The Devil's Love (3 page)

to grate on her nerves. Whoever this old goat was, Abbey suspected she had been

paid well enough to see her to her destination and could at least be expected to

be civil.

“I will sleep on the floor provided you tell me how far to Blessing Park,”

Abbey

said defiantly.

Mrs. Petty lifted her arms to remove her bonnet and shrugged. “Five miles, not

more.” She tossed her bonnet onto the chair before stooping to stir the

coals in

the brazier.

“Is Lord Darfield there?” Abbey asked as she removed her cloak and draped it

across the back of the chair.

“I told you, I don’t know. His secretary hired me on.”

Abbey turned to the little window and rubbed the stiffness in her neck.

Why on

earth was it was too much to ask where her fiance was and when he would come for

her? Calm down, she told herself. She had waited all these years; surely one

more night would not kill her. At least she certainly hoped it wouldn’t.

“Is he going to meet us here?” she asked hopefully.

“You ask a lot of questions, missy,” Mrs. Petty replied rudely.

Abbey groaned with exasperation, picked up the crone’s bonnet, and tossed it on

the bed. With a frustrated sigh, she sank into the chair, righting herself when

it swayed precariously with her weight. Mrs. Petty was busy with the brazier,

and Abbey watched as she fidgeted with the thing, noticing how rough the woman’s

hands were. She shifted her gaze to her feet, which were covered by a pair of

old, cracked leather boots that looked as if they were as old as the woman

herself. She felt a sudden, unwelcome pang of pity and could almost hear Aunt

Nan urging her to be charitable. She was stuck with this woman at least for one

night, and it would be to her advantage to befriend her.

“I’m rather hungry. Do you suppose they’d send up a tray?”

Mrs. Petty snorted derisively. “This ain’t no fancy inn. You got to go downstairs if you’re hungry.”

“Will you join me? I would rather imagine you are hungry, too.”

“It takes coin to eat at an inn,” Mrs. Petty mumbled.

“I have coin,” Abbey insisted.

Mrs. Petty peered suspiciously over her shoulder at Abbey. “Don’t want your

charity.”

“It’s not charity. Consider it my thanks for seeing me through a rather trying

day,” she said brightly, trying to make her expression as sincere as she could.

Mrs. Petty considered her another moment. “I ain’t no duenna,” she cautioned.

To Abbey, that suggestion was nearly as absurd as their present situation. “I

really did not think you were, Mrs. Petty,” she replied. “Come on then, I’m famished. And do you know, I think I would like an ale. Do you like ale?”

Abbey

started to move toward the door, and from the corner of her eye she saw Mrs.

Petty stand and smooth her plain brown skirt.

“It ain’t proper for a young miss to drink ale,” she muttered disapprovingly as

she patted her thin gray hair.

“Why, Mrs. Petty, that sounded positively like a duenna.” Abbey laughed as she

opened the door, and when Mrs. Petty passed, she mocked a curtsey fit for a

queen behind the sour woman’s back.

They were shown to one of two private rooms in the back of the inn. As they

waited for the innkeeper to clear the table, Abbey noticed a man seated in the

room next to theirs. He was sitting alone, his long, muscular legs stretched in

front of him and crossed at the ankles. He had one hand on a tankard, the other

shoved in the top of his buff trousers. He was much better dressed than the

other patrons, with a neckcloth tied simply at his throat and a brown brocade

waistcoat beneath a tan riding coat. He still wore his hat, and since he was

sitting in the shadows, she could not see his face. The only thing she noticed

was the red glow of the cigar that was clenched between his teeth.

Suddenly

conscious she was staring, Abbey nodded politely, then crowded behind Mrs. Petty

into the other room.

Abbey ordered two ales and two pies, and as they waited, she perched her chin

atop her fist and eyed the very stoic Mrs. Petty. They sat in complete silence

until the innkeeper brought the food. Only then did Mrs. Petty make a guttural

sound and attack the food with a gusto that suggested she had not eaten in some

time.

