wrists about which he couldn’t care less, all the while watching Sir Anthony out of the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction. Was the Bertie act fooling him? And if it were, did a vestige of hope of being given Mira Crenshaw’s hand in marriage remain?
“Harry … ” Sir Anthony said, but was silenced by Harry’s wagging finger in his nose. “But of course, it’s Bertie now. I don’t know if I shall ever grow used to calling you such! Meanwhile, I must find my wife and daughter and make sure they are well. Will you join us back at the inn?”
“I mustn’t, no, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,” Harry averred, “but you may rest assured your lady wife and daughter are in good hands. But wait!” he said, once again snapping his forefinger to attention. Wasn’t it the Duke of Marcross with whom they tarried? As such, I must recant,” he said with a woeful wag of his head. “The last I saw of him, he was drying his tears with the tablecloth.”
“Then I had best hurry. Do be careful, Bertie,” Sir Anthony said and disappeared into the inn.
“Well, that Bertie of your’n is a right fine ninny, ain’t he?” Higgins said with a snort.
“Aye,” Harry agreed, “but there be worse men about.”
“No doubt you’re referring to that traitor with the pistol.”
“None at all,” Harry replied while privately wondering if an honest nincompoop such as Bertie weren’t a better man than the snide hypocrite Harry was becoming. “Let us part here, you to find a surgeon for that arm and me to track down the gunman,” he insisted.
“Nay, ’tis a cold trail already,” Higgins said. “I would as lief have you tuck yourself into bed for the remains of the day and continue your journey at night. You’d make a sight less easy target under a moonless sky.”
“Doubtless true,” Harry agreed. He scanned the horizon for any clue as to the identity of the person who wanted them dead. “I should be a bit of a babe in the woods remaining here though, shouldn’t I?”
“Rubbish! This is the last place he’ll look. He must know you are headed to London and doubtless has gone ahead to try his luck there. Snug as a rug you’ll be here, Harry, mark my words.”
“To tell the truth, I would rather feel the muzzle of a gun in my back than take a scolding in the face,” Harry said with a rueful smile.
“Eh?”
“Forget I spoke.” Harry thrust out his hand to bid Higgins farewell and watched his secret service contact ride out of sight before he reluctantly entered the inn. There was the small matter of having refused to return to the inn with Sir Anthony just a few moments past, while the matter of having kissed his daughter under the table was no small matter indeed. The possibility that Lady Crenshaw witnessed any or all of his and Mira’s tete-a-tete filled him with a hot and painful dread. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lady Crenshaw’s displeasure in word or deed. Returning to the inn was the last thing he wanted to do, but Higgins was right; it would be best to cool his heels until nightfall.
Meanwhile, his time would be best spent in the spreading of false rumors as to the nature of the bedlam let loose at the Cygnet and Lute. It simply wouldn’t do for a personage such as the Duke of Marcross to bandy it about that someone had been gunning for Harry. A plausible explanation for the gunfire must be thought of, and the malignant expression on George’s face when Harry strode into the dining room was all the inspiration he needed.
“Ber
tie!” Sir Anthony said with some surprise. “I thought you were off already.”
“I meant to be, but I felt duty bound to inform you that the Duke’s life is in danger,” Harry said with a studious determination to avoid Mira’s gaze, a task made more difficult when the sound of her gasp met his ears.
George said nothing in reply, but it was clear to Harry that the Duke’s overblown ego made it entirely possible for him to swallow such a preposterous notion.
Sir Anthony was not as easily flummoxed, however. “But I’m persuaded the bullet was meant for you. It came close enough to part your hair!”
“Oh, I do hope the bullet was not intended for you, Bertie!” Lady Crenshaw said, upon which a mortified silence fell over the group.
Harry was absurdly grateful for Lady Crenshaw’s affectionate response and quickly spoke to cover her lack of concern for the life of the Duke. “Marcross is the most important person in the room. There is no doubt the bullet was intended for him, do you not agree?” he asked with a deferential nod in George’s direction whose mulish expression did much to convey his outrage.
“If it were, the gunman was a dashed rotten marksman!”
“Without question,” Harry agreed and allowed his glance to fall for a moment on Mira’s white face with a surge of gratitude that the gunman did indeed miss. “As a result, I felt it best to offer my services as additional protection,” he heard himself say against all reason. It was worth it if it brightened Mira’s expression in response.
Apparently the idea appealed to at least one Crenshaw. “I daresay one can never have too many attendants, can one?” George drawled. “Besides, with you riding I am free to travel within the coach,” he added with a look for Mira that Harry could not like.
“In that case,” Mira said, rising to her feet with a great rustling of skirts, “I suggest we resume our journey in the morning. I have suffered enough abuse for one day, do you not agree, Bertie?” she said, her chin a shade higher than normal.
Harry, torn between appreciation for Mira’s spirited response to George’s lewd behavior and fury at himself for his failure to adequately maintain his Bertie persona, did not trust himself to reply. With a sketch of a bow for each, he followed the hastily retreating Mira from the room.
It was only as he was just about to catch her by the elbow that he remembered his promise to Higgins to sleep by day and travel at night. Yet, as wary as he was of bringing danger down on the heads of those he loved most in the world, he couldn’t bear the thought of parting from Mira and leaving her in the clutches of her odious cousin. Somehow he must think of a way to be the beau seated next to her in the traveling coach come morning. More torn in his duty than ever, he remained at the bottom of the stairs watching the red curls bob against the small of Mira’s back until she had shut the door of her room behind her.
There was no denying it now; the fat was well and truly in the fire.
