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A Lady's Ruinous Plan

Page 16

by Lora Darling


  “Sorry, boy, but our rest is over.” Replacing the saddle proved a tad more difficult in the dark, but familiarity guided his hands, and after checking the cinch three times, he felt confident all was in order. With a deep, bracing breath, he swung up onto Chev’s back and turned him toward the road. The stallion’s steps were heavy, and he kept his head low. Adrien allowed the sluggish pace until Chev finally lifted his head, swiveled his ears, and blew out a loud breath.

  Leaning forward over the horse’s neck, Adrien stroked an ear. “Ready, boy?”

  Chev tossed his head, tugging at the reins. All it took was a light kick of his heels and a loosening of the reins and Chev took off.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eirene shot nervous glances over her shoulder toward the door as she prowled the room in search of a weapon. Petley had gone below stairs to check on the progress of their requested hot meal, allowing her a few blessed moments of privacy. She’d made quick work of the chamber pot and set about seeing to the task of arming herself for his return. Thus far the room had yielded nothing of use. Not even a fire poker.

  Ready to give up, she scooted upon her hands and knees to look under the bed. How she would explain the condition of her clothing should Petley notice, she hadn’t a clue, nor could she worry about that right now. She peered under the worn edge of the coverlet. The chamber pot might work, fashioned as it was from very heavy stoneware, but she would have to get within grabbing distance to wield it with enough force to knock Petley senseless and that gave him a chance to get his hands on her. He was a big man, and she would prefer a weapon that would keep her out of arm’s reach.

  “Blast!” She sat back upon her heels and let out a defeated sigh. To make matters worse, his return echoed beyond the door. Not bothering to get up, she met his gaze as he burst into the room.

  “What the devil are you doing on the floor?” He carried a large wooden tray, laden with two covered plates.

  “I had need of the chamber pot.” Gathering her skirts, she climbed to her feet and did her best to shake off the majority of dust, though she had every intention of burning the outfit she wore. Until the end of days, it would remind her of Petley’s ill intentions.

  Assuming she managed to get free of him.

  He kicked the door closed and stalked across the room to place the tray upon the small, round table situated close to the window. Not the most inviting location for a meal given the smell of the stables.

  “Come eat.” He whisked off the covers and took a deep breath. “Smells good.”

  It smelled like old boot to Eirene, but she kept the opinion to herself and slowly approached the table to take in the fare. Meat pies, or so she assumed. One was slightly larger and bulged unattractively.

  Petley poked his fork into the larger pie, which expelled a great waft of steam and another whiff of old boot. He glanced at her. “Don’t tell me you’re too good to enjoy good country fare, my lady.” Without waiting for her to join him, he filled his fork and shoveled the bite into his mouth. “Damn good,” he declared while still chewing.

  Eirene pressed a hand to her rolling stomach. She would rather starve. After saying as much, she left Petley to his meal and took a seat on the edge of the bed. While searching for a weapon, she had checked for bugs, surprised beyond all belief to find none in residence.

  With Petley momentarily distracted, she allowed her mind to wander. Hamish would be beside himself with worry by now, of that she had no doubt. What would he do? She could not imagine the Scot engaging the services of Bow Street, but surely he would wish to locate his wayward mistress. If not Bow Street, where would he turn for help? She had no friends in London. Hell, she only had one acquaintance, if she chose to categorize Adrien as such.

  Would Hamish appeal to Adrien for help?

  The prospect of Adrien searching for her brought her hand against her stomach once more to quell the rolling. But it wasn’t indigestion this time that tightened her gut. Her grandfather had trained her to be an independent woman. He would expect her to rectify her current, unfortunate situation on her own, and she believed the chance to do so would eventually present itself. However, she’d be lying if she claimed the thought of Adrien crashing through the door to affect a rescue did not thrill her. Surely, her grandfather would understand the difference between being helpless and wishing to be cared for.

