Pursued by the Rake Page 3

  “You know him?” she asked in surprise.

  “I traveled on board his ship once. Related to the late Duke of York, the king’s brother.”

  She curled her lip, for her father was, in fact, an illegitimate son of the late Duke of York. “The relationship is not publicly acknowledged, but yes, that is the reason I was given the position in the princess’s household.”

  “You’re very prickly, aren’t you?”

  “No,” she said crossly.

  He smiled at nothing in particular, and they lapsed into silence. Until her stomach rumbled in a most unladylike manner. Hastily, she folded her arms over it to try and smother the noise.

  “Breakfast,” he said, frowning. “Have you breakfasted?”

  “I had no time. Have you?”

  “Only a brandy for the road. We’ll stop at the next inn and rest the horses.”

  “Oh! Do you think we’ll catch the stagecoach there?”

  “No. The place I had in mind is not a coaching inn—much quieter. I thought you’d prefer that.”

  She opened her mouth to deny such a preference, then closed it again. Perhaps he was right.

  “Besides, it’s a beautiful day,” he said unexpectedly. “Who would want to be shut up in a stuffy coach?”

  With surprise, she saw that he was right. She had been so occupied with her own problems—which included severe doubts about the man beside her—that she hadn’t even noticed the bright sunshine, the soft breeze, or the pretty, rustic scenery. They passed through a tiny village of thatched cottages, some distance from the main road, and carried on another hundred yards or so until he turned the horses through open gates and into a small inn yard.

  Sir Joseph brought his horses to a standstill, and a boy came running to hold them. Jumping down, Sir Joseph issued instructions about the care of his horses in surprisingly amiable tones, not haughty or mocking in the least. He also handed her down from the curricle with perfect civility and ushered her toward the inn’s front door. Delicious smells of frying ham immediately assailed her, and her stomach rumbled urgently in response.

  A woman in a clean white cap and apron, presumably the innkeeper’s wife, bustled out from the kitchens.

  “Sir Joseph!” she greeted him, beaming with apparent delight. She curtseyed deeply. “How can I help you and her ladyship today?”

  Appalled by the assumption that she was his wife, Hazel opened her mouth to clarify matters.

  “Breakfast and coffee, if you please!” Sir Joseph said cheerfully, sweeping her toward a coffee room on the left, with his arm just touching her back.

  “But—” Hazel began.

  “Let us sit here,” he interrupted, holding a chair for her.

  She glared up at him. “How can you let them think—”

  “Why, who else would you rather be, traveling alone in my company?”

  She pursed her lips and sat. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  “It’s as well I am thick-skinned.”

  Hazel colored. “I beg your pardon. I should not be rude to you when you are helping me.”

  “No, you must save it up for later, when I’m not.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Sir Joseph?”

  “Heaven forbid. And I feel my wife should call me Joe. When she’s not being rude to me.”

  Another thought struck her before she could retort. “Do you have a wife?”

  He sat back. “I am not quite such a scoundrel.”

  She met his lazy gaze with incomprehension until she realized he was referring to his affair with the princess. Color flooded her face. How dare he bring up such a subject with her? But since he had…

  “I suppose you will be going to the continent?” she flung at him.

  “I hope so.”

  She blinked. Such shamelessness had a peculiar charm, to which she was, of course, immune. And it was true Princess Caroline was only technically married to the Prince Regent—she doubted the couple had spent a moment in each other’s company since their wedding night.

  Breakfast was brought in then—lots of bacon, toast, eggs, cold meat, and cheese. All else fled from Hazel’s mind, and she set about her plate with enthusiasm. After a while, when the edge was off her hunger, she became aware of his gaze upon her.

  He sat back in his seat, his long fingers playing idly with his coffee cup. He had not touched his breakfast.

  “Are you not eating, sir?”

  He pushed his plate toward her. “Help yourself.”

  “You should eat,” she said sternly.

  “If I do, I shall fall asleep, and neither of us would like that. You had better eat for us both, since by your eagerness, anyone would think you had missed dinner, too.”

