Karen Harbaugh (5 page)

“Ah, yes, the maid,” he said, responding to her look. “And a room.” He went out of the parlour and returned with two maids. Linnea selected a stout-looking girl, who then led them upstairs. She opened the chamber door, and Linnea went in.

However, when the earl did not go in as well, the maid looked at him in consternation. “Sir, are you not going in?” He heard Linnea close the door hastily, and he almost smiled.

“No, you are to show me to my room now,” he replied with a hint of impatience.

“Oh, dear,” the girl said, much flustered. “I cannot do that, yer lordship. There’s not another room to be had!”

“You must be mistaken.”

“Oh, no, sir! There’s a cockfight nearby, and all the rooms have been let for the next few days. Mr. Chawleigh, he thought—”

“Yes, well, never mind that!” He looked longingly at the closed chamber door. He sighed. “Well, I must say, this will be a first for old Chawleigh.” He left the hallway in search of the innkeeper.

Chawleigh raised his eyebrows at my lord’s request and bowed his round little body again, regretfully. He disliked ejecting one customer for another, for even the private parlours below were full—but this was the Earl of Rothwick, after all, and...

Rothwick could see these thoughts reflected in the innkeeper’s face and changed his mind. He had done enough damage for one night.

“Never mind, Chawleigh. I will make do in the common room.”

Chawleigh’s jaw dropped. “But, but, sir!”

“No, I insist!” The earl smiled his most charming smile. “It will be a novelty, and I dislike passing up such a chance as this!”

As he settled himself down on the hard bench, he smiled ruefully. He was just as surprised at his proposal, he was sure, as Miss Ashley had been. His honor had been at stake, however, and it was the first thing that had occurred to him. He was certain they would find another answer to their problem, certain he would not need to marry Miss Ashley. He grimaced as he turned on the hard bench. Well, perhaps the morning would bring better ideas.

* * * *

Linnea closed the door on the earl and surveyed the chamber. Lord Rothwick had procured one of the best rooms in the inn. It was well lighted and warm with the fire burning merrily in the grate, and the bedsheets were white and soft. She held her hands out to the warmth in the hearth, for the night was chill and her grey cloak thin.

She shook her head in wonder. On one hand the nobleman seemed arrogant and brusque, and on the other full of enough consideration to command the best comforts for her. Surely the man was half mad. Impulsive, certainly.

She looked out the window to the courtyard below. The moonlight had turned the roadway on which they had just traveled to textured silver, but she saw nothing that told her where she might be. She gauged the distance from the window to the ground and eyed the bed-sheets. They did not look long or sturdy enough to serve as a rope, and though her foot throbbed only a little now, she did not relish a broken neck.

Her fear had abated after Lord Rothwick had clearly shown he would leave her alone—and her practical mind dismissed the thought of escape through the window. If she attempted to escape, she knew she might well meet a worse menace than his lordship; better to “bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of,” after all. Linnea recalled the context of that quote and shivered. She believed her foot was better, but that had little to do with it. She knew the dangers in returning to London alone; travelers unused to self-defense often disappeared.

She paced in front of the fireplace, chafing at the conclusion logic had given her. She wished she had something she could do, either escape or, or, even embroider, for goodness’ sake! A slightly hysterical giggle escaped her. Embroidery, at a time like this! She sat on the bed. It was soft, the sheets fine and freshly clean, and Linnea realized she was more tired than she had thought. It would not hurt, surely, to rest just a little. Surely it would make her more able to deal with his lordship when she saw him again. The maid returned then and helped her remove her cloak—she could not afford to crush it more than it was already—and readied Linnea and her own small cot for the night. Linnea reclined herself gratefully on the bed and fell instantly asleep.

Chapter 4

It was not because Sophia Amberley’s trip into London had been so long and wearying that she planned to stay the night at the Lion’s Stone Inn. She knew well, however, how important it was to make an appealing picture when entering the center of the ton. The inn was just close enough to the City so that she could get a good night’s rest and arrive in a fresh and un-travel-stained condition. She drew a mirror from her reticule and surveyed her reflection with satisfaction. Travel never did seem to touch her blond perfection much, but one could never be too careful. Sophia brushed a pale lock from a smooth pink-and-white cheek. There. Perfect. She returned the mirror to the reticule.