  The clatter of a fork drew her gaze toward the window. Petley stood hunched over the table, gripping the edge with enough force to turn his knuckles white. Both plates were empty, and she wondered if he had merely consumed the food too quickly, though that would not account for the ashen color of his complexion or the beads of sweat that rolled down his face. She stood, but before she could take a single step or speak a single word of inquiry, Petley toppled to the floor like a felled tree.

  “My lord?” Eirene hurried to Petley but stopped short of kneeling at his side. His wide open eyes gazed up at her in pure agony while he pulled at the clothing over his stomach.

  “Help me,” he croaked just as a bubble of white foam crested over his bottom lip.

  “Oh my God.” Eirene covered her mouth with a trembling hand, unsure what to do. Her grandfather had never taught her how to help a person who had been poisoned, he’d only taught her how to administer said poison.

  Oh dear God. If Petley died, she would be blamed.

  ****

  Chevalier threw a shoe an hour after Adrien had returned to the saddle. Cursing, he immediately reined the horse to a halt and jumped down. “It’s all right, boy.”

  Adrien ran his hand down Chev’s muzzle as the horse tossed his head and snorted in agitation. Once he’d gotten the large stallion calmed, he checked each leg for damage, then cradled Chev’s right foreleg upon his thighs to inspect the hoof. From what he could ascertain, given the lack of light, the shoe had come off clean.

  Placing the horse’s foot back on the ground, he patted under Chev’s mane. “You’ll be fine, mon ami, but I guess we had better return to the inn we just passed, hmm?” Flipping the reins over Chev’s ears, he coiled them around his fist and turned the horse about.

  The inn had not looked at all inviting, with its poorly lit courtyard and sagging roof, and he had dismissed it as a likely place for Sam to stop. Petley, in spite of empty pockets, maintained very high standards and image was everything to the arrogant lord. No, Petley would have continued on with the hope of locating a much more inviting inn, but Adrien could not be as choosey. The rundown inn had boasted a stable, and where there was a stable, there would be horseshoes. Even if he had to do the job himself.

  Aware of the precious time it was costing him, he walked Chevalier as fast as he deemed comfortable. When they reached the inn’s courtyard, he breathed a sigh of relief and took in his surroundings. Proximity did not improve his impression of the place. In fact, it painted a much bleaker image. The roof not only sagged, it boasted a few holes large enough to allow copious amounts of rain to fall on any unsuspecting visitors unlucky enough to have taken an ill-placed room. In addition, the gravel under foot was sharp and unlevel. Chev tossed his head in protest as his unprotected hoof likely encountered an unfriendly shard of stone.

  “The Devil’s Inn,” Adrien murmured while reading the sign. “How fitting.” Thankfully, he did not need to pass the night inside the place. A quick trip to the stable and he should be back on the road in no time.

  The stables were dark as pitch, but he could hear the scuff of hooves and the occasional huff of equine breath. Leaving Chev tethered outside, he stepped under the lintel and entered the dark, unwelcoming space. Light from a dying lantern, hanging low on a beam, did little to illuminate the interior, and the bulky shadow of a large carriage obstructed his view beyond the first stall.

  “Hello?” His voice set off a series of responses from unseen horses. One kicked at the stall directly to his right, and he glanced toward the sound to find himself face to face with the white of a snorting, black stallion’s eye. The orb rolled b
eneath the thick, black fringe of the animal’s forelock. Recognizing a borderline crazed horse when confronted with one, Adrien slowly extended his hand in peace.

  The offer was rebuked with a powerful blast of air from the horse’s flared nostrils.

  Adrien lowered his hand and stepped back lest the jet-black beast’s agitation provoked it to bite. With a toss of its enormous head and long, silky mane, the horse melded back into the shadows of the stall.

  Aware of being watched, Adrien glanced toward the next stall to find another horse gazing curiously at him. The graceful lines of the head, the eye, the lustrous forelock, all a perfect match to its temperamental neighbor. Black stallions were far from rare, but to have two so perfectly matched? He moved closer and extended his hand, just as he’d done with the other beast. This stallion did not shy away. It pushed its muzzle against his palm and blew softly. The response sparked a memory.