Chapter Five
Mira was persuaded she heard strange sounds during the course of the night. Surely they were mere fancies — the result of having spent the afternoon and evening alone in a small room with naught but her riotous thoughts to keep her company. Unwilling to sup with George, she had bespoken a tray to be sent to her room and retired early but slept ill, fretful over George’s self-assured overtures that were hateful in the extreme, especially since he behaved as if their engagement were a decided fact.
As loathsome as was the thought of spending the better part of a day seated next to George in the carriage, Mira felt a deal more vexation over the problem of Harry. The mercurial changes in his character notwithstanding, there was plenty to mull over with regards to his behavior under the dining room table. What could it mean? More importantly, what did she wish it to mean?
She pondered these things as she lolled beneath the bed coverings in the minutes just prior to the rising of the sun but was startled by an echo of the troublesome noises she had heard in the dark of the night. She had thought perhaps it was a rat though it was more of a thumping than a scratching. The possibility of loose shutters and wind-blown branches had all been eliminated long since. When the noise came again, she was able to determine that it originated from the passage outside her door. This ruled out wild animals and other night crawlers and narrowed the choices down to a domestic animal such as a cat, dog, or chicken that had wandered in from the yard under the noses of its betters.
Wildly curious, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door so as not to alert what promised to be a delightful source of relief from her tedium. Quietly, she released the latch and pulled the door open only wide enough to give her a view of the passage floor.
To her great surprise the space was not occupied by an animal of any kind. Rather, a man, as she presumed him to be, stretched along the carpet, his form wrapped entirely in a blanket, might easily be judged an ‘animal,’ but she felt she should reserve condemnation until she determined the reason for his being where she found him. If he pleaded ‘no room at the inn,’ she could find it in her heart to excuse his odd behavior. If he were sleeping off a night of riotous drinking and had passed out in front of her room on the way to his own, he was no better than an animal indeed.
“Sir,” she whispered so as not to awaken any guests other than the one who had made her threshold his bed. “Sir!” she hissed with a bit more intensity followed by a prod of her slipperless toe to his foot wrapped tight in tartan wool. It was clear that his sense of touch was stronger than that of hearing as this gentle contact brought him to his feet in one catlike leap of his powerful thighs as he dropped the blanket to puddle at his feet. He looked wildly about him, his disordered yellow locks stuck out at odd angles, as his attention finally came to rest on Mira who watched this unexpected spectacle with mouth agape.
“Harry!” she exclaimed whilst privately noting the all too swiftly dampened flare of warmth in his eyes when he saw her. “What are you doing out here? I assume you have your own room?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said, looking abashed but not in the mood to further elucidate.
“Lost track of it, have you?” Mira snipped. “Perhaps it’s the very same in which you left your boots,” she suggested with a pointed look at his shoeless feet.
Harry looked down at the offensive articles then back at Mira with a Bertie-like smile of chagrin. It marred what Mira tended to think of as a masculine face blessed with a strong jaw balanced by striking eyes that were fringed with lashes any woman would envy. His gaze must have followed her thoughts because his eyes rolled upwards, and he clapped his hands to the top of his head just as she arrived at the subject of his hair.
“I must look a devil!” he cried followed by what amounted to a twitter.
Mira wanted nothing more than to roll her eyes as well, but quelled the desire. “I expect the state of your appearance can be rectified through the use of the wash pitcher and mirror made available by the innkeeper. Since these items are generally found in one’s room, I suggest you take yourself off forthwith.” Besides which, someone could come along the passage at any moment and would no doubt think it odd to find him outside her chamber door in his stockings. After what happened under the table the day prior, Mira felt it best to avoid even a breath of scandal with regards to Harry Haversham.
Unaccountably, he did not go.
“Miss Crenshaw, would it be too much trouble to make use of yours?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Make use of what?”
“Your room,” he said with a straightforward intensity that owed nothing to his alter ego, Bertie. “Quickly, now, for a door has just opened up down the passage, one I must pass to arrive at my own.”
Without a thought for the impropriety of his request save that of how suddenly similar this Harry was to the one she had been daydreaming about, Mira opened the door just wide enough to allow him to sidle through, whereupon she shut it silently behind him. Once he was in, however, there were few places for him to go. He stood, towering over her as he
looked everywhere but at her, a habit of his that had become more than a little distasteful.
Just when she began to worry that her mother would discover them in such a compromising situation, Mira realized he hunted for an alternative exit from the room. It wasn’t until he bolted for the window, and she spied the butt of a pistol tucked into the waistband of his breeches that she began to form new opinions as to his continual presence in unexpected locations.
“Harry, are you in some kind of trouble?” she demanded as he thrust one muscular leg through the window. When the other followed and he slid through, she shrieked in alarm, sure he would at any moment completely disappear only to be found dashed to pieces on the ground many feet below. “Harry!” she cried as she dashed to the open casement.
She ought not to have feared for he stood at ease, his feet braced against a piece of molding half a man’s length below the window, a hand on each side of the casement, no sign of weakness showing in the muscles that lined his arms. His white shirt fluttered freely in the breeze, as did his hair, and as he leaned into the room, his green eyes blazed with a message she did not fully understand.
Instinctively, she bent towards him, her eyes closed and her lips parted in expectation of a kiss, resolved that, this time, she would not slap him. In fact, should this version of Harry remain, she would never need slap him again. Instead, he put his mouth to her ear to whisper “many thanks.” When she opened her eyes, heart pounding in her chest, he was gone.
Yet, he had been there — the Harry of her dreams. The Harry she dreamed of, the man she had always expected him to become, was adventurous, strong, dashing, and brave. Clearly, there was an important reason for him to hide his true self, the one who was startlingly similar to the one she believed herself to have invented, by behaving like a shallow youth. The question, one of many, was whether she were the object of his deceit or merely a chance looker-on.
Lord Haversham Takes Command Page 5