  “Actually, I did,” she said without thinking.

  “How come?” he asked idly, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Oh, traveling and other things,” she said hastily.

  His eyebrows flew up. “You traveled yesterday, also?”

  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had agreed with the other ladies that no one should know they had been in the princess’s house that night. And yet, lies did not come easily to her.

  “There was a mix-up,” she said lamely.

  For an instant, she imagined his heavy-lidded eyes were not lazy at all but saw far too much. Which was ridiculous when the man was foxed—and still drinking. Almost mechanically, he fished out his flask and poured a good splash into his coffee.

  “Do you know the way from Scorton to your destination?” he asked, mercifully changing the subject.

  “Actually, no. I believe it is just outside the village of Carntree, which we should reach before Scorton. The house belongs to Amelia’s new husband, Mr. Armitage, but it’s the vicarage, so it should not be hard to find.”

  “Most respectable,” he approved.

  “Of course it is!”

  “My dear, girl, there is no need to jump down my throat,” he said mildly.

  With difficulty, she swallowed her retort. “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly.

  “There is no need for that either.” A smile flickered across his lips, causing an odd flutter in her stomach. She could easily see how that dancing smile had attracted the princess. He raised the cup to his lips once more, and she returned to her last piece of toast.

  Fifteen minutes later, refreshed and replete, Hazel walked out into the sunshine while Sir Joseph settled the account. His horses stood patiently waiting for them, soothed by the ostler’s attentions and the pieces of apple he was feeding them.

  A solitary man rode into the inn yard just as Sir Joseph emerged.

  “With you in a moment, sir,” the ostler called to the newcomer.

  Sir Joseph handed Hazel up into the curricle and followed her, taking up the reins. “Let them go!” he instructed the ostler, tossing him a coin.

  The boy grinned, touching his hat in thanks, and ran over to the newcomer, now dismounting on the other side of the yard.

  “Tell me,” Sir Joseph murmured, guiding the horses toward the gate. “Do you know that man who just arrived?”

  Hazel glanced across the yard in quick dismay, for the last thing she wanted was to be recognized. The man was, perhaps in his thirties, undistinguished, respectably but not expensively dressed. His hat was slightly crushed at one side as though it had been in an accident from which it had been unable to fully recover. It gave him a slightly lopsided look. But he was definitely a stranger. “No, I’ve never seen him before that I can recall. Why?”

  “Because I’m sure he was at the Blue Boar,” Sir Joseph replied. He guided the horses out the gates and on toward the main road. “But that is no great coincidence. Most Essex travelers stop there. I imagine your reputation is safe.”

  If only…

  Chapter Three

  Around midday, Sir Joseph began humming to himself, and when Hazel cast him a sidelong glance, he burst into song. In a fine baritone, he sang a selection of nonsense rhymes, hastily adapted
to the countryside, and anyone who passed them on the road. Hazel found herself trying not to laugh, especially when, still in mid-song, he doffed his hat to a gawping farmer and his wife going in the opposite direction.

  “That should make sure no one remembers us,” Hazel said wryly.

  He shrugged. “Well, they won’t associate such a lunatic and his long-suffering wife with Joe Sayle and the Princess of Wales’s lady. It’s a beautiful day to sing. And besides, it keeps me awake.”

  “Then keep singing by all means,” she said hastily.

  “Do you want to take the ribbons?”

  Her eyes widened. “Would you trust me?”

  “I might not go to sleep until I see your talent. Or lack of it. Have you driven a team before?”

  “At home. My father let me drive his.”

  To her surprise, he handed over the reins. She took them eagerly and found the horses a delight to drive, sensitive to her every instruction.

  “You have a light touch,” he said approvingly.

  She smiled faintly. “Does that mean you’re going to sleep?”

  “I might.”

  She cast him a quick glance, but he still sat up straight, his eyes watchful, much as hers had been when the journey began.

  “What were you doing at the Blue Boar?” she blurted.

