The Random Gentleman (5 page)

The landlord came bustling in belligerently, but was soon reduced to a sense of his own inadequacies and those of his inn.

“Is Sayre Court in this vicinity?” snapped the Duke.
Now why the devil did I ask that
? he wondered.

The landlord was compelled to admit a complete lack of knowledge of the residences of Peers of the Realm, local or otherwise, but offered to bring the angry gentleman another mug of beer. This was an unfortunate move, since it precipitated a deluge of criticism. Much chastened by this scathing denunciation of his house, his menu, his intelligence, and especially his beer, the wretched man finally managed to insert a word into the masterly flow of invective, and to suggest that his honor might wish to talk to Parson, who was a right knowledgeable old party, able to put any gentleman right.

This suggestion being received with revulsion, for a reason the landlord had no way of knowing, the fellow offered another. The stage from London stopped at Willowhill, a mere five miles up the road, and its driver would surely be able to tell him whether or not the residence he sought was on this particular highroad.

Not completely satisfied, but feeling a stagecoach driver to be preferable to a Parson at this juncture in his affairs, the Duke remounted his horse and set off briskly along the highroad, to the relief of the innkeeper.

In Willowhill, Dane struck it lucky. There were three inns, all of them a great many cuts above the miserable den in which he had had his stomach insulted earlier. He was able to get a glass of choice brandy, probably smuggled, and being somewhat mellowed by the glow it induced, His Grace fell into conversation with a pleasant-faced, well-dressed man who was also playing off his dust. Upon inquiry, this gentleman admitted to a fair knowledge of the great houses in the county, and was able to announce that the Earl of Sayre’s principal seat was not located anywhere in the neighborhood, but he rather thought he had heard of a Sayre Court belonging to the Earl in Devonshire.

This matter disposed of, the gentleman introduced himself as Eugene Newell, baronet, and My Lord Duke felt compelled to announce himself, for no reason he could immediately identify, as Peregrine Random.

“Ah!” his companion nodded with commiseration, quite mistaking the look of embarrassment on the other man’s features. “M’cousin’s in the same boat. Mother a romantic. Named the boy Parsifal Galahad. Father died before he was born, or she wouldn’t have gotten away with it. Minute he came of age, poor devil bought his colors and hasn’t been home since. Believe he managed to conceal his given names when enlisting. Told ’em his initials stood for Peter George. His Colonel knows, but respects the lad’s privacy.”

Dane shared his laughter, but with only a part of his attention. The other part was belatedly considering his conduct of the morning. To rush off in a huff from Freya’s house was, he felt, so unlike his usual style that it merited a close scrutiny. And why the deuce was he inquiring about the country residence of the Earl? It came upon him like a thunderbolt that he had, somewhere in his mind, taken it upon himself to seek out the maddening little chit who had so threatened his comfortable image of himself, and make sure she was safely bestowed. He frowned thunderously.

His new-met companion was regarding him with some alarm. “I say, Random, no offense meant, you know! Peregrine is not such a bad name, after all! Only think if you had been called Parsifal Galahad—or Ulysses Gamaliel—or, uh, Waiting-for-the-Light—!”

A reluctant grin broke over Dane’s face. “You made that one up!”

“On my word, fact! Good friend of my father’s is a Quaker. Called his son that. Everyone’s shortened it to Wait. Boy doesn’t seem to mind.”

On the strength of shared laughter, the two young gentlemen had a second brandy, and then the Duke, feeling much restored, took leave of his companion amid mutual expressions of goodwill.

The rest of the day passed swiftly, and the Duke was able to rack up at a tolerable inn that evening. For some reason, his spirits were much lighter as he set out, well rested and well fed, the following morning. He decided that the source of his improved temper was his conviction that the chit would surely have retired to her grandfather’s principal seat when she wished to avoid having to face the laughter of the
ton
. Where else indeed would she go? A child of eighteen, with no skills fitting her for employment, and probably no wish to bestir herself over anything but her coiffure and her wardrobe, would seek the secure haven of her childhood home.