The Lion’s Stone Inn. Discreet, just off the main road, with a close-mouthed innkeeper, it was a perfect place for the ton to keep its assignations. The perfect place, Sophia had found, to pick up fresh-cut gossip—which could bloom into the latest
on-dit
—if one’s eyes were sharp and on the lookout. The innkeeper might be close-mouthed, but his wife was not so reticent, and if information could not be had from her, why, the chambermaids were more forthcoming still, especially if there were a few shillings to be earned.

A loud snort interrupted the snores emanating from the young gentleman who sat across from Sophia. His sleepy gaze wandered about the carriage until it lighted upon his sister’s fair visage. A discontented look settled upon his face. “Well, are we near London yet?” he asked abruptly.

“Dear Richard, do you not remember?” Sophia said gently. “We are to stay at the Lion’s Stone Inn.”

All sleepiness fled from the Honorable Richard Amberley. “No, I don’t remember! There is nothing to remember! We were to go directly to Aunt Agatha’s house from the last inn we were at.”

“But dear brother, you know how I hate to be creased and travel-stained when I come into town.”

Richard looked at her fresh complexion with disfavor. He fished for his fob and opened his watch. Disfavor turned to disgust. “It wouldn’t matter if you came to Aunt Agatha’s covered with mud. It wants but an hour and a half of travel to London and but an hour to darkness. You could put on a veil. No one would see you but myself and the servants.”

Sophia pouted. “But I do not like veils. And everyone stays at the Lion’s Stone.”

Her brother shut his watch with a snap. “What the devil does it matter if everyone—” He stopped, a look of dawning horror creeping across his face. “No! By God, Sophie, if you are up to your gossiping tricks again—”

“Please, Richard!
Sophia.
Sophie sounds so much like some article of furniture....”

Richard ignored her. “Look, my girl. You may wrap our parents around your little finger, but you can’t do that with me! If you think we are going to stay at some rubbishing inn just so you can pull me into some nasty little escapade with your damnable blackmailing ways, think again.”

There was silence except for a few sniffs coming from his sister. “And don’t come maudlin over me, either,” said Richard, very certain her eyes were as clear of moisture as a summer’s day.

Sophia opened her reticule. “You have always been so very cruel to me, Richard.”

“Ha!” He leaned back onto the carriage seat again, ready to catch a few more winks of sleep.

His sister pulled out a handkerchief, and a paper fell onto her lap. “Why, what is this?”

Richard closed his eyes, determined at least to look as if he were asleep.

“Oh, my, Richard, it looks like a tradesman’s bill! What a silly thing I am to have it in my purse. I must have picked it up when I was looking for my notepaper.”

A tendril of uneasiness unfurled within Richard’s breast. He opened his eyes and a wary look crossed his face. “No doubt it is for one of your dresses again. I wish you would not bother me about such trifles.” He turned a shoulder.

“But no, Richard, it is not one of mine! Why, I know I have never ordered a sapphire necklace and eardrops.” Sophia’s voice was the epitome of sweet concern.

Richard’s uneasiness unfurled to open dread. “Perhaps it is one of Mama’s, then,” he said gamely. “If you will give it to me, then I will make sure to return it to her.”

Sophia perused the bill further. “No... no, I fear you are mistaken, dear brother. It seems to be—why, it’s yours! Now I wonder why you would be billed for a sapphire necklace?”

Her dear brother made a lunge for the paper and missed, but a second try caught her wrist. He tore the paper from her hand. “What the devil—it’s blank!”

Sophia smiled kindly. “My little joke. It was such a large bill, you see, I did not want to carry it in such an unsafe place as my reticule. I put it away, oh, somewhere.” She waved her hand vaguely toward the top of the coach where their luggage was tied.

“I don’t believe you have it,” Richard said flatly.

Sophia took out her mirror again and smoothed an eyebrow. “Mmm... Do you know, I think I saw such a sapphire set on someone once. Who was it? Oh, that actress, Therese de Montagne.”

Richard shrugged. “Whoever the deuce she is.”

“Your language, dear brother, please!” Sophia looked pained. “Your lapse is no doubt because of the low company you keep. It would sadden Mama and Papa to hear of it.”