  Tattersalls. Three years ago. There had been a pair of matched blacks up for auction, their bloodlines so pure every gentlemen in London coveted them. He and Sam had been the last two bidders, the price having scared all the others away. In the end, he had conceded to Sam, who seemed intent to bankrupt the family coffers in order to possess the pair. It had been a friendly rivalry, mostly because Sam had walked away the victor.

  When Adrien had gone to congratulate Sam, he’d had a chance to watch as the pair were loaded up for transport. Night and day, he had suggested Sam name them, given the differences in their temperament. One trotted into the conveyance calm as you please while the other tossed its head, yanked its lead free, and knocked two stable hands to the ground as it reared to paw the air. Adrien had stepped forward in an attempt to calm the beast, but Sam had been faster. A few good lashings and the beast had been cowed into obedience.

  He looked at the docile stallion before him. Its eyes were closed in appreciation of the stroke of Adrien’s hand. A veritable angel of a horse, despite its size and devilish appearance. Was it possible?

  With a soft word of apology for cutting the petting short, he stepped back to the other stall. Its occupant continued to haunt the back wall, one foreleg pawing at the hay in obvious restlessness and unease. Frowning, he moved to the carriage. Without the aid of adequate light, it was difficult to make out details, but he could see the side panel was devoid of any crest. The lack put Adrien on high alert. After all, only a fool would kidnap a lady while using their own personal carriage, and Sam was no fool.

  “Can I help ye?”

  Adrien turned and was instantly blinded by the full, unfiltered blaze of a lantern. He held up a hand to shield his eyes. “Are you the stable master?”

  “Aye, but you ain’t the owner of that fine carriage so I suggest you be steppin’ away nice and slow.”

  Holding his hands up, Adrien did as the man instructed. “My horse is just outside—”

  “Aye, I saw the beast. Threw a shoe by the looks of him.”

  “Yes, exactly. I had hoped to rectify the problem then be on my way.”

  The man lowered his lantern, revealing a rough, scowling countenance beneath the brim of a crushed hat. “Can you pay?”

  “Of course.” Adrien dropped his hands. The man did not appear to be armed, just cautious and a tad rude. “I’ll pay you more than fair price for a shoe and the use of the tools, but I mean to do the deed myself.”

  “Good, because I ain’t your lacky.”

  Well, then.

  The man shuffled closer and shot a curse toward the stall to his right as the swinging light from the lantern enraged the temperamental stallion. “Damned demon wouldn’t even let me rub him down, and now I got a bleedin’ lord up my arse for not obeyin’ his orders.”

  “Did you catch his name, by chance?”

  “Eh?” The man squinted at Adrien. “Who? The horse?”

  “No. The bleedin’ lord.”

  “Aye, I think it was Penlay or Penlick or Petlick or some such. All them lords and their fancy names sound the same to me.” He brushed by Adrien to hang the lantern on a wall hook.

  “Petley?”

  He shrugged. “Aye, maybe.” While opening the tack room door, he glanced over his shoulder with a rather alarming smile. “Had a real fine lady with him though. Red hair, milky skin, a good set of—”

  “Yes, quite. I assume they’ve taken a room at the inn?” It took every ounce of Adrien’s willpower not to bolt from the stables and charge into the inn.

  “What? Are you daft? Why the devil would his lordship leave his horseflesh here then hie off somewhere else? Of course they are in the bleedin’ inn. Cor,” the man scoffed, “are you drunk or stupid, mate?”

  “In response to the former, unfortunately, no. As for the latter—”

  “All that fancy talk makes me head hurt.” The man ended the conversation by disappearing into the tack room. In moments, he emerged with a horseshoe in one hand and the necessary tools in the other. “Are you sure you know what you’re doin’, guv’nor? Most blokes who talk fancy can’t lace their own drawers let alone shoe a horse.”

  “How right you are. I will double your fee if you see to the task and make my mount as comfortable as a king.”

  “Aye, aye. I ain’t got nothin’ against your fine mount, guv’nor. He’ll be sighin’ in pleasure in no time or my name ain’t Johnny Dickin.”