Having settled this to his satisfaction, and being much impressed by his own patience, forgiving nature, and generosity in seeking the girl out, the Duke was suddenly struck by a disagreeable thought. When he found her, what would he do with her? He debated this question in his mind for a long time, keeping Ben at a fast lope, and was only recalled to a sense of his surroundings by the increasingly restive behavior of his battle-trained mount. He focused his gaze and scanned the terrain. Just a little ahead of him, the Duke perceived a line of gypsy caravans, with a mounted escort of colorfully dressed riders. One at least of these latter had become aware of the Duke’s headlong approach, for he had dropped back a little and was waiting by the roadside, facing the advancing horseman. His Grace, while not particularly nervous, was reassured to know he had a loaded pistol in its holster on his saddle, as well as a couple of other weapons less obviously displayed.

“Give you good-day, sir!” said the big gypsy, with a wide but not particularly mirthful smile.

“Good-day to you, sir,” responded the Duke, his own smile easy and open. “That’s a fine animal you’re riding.”

A frown tightened the other’s black brows.

On seeing it, the Duke laughed with real amusement. “No, I am not challenging your ownership of the beast. I do not ask embarrassing questions—nor do I answer any.”

The scowl faded into rather a grim smile as the gypsy scrutinized the Duke’s stallion. Then the black gaze moved over the well-tailored riding coat, the strong muscular body, and the arrogant face of the solitary rider. “You’re not saying you’ve no right to the horse you ride?”

“Oh, Ben’s mine. But it happens I’ve no wish to be explaining why I’m riding him on this particular road, nor where I am bound.”

The gypsy smiled broadly. “You would have me believe you are leaving London for reasons more urgent than to escape your creditors? Did her husband come home too soon? Or are you running shy of a duel?” The bright black eyes mocked him.

“You’ve a deuced sharp tongue in your head,” said the Duke, no whit disconcerted by these jibes at his morals and his courage. “And from the sound of you, a gently trained one.”

“Oh, aye, A’m eddicated,” answered the gypsy in broad mimicry of a rustic lout.

“Can you present me to your chieftain?” asked the Duke, a sudden plan flashing into his mind.

The gypsy bowed, and one darkly tanned hand touched his chest. “You are addressing him, sir.”

Dane took a long, assessing look at the gypsy. The man was, if anything, taller than himself, and possessed a brutal face and a strong, heavily muscled body. He was wearing a silky black shirt over a pair of buckskins, and his well-made riding boots had been recently polished. The horse he rode was a great savage beast and looked every whit as dangerous as its master.

“My name is Random,” offered the Duke.

“I am Anton, called The Whip,” answered the other, grinning slightly and touching the braided leather handle of a heavy whip which hung from his belt, its thong efficiently coiled for instant action.

Dane smiled, elevating one eyebrow. “ ‘The Whip ’?”

Almost before his eye could catch the motion, the gypsy had the stock in his hand and had sent the iron-tipped lash curling out to flick the top button from Dane’s riding coat. So swift was the action that Ben had not time to rear or shy before the lash was back in The Whip’s hand and he was coiling it neatly, his eyes never having left the Duke’s face.

Dane had not flinched. He admitted wryly that he hadn’t had time—the attack had been lightning fast and completely unexpected. “I’ll never make that mistake again,” he said. “You have me positively quaking in my boots!” and he laughed with genuine admiration.

The gypsy studied him. “So you say. Yet you do not appear to be afraid. Perhaps you are not the soft townsman that you look?”

“Oh, I’m as soft as any other man,” Dane answered. “If you had aimed at my face rather than at my coat button, I’d be sporting a fine scar as a memento of our meeting.”

The gypsy seemed unsatisfied. “And what would I be sporting?” His dark eyes flicked at the holstered pistol on Ben’s saddle. “Are you a sharp at the pops?”

But the Duke was not giving his full attention to Anton. He had caught a sound almost below hearing level coming from behind him. The gypsy’s eyes did not move from his face, but there was an awareness in their expression. The Duke had not been one of Wellington’s hell-born babes for nothing. He touched Ben with an almost imperceptible gesture. The great stallion leaped from its standing position toward The Whip, bringing Dane’s body so close to the gypsy’s right arm that he could not lift his whip. At the same moment a small black pistol appeared in Dane’s hand and was thrust against the gypsy’s throat.

“Why, sir, if that bravo of yours who is lumbering up behind me comes one single step closer, my hand might shake so hard with fear that I would blow your head off—quite by accident, of course! I would regret it very much!”