  “Carousing,” he said in surprise. “It’s the favorite haunt of a prize-fighter of my acquaintance.”

  Her eyes widened. “You were fighting?”

  “I am not so stupid. It was a most convivial evening.”

  “Are you really still drunk?”

  “As a wheelbarrow, Miss Hazel. As a wheelbarrow.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  He cast her a beatific smile that caused another of those strange flutters in her stomach. It was increasingly difficult not to smile back.

  With reluctance, they rested the horses again near Waltham Abbey, where they also refreshed themselves, enjoyed a bite to eat, and bought some more food to eat on the way. With fresh energy, the horses picked up speed for a little, until the roads grew rougher toward the village of Carntree. The light also began to fade, and it was more by luck that Hazel happened to see a wooden sign for Carntree Church, pointing up an almost hidden track.

  “Miss Sprigg did say the house was outside the village,” she said doubtfully. “Do you suppose it’s beside the church?”

  “Let’s hope so because I’ll have a devil of a job turning the horses in this lane in the dark.”

  “Well, it isn’t quite dark, so if this is the way to the vicarage, you will have kept your promise.”

  “You needn’t sound so surprised about it. I always keep my promises.” He yawned. “I do hope there’s an inn in the village.”

  “Miss Sprigg—that is, Mrs. Armitage—will be able to tell you. But I’m sure the vicar will be hospitable when he realizes how kind you have been to me.” She flushed, aware suddenly of exactly how kind he had been. He had given up an entire day to bring her here, and another to get back to London tomorrow, and she had shown him little but rudeness at least until halfway through the journey… She owed him an apology as well as gratitude, but for this moment, she was glad of the poor light to hide her spurt of shame.

  “I’m never kind,” he assured her. “I merely follow the entertainment.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been very entertaining,” she confessed. “Except in an unpleasant way.” She took a deep breath. “And you are not at all what I expected you to be.”

  He turned his head toward her. “I hesitate to ask, but what on earth did you expect? Roadside seduction by the evil rake?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “Hardly,” she muttered. “But you do have a certain reputation. Which I, of all people, should understand is not always deserved.”

  She met his steady gaze with conscious bravery, and suddenly his sheer attraction deprived her of her breath. He really was the most handsome man she had ever met, his large person commanding and much too close. His shoulder brushed against her when she moved. His muscled thigh was a bare inch from hers.

  A smile flickered across his lips. “You know very well I am no saint.”

  Just for an instant, she wondered what it would be like to be held against that strong body, to touch his hair, his cheek, to feel his lips on hers…

  Shocked at herself, she dragged her gaze free and saw the track widened and forked. One path led to the gates of a churchyard and a picturesque little church, the other to a pleasant two-story house.

  “The vicarage!” Hazel exclaimed.

  “Let us hope so.” Sir Joseph halted the horses on a patch of grass between the walled churchyard and the fence around what was surely the vicarage garden at the side of the house. Then he jumped down and looped the reins around the fence in case the horses decided to wander off with his curricle. By then, Hazel was poised to jump down, but he surprised her by simply seizing her around the waist and swinging her to the ground.

  The butterflies might have been due to the sudden motion. She had to believe that, for she was alone in a very quiet, almost dark place with a known rake. Fortunately, he released her almost at once, and she hurried toward the gate.

  The path led around to the front of the house, which seemed, ominously, to be in darkness.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

  “Perhaps they’re merely saving on candles,” Sir Joseph suggested. “Expensive little articles.” He walked up the front steps and applied the knocker in a peremptory fashion.

  Following him, Hazel was sure she caught a glimmer of light from the window next to the door and gave a sigh of relief. But there was no answer to his knock. When he knocked again, she put her ear to the door, much to his apparent amusement.

  She was sure she heard the click of a heel on the floor, a breathy whisper. And then nothing. She frowned, exchanging puzzled glances with Sir Joseph. Impulsively, she lifted the latch on the door, and to her astonishment, it swung open.