  “Keep him away from that one,” Adrien pointed to the first stall. “Chevalier has an excellent temperament, but he’ll pick a fight if need be.”

  “Aye, aye, no need to worry, ol’ Johnny knows what’s what with horses. Go on then, guv’nor, it’s clear as day you got business of some sort with the fancy lord who owns that there carriage. Never say I delayed you.”

  “You’re a good man, Johnny Dickin.” Adrien passed the man a gold coin. “Take good care of Chev, and there’ll be more where that came from.”

  He left Johnny gnawing on the edge of the coin and made his way outside. After a brief moment to comfort a restless Chevalier, he headed for the inn.

  He had to duck to enter the taproom and remain stooped to avoid scalping himself as he traversed the floor with its buckled, heaving planks. Reaching the back counter without incident, he rang the small, copper bell. A young maid emerged from behind a swinging door to toss him a scowl that would have put ol’ Johnny Dickin’s to shame.

  “What you be needin’ then?” She hovered far behind the counter, as if wanting to remain out of arm’s reach of him. “A room? A meal?”

  “Neither, I merely wish to inquire about a pair of guests—”

  “Talk plain. I ain’t got time for your fancy airs. This place don’t run itself, don’t you know?”

  “Of course it does not. Forgive me.” His words softened her expression, but not by much. “Johnny mentioned a lord and lady had checked in.”

  “Aye.” She nodded. “So they did. What’s it to you?” In a manner that seemed unselfconscious, the girl lifted a hand to rub at her cheek, drawing Adrien’s attention to what looked to be a fresh bruise. “No,” she went on before he could reply, “let me guess. Yer chasin’ after the lady, ain’t you? I could tell she weren’t happy to be with his lordship, I could.” Her watery, hooded gaze raked over him. “I’d have stabbed the gent with a hairpin to return to the likes you, I would.”

  “You are too kind.”

  She moved to the counter and leaned her weight upon her forearms. Doing so allowed her loose-fitting blouse to gape and expose her small, rose-tipped breasts. “No doubt you’re here to take her back, eh? If she won’t have you, though she’d be daft to say no, you know where to find me, you do.”

  “I am flattered, but in all honesty, I pray your company will not be required to ease the sting of rejection.”

  She straightened and shrugged her blouse back into place. “You’ll be wantin’ to know where to find them, is that right?”

  “Your beauty is only outdone by your sharp wit.”

  “Cor, talk like that will have me crawling over this counter, it wil
l. Mind that wicked tongue of yours.” She blushed behind her bruising. “Room 6C. Up one flight and located at the end of the corridor at the top of another set of stairs. I figured Lord Uppity would be wantin’ the best The Devil’s Inn had to offer.”

  Adrien slid a coin across the counter. “Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.”

  Her eyes widened as she snatched up the coin. “A Frog, are you?” She bit into the coin, then dropped it down her bodice. “Might be treasonous of me to say it, but my offer still stands if you find yourself needin’ a bit of comfort.”

  “Not treasonous at all, I assure you.” He left her with a wink and stalked toward the narrow staircase. He took the steps three at a time, then slowed his pace upon reaching the corridor. There was no telling what frame of mind Sam might be in, and barging in like a marauding pirate would do none of them any good, most especially Eirene.

  That being said, Adrien wished he had brought a pistol. Knowing Sam as he did, the man would not yield peacefully.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eirene stepped back from the edge of the bed and employed Petley’s handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from her forehead. As it turned out, he had not died, though death might have been preferable to what he had endured over the last two hours or so. She glanced around the room, searching for a clock, but no such luck. She supposed he likely had a pocket watch tucked inside his waistcoat, but she hadn’t the motivation to search the pile of clothing she had tossed over the foot of the bed. She hadn’t the motivation to do much of anything. Seeing him through the throes of his illness had taxed her to her very core. The man had carried on like a child.

  Part of her had wished to consign him to the devil, but she would not have been able to live with the guilt. Her grandfather would have shaken his head in disappointment, saying something to the effect of, “One cannot escape one’s enemy if unwilling to destroy.”

 

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