He waited, entirely relaxed and at his ease, his big hand rock-steady, the small deadly weapon pressing lightly against the gypsy’s neck. Ben, well trained as his master, stood like the very statue of a horse.

A grin of reluctant respect appeared on The Whip’s face. “My men would make you regret it, be sure of that! But I’d be too dead to enjoy your pain,” he said softly. Then raising his voice slightly, “Enough, Pablo! Quebracho—all of you—easy! This hidalgo has proved himself a match for a Rom, at least today!” Then, staring at the Duke, he demanded, “What would you with my people, Gorgio?”

“I would ride with you, and share your fire,” said Dane, slipping the small pistol into its pocket in the turned-back cuff of his riding coat.

“To what purpose?” the gypsy leader persisted. “My folk have enough trouble from you English without sheltering some renegade and finding ourselves inside one of your stinking jails.”

“I will guarantee that that will not happen,” said the Duke quietly. “I might even help a little with the foraging—you do live off the country in the main, do you not?”

“You were a soldier?” The Whip asked, ignoring the Duke’s question. His glance took in the other man’s sober elegance.

“In the Peninsula,” the Duke confirmed his guess. “Where I judge your people have also spent some time? When you called me
hidalgo
, your accent was pure Castilian.”

In spite of himself Anton’s cheeks reddened slightly with pleasure. “We are Gitano,” he said shortly. “But the Romany chal is never anchored to one spot. The wide world is his demesne!”

There was a mutter of approval from the men who rode near them.

The Duke met Anton’s hard, bold glance. “It suits me to ride down into Devon for a few days, perhaps longer, but I’ve no wish to trumpet my presence. I would give you my parole that your band will come to no harm through letting me accompany you, but I’m damned sure you and your Roms are able to handle anything the stupid Gorgios could try against you!”

There was a chorus of pleased laughter from the gypsies, who now drew their horses in close order around the two men. The Duke showed no sign of discomfort, but when one youthful Rom deliberately let his horse jostle the stranger, His Grace gave Ben the office, and the great stallion reared and leaped backward, almost unseating the presumptuous youth. This defensive maneuver occasioned a good deal of mirth, and the boy, eyeing Ben and his rider warily, met the Duke’s innocent smile with reluctant admiration.

The Whip led the way smartly now, riding past the five large, brightly painted caravans drawn by magnificent draft horses. The Duke did not try to converse at the faster pace The Whip had set. He noted, however, that the gypsy horsemen now formed an effective guard around the wagons. Dane, well aware of the jealous regard in which Spaniards held their womenfolk, did not permit himself to stare at the girls who were driving most of the vans, only observing that they handled the reins with skill, and that they were brightly dressed and well pleased with themselves and their activity. It seemed a happy and well-found band, and the Duke glanced at its leader with respect. He found Anton’s black gaze full upon him.

“You are to be congratulated upon your providence, Anton,” he said sincerely. “Your tribe is in excellent condition.”

The Whip shrugged this aside. “Where exactly do you go?” he asked.

“Into Devon. I’ll find my way from there.”

“We go on to Cornwall,” vouchsafed Anton. “I have connections there. They are Gorgio, but they do not scorn their Romany kin.”

“Why should they, indeed?” the Duke said. “I’ll wager you can trace ancestry back to India. You are a proud people.”

“True.” The Whip rode on in a brooding silence. Then abruptly he called for one of his men and galloped ahead of the caravans. The Duke thought it politic not to try to accompany him. Instead he maintained a steady canter. Within a few minutes he was joined by the gray-haired gypsy he had heard addressed as Quebracho. This oldster wore a black velvet coat of a cut not seen in England, and a black, flat-crowned hat with a wide brim. The Duke thought the costume had a most comfortable look, the hat especially being capable of deflecting the sun’s rays from the eyes of a horseman. For a few moments the two men exchanged such desultory comments as are possible between men riding on horseback. Then His Grace had an idea. He had already made the sudden decision to accompany the tribe to Devon, so that his arrival in the Earl’s home district would not be instantly observed and widely reported. After the unpleasantness of his late encounter with the Sayre family, he was far from eager to have the Earl learn that he had so quickly sought out his reluctant fiancée. But who would expect the Duke of Romsdale to be consorting with a gaggle of gypsies? Now he realized that he would be even less conspicuous if he were dressed like his traveling companions.