And the meat pie was awful. Abbey picked at it while she sipped her ale, choosing to rearrange the carrots to one side instead of eating them.

When Mrs.

Petty wiped her wooden bowl clean, she eyed Abbey’s expectantly until the young

woman pushed it across the table to her. “Really, I am not hungry,” she said,

but it was plain Mrs. Petty did not care if she was or not.

“I was expecting Lord Darfield to meet me,” Abbey prompted as she watched the

woman dig into her second pie.

“That’s a laugh,” Mrs. Petty said with a mouthful of food.

Surprised, Abbey asked, “Why is that?”

“Well, to begin with, he’s a marquis, and a marquis don’t go to the docks to

meet his visitor. The visitor comes to him.” Mrs. Petty spoke as if she were

talking to an ignorant child.

“I see your point”—Abbey nodded politely—“except that I am not really a visitor.”

Mrs. Petty stopped her chewing and glanced up. “What are you then?”

“Why, I am his betrothed!” Abbey said with some astonishment. Surely Mrs. Petty

knew whom she was escorting, but she stared at Abbey as if she had just announced she was the Queen of England and burst into laughter, revealing

half-chewed food.

Abbey’s brows rose. “May I ask what you find so amusing?”

Mrs. Petty managed to stop long enough to swallow her food in one big gulp.

“Ain’t every day a fine lass marries a rake,” she said sarcastically. “Then again, maybe you ain’t such a fine lass.”

Abbey sat back as if Mrs. Petty had just slapped her, but she hardly noticed the

slur directed at herself. She was mortified Mrs. Petty would defame Michael.

“A rake? How could you possibly say such a thing?”

Mrs. Petty sneered contemptuously as she propped her elbows on the table, a

knife in one hand and a fork in the other. “Let me tell you about your marquis.

The Devil of Darfield is an outcast. He never leaves Blessing Park cause he

ain’t allowed in any reputable establishment… Why, he probably ain’t even allowed in here.‘”

Abbey started to tell the stupid woman that she had clearly confused Michael

Ingram with someone else, but Mrs. Petty shook a fork at her and continued. “The

whole town knows his father ruined the family name with all his gambling and

drinking. Drank himself to death, he did. They say the devil set those debts to

right by pirating—”

“Mrs. Petty! You are mistaken—”

“I ain’t mistaken about a bloody thing, you stupid gel! He stole his wealth, he

did! Oh, that family lived in a high and mighty style to be sure, but in shame!

He didn’t care. He kept right on pirating!”

“Mrs. Petty!” Abbey gasped with outrage. “How could you say such a vile thing!”

“Then his no-good sister got with child by some scoundrel and ran off with him,

and his mama, she was so distraught she hanged herself out there at Blessing

Park. And what did he do? Took to the seas and pirated some more, till he

couldn’t go nowhere. He’s an outcast all right! I’m surprised he ain’t been dragged off to Newgate by now.” Mrs. Petty stabbed a piece of potato and thrust

it in her mouth and eyed Abbey with a look that dared her to disagree.

Abbey’s initial shock quickly gave way to fury. How dare this woman remark so

bitterly on the most generous man in the world? She leaned slowly toward Mrs.

Petty, who had gleefully resumed eating her pie. “You are very sorely mistaken.

The marquis is an honest man, a gentleman, and a noble soul. The good

deeds he

performs in a single year would put both our lives to shame!”

Mrs. Petty snorted contemptuously and reached for her ale.

Abbey grabbed the tankard before her fingertips could touch it and pulled it toward her until she had the woman’s full attention. “I know how such awful

rumors start. I think people naturally become a little envious when a man of

such character and ability lives modestly among them. It’s almost as if one

perceives their own inadequacies to be somehow pointed up by the unique qualities of someone such as Lord Darfield. But I assure you, he is not deserving of your malicious gossip. He is more of a man than the sum of those in

the common room, and I will not allow you to defame him!”

Mrs. Petty growled and lunged for her ale. “Well, ain’t you a Miss Know-All?