  She pushed it wide and made to step in, but Sir Joseph grasped her arm to keep her back, then released her and walked first into the house, his posture wary.

  The hall was gloomy, with little natural light, and it took Hazel several moments to make out her surroundings—old wooden paneling on the walls, unlit candles in wall sconces, a hall stand with several coats, cloaks, hats, and a pair of boots. In front of her was Sir Joseph’s tall, broad back.

  “Mr. Armitage!” he called.

  And from the doorway beside him, a male voice growled, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot you.”

  Sir Joseph jerked around to face the doorway, from where a pale light could now be discerned. His eyes widened.

  “Extraordinary,” he said in impressed tones. “Say something else.”

  Hazel brushed past him and halted in stunned dismay.

  A very young lady of perhaps only fourteen or fifteen summers, stood in the doorway, pointing a large, wicked-looking pistol straight at Sir Joseph.

  “She didn’t say it, I did,” growled another voice, and an even younger boy stepped out from behind the door, holding a candle. Hazel guessed his voice had not long broken. “But she will shoot you. She may be a girl, but she never misses.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” Sir Joseph said calmly. “For it would be silly to make threats one couldn’t carry through.”

  “We thought you would be scared away by Edward’s voice,” the girl said, “and if you weren’t, then I could shoot you.” She tightened her grip on the pistol and added bravely, “I am still prepared to do so.”

  By then, the name Edward and something about the girl’s face had penetrated Hazel’s shock. She brushed past Sir Joseph, evading his attempt to thrust her back.

  “I beg, however, that you won’t shoot him,” she said, “for I have just been praising your sister’s hospitality, and I would hate to be made a liar.”

  Both the young people stared at her, blinking rapidly. The girl lowered the pistol. “Miss Hazel?�
��

  “Indeed. Sir, allow me to present to you Mrs. Armitage’s sister, Miss Irene Sprigg, and her brother Edward. Irene, where is your sister?”

  “Paris,” Irene replied at once. “She’s gone on her wedding trip.”

  “Oh!” It felt like the final blow to her last, remaining hope. “I understood they were just going to stay here.”

  “It was a surprise for Amelia, and I have to say Raymond—Mr. Armitage—is very good at keeping secrets, for Amelia knew nothing about it until their wedding day. In fact, he’s rather fun for a vicar.”

  “But…but surely they would not have left you here alone?” She began to look around in alarm, for the situation reminded her suddenly of the one she had so recently left in Connaught Place. “Who is in charge of you? Are there no servants?”

  “Not exactly,” Irene said guiltily. “We were with Aunt Vale, but Bart quarreled with her and my uncle, so we came here.”

  “Oh,” Hazel said in some relief. “Then at least Bart is with you. He must be about nineteen years old by now, is he not?”

  “Twenty,” Edward said proudly. His gaze traveled up above their heads, to the staircase behind them. “It’s fine,” he said reassuringly. “It’s only Amelia’s old pupil. Do you remember Miss Hazel?”

  Turning quickly, Hazel beheld two younger children peering through the banister. They looked a little uncertain, so she smiled at them.

  “May I see that very wicked-looking pistol?” inquired Sir Joseph, who had been silent throughout the exchange, merely observing.

  “Oh, yes,” Irene said, handing it over quite casually. “I’m sorry I threatened you, but we thought you were the magistrate’s men.”

  Sir Joseph blinked. “I have been called many things in my time,” he remarked, inspecting the pistol, “but never that. Why would the magistrate bother you? Have you committed some heinous crime?”

  “Well,” Irene said uneasily. “He doesn’t know we’re living here, so he might have taken us for robbers. Come into the parlor. Are you hungry? Let me fetch you some supper, though I’m afraid it will be cold.”

  Hazel met Sir Joseph’s gaze, then looked hastily away and followed Irene across the hall to a darkened room. Edward trotted beside them with the candle, from which he lit several more and two lamps to help provide a cozy glow. It was a comfortable room, full of faded furniture and books and a pleasant old fireplace.