“There is nothing for them to hear!” Richard shifted himself uncomfortably. He watched his sister, wondering what was coming next.

“You know, I have often thought I would have been a very good actress, had I not been born to our station in life,” Sophia mused. She delicately wet a finger and set one of her curls more firmly in place. She smiled at herself in the mirror. “But then, it is not a particularly comfortable life, is it? I hear the actresses’ salaries are poor. Yet there is Therese de Montagne with a sapphire set. Now how is that?”

Richard eyed his sister with a certain fascination, much in the manner a mouse might eye a snake. But he was a stubborn young man, and somehow all his sister’s machinations through the years had not yet touched a core of optimism still in him. “No doubt she had a patron,” he said in a bored voice. “Will you cease? I do not know what this has to do with me.”

Sophia transferred her gaze from the mirror to Richard’s face, her expression a study in sudden revelation. She set down the mirror carefully on her lap. “Why, that is it! That is where I saw her! I remember a night at the theatre, and between acts one and two, I saw you talking with Miss de Montagne. She was opening a case with—yes! I remember!—some blue stones in them!” She clapped hands her in delight. “I especially remember it because I needed to refresh myself with a stroll after the first act.”

“You wanted to spy on me, is what you really mean!”

“I, spy?” said Sophia, her expression wounded. If Richard had not known her better, he would have felt as if he had just accused a newborn babe of murder. But he did know her better and thus knew he was at the end of her rapier thrust. He waited.

It came. A look of not altogether innocent wonder dawned on Sophia’s face. “Why, Richard! Are you admitting you are Therese de Montagne’s patron? How can that be? Did you not just lose your whole allowance at the races last quarter? I know Papa paid your creditors that time; what a scold he gave you, you naughty boy!” Sophia laughed merrily. Richard cringed. “But how is it that you had enough funds to purchase a necklace?” she continued. “I am afraid I am not very good at sums. I shall have to ask Papa.”

“Tell Papa, and you will rue the day you were born, Sophie!” growled Richard.

“Do you know, I think I left the bill with Murphy,” Sophia mused.

Richard groaned inwardly. Murphy, her abigail, was yet another who made up Sophia’s adoring crowd. The woman would do anything for her mistress, he knew. He could not afford another of his father’s scolds, for he was on his last legs until next quarter-day, and Lord Amberley was wont to withhold at least a portion of his funds with each scold. Though he was disillusioned by the Montagne woman and dismissed her when she clearly favored him no more than another despite his gift, she had been an expensive piece, and unless he was very lucky—or very conservative—he would not make a recovery in the immediate future.

“When are we arriving at this cursed inn?” said Richard.

Sophia’s smile was beatific. “I knew you would like my notion of stopping there!” she said. “I think you are going to be the most helpful brother in the world!”

* * * *

The morning broke differently for four individuals in the Lion’s Stone Inn.

Sophia, recognizing certain crests on the carriages that came to the inn at the same time as her own, and satisfied with the large and very good mirror in her room, slept like the proverbial babe she was not. She woke with a sense of pleasurable anticipation. She had seen no fewer than three crests, and of those three, two of its owners were known to have reputations that bordered on the scandalous. Sophia sat up in bed, stretched, and looked in the chamber’s large mirror. She looked like an adorable fluffy white kitten with her tousled blond hair and soft white lawn nightgown. She smiled with pleasure at the thought. She would have her breakfast in the common room downstairs. It would be quite proper, for of course Richard would accompany her.

The hapless Mr. Amberley, however, tossed and turned like a ship in a storm through the night. Ugly visions of moneylenders and tradesmen haunted his dreams. Richard dreamed of a school friend of his who was once sent to debtor’s prison; the poor devil had contracted prison fever and had barely escaped with his life. Richard dreamed a monk-like gaoler led him to his friend’s cell, but when he came to it, it was not Jack there, but himself. He turned to the gaoler to protest, but the gaoler had laughed, and the laugh was horribly like Sophia’s. He tried to leave the cell but could not, for the gaoler was reaching for him with claw-like hands. The gaoler’s hood dropped back, and it was Sophia, yet somehow she looked very much like their father.