Look at you, fresh off the boat from America with those pretty eyes and that

pretty hair, thinking you know all there is to know about the scoundrel!

You are

naive if you think your noble marquis is going to marry you. He don’t believe in

legitimate bonds! If he got you here by telling you he was going to marry you…

well, then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for, and you’ll soon be on a ship bound for America in ruin, mark my words!” With that Mrs. Petty drained her

tankard and slammed it down on the table for emphasis.

Abbey angrily gripped the side of the table and glared at the woman. “If you

think so ill of him, Mrs. Petty, then I can only imagine you are escorting me

out of the generosity of your own spirit, for surely you would not have accepted

payment for services from such a scoundrel!”

The remark obviously hit home and brought Mrs. Petty up short; her mouth

puckered as if she were eating a lemon. She slowly leaned across the table so

that her face was only inches from Abbey. “Why, you miserable, no good little

American chit’t You’ll get what you deserve with that no-account

scoundrel!”

Suddenly sickened by the sight of the woman, Abbey pushed away from the table

and stood. “If you are quite through…” She was so furious she could not continue. She drew a ragged breath as she reached for her reticule and began to

root frantically within it until she pulled out some coins, tossed them carelessly on the table, and leveled a reproachful gaze at her companion.

“You may say what you will of me, Mrs. Petty, but I dearly hope I never hear you

defame Lord Darfield again, for I am quite certain I will cause you bodily injury. Now, I am going to retrieve my satchel from the coach and go to bed.

Please have another pie and more ale. I would not want you to spread your

vicious lies on an empty stomach,” she said, and turned abruptly from the table.

She was so livid she marched right into the middle of the common room without so

much as a glance about and, with her hands on her hips, searched for Mannheim.

Finally she spotted him across the crowded room, sitting at a table with the

driver behind several empty tankards. He saw her at the same time and stood

uncertainly, grasping the table for support.

“Something wrong, miss?” he asked when she had finally pushed her way through

the crowd and to his table.

“Mr. Mannheim, if you would be so kind, I require a small green satchel I left

in the coach,” she said stiffly.

The man slid his bloodshot gaze to the driver, who had yet to look at Abbey, and

then back to her. He swallowed an ale-soaked belch as he seemed to consider her

request and slowly let go his grip on the table.

“Yes, mum,” he muttered, and pushed past her toward the door. Abbey stood firmly

rooted to her spot, her hands on her hips, and her chest heaving with each furious breath, oblivious to the chaos around her. Good God, she hoped Michael

would come for her in the morning; her return to England was not getting

off to

a very good start.

As her temper began to cool, she gradually became aware that the din had

lessened and had the awful feeling that all eyes were upon her. She turned slowly to look over her shoulder, her eyes widening slightly at the sight that

greeted her. Several men at the dart board had stopped their play and were

sheepishly staring at her behind the broad back of a very large, very ugly man.

He was looking at her with a leer on his lips that made her want to poke out

both his eyes. She turned to face him and folded her arms across her middle. The

fingers of one hand drummed her arm as she angrily stared right back.

The men did not intimidate her. She had been in plenty of inns such as this with

her father and had seen much worse in different corners of the world. In Virginia she and her aunt and cousins often had been in situations in which they

were the only females.

She was about to ask the men to kindly stop ogling her when Mannheim shoved

through the door, shaking the snow from his threadbare coat and clutching her

satchel. His glazed eyes grew wide with fear when he realized the men were

engaged in something of a silent standoff with Abbey. He hurriedly made his way

through them and hastily thrust the satchel at her.

“Best git upstairs, miss,” he mumbled, and surreptitiously eyed the men from the

corner of his eye.

“Thank you, I believe I will do just that,” she snapped. She had taken two steps

toward the stairs when the big, ugly man stepped deliberately in her path.

Abbey

stared at his barrel chest, then squared her shoulders and looked up at him.

“Please excuse me, sir,” she said coolly. He grinned; she recoiled at the stench

of his breath.

“Eh, Danny. The lass wants you to egg-scuse her,” someone called, and they all