The Counterfeit Gentleman (12 page)

By the time the coach reached the Tamar, he realized
that rumors might very well do the trick. Gossip, whispered
in the right ears and then carefully nurtured, would eventu
ally force Lady Clovyle to admit that his poor cousin
Bethia was missing.

After which an anonymous letter could be sent to the
Gazette,
informing the world that Miss Bethia Pepperell
had drowned herself in a fit of despondency. Once that was
made public, the proper authorities would be dispatched to Cornwall, where they would soon identify the missing girl.

Having thought of such a clever way to come about and
salvage his perfect scheme, which had unaccountably suf
fered a few unfortunate setbacks, Mr. Harcourt settled
down to sleep away the tedious hours it would take for him to reach London.

* * * *

The coach lurched sideways into a deep rut, and for a
moment Bethia thought they were stuck again. Twice today
she had climbed out of the carriage and waited on the verge
while the three men put their shoulders to the wheels, but
this time with Big Davey cracking his whip and Little
Davey calling out encouragement, the horses managed to
pull the coach free.

“We will be stopping for the night soon,” Mr. Rendel
said once they were again moving at a less than brisk pace down the lane.

Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, Bethia leaned her head against his shoulder, too tired to offer comment. It was not merely their journey that had exhausted her. The
previous night—her second in the little cottage—had not
been a repeat of the first.

Every time she had dozed off, the nightmares had
come—weird, distorted dreams of boats and bodies, of
foul-tasting wine filling her mouth and choking her, of dark water closing over her head.

Shortly before dawn she had awakened from a particu
larly horrible nightmare to hear men’s voices from the
other room, and she had been thankful that the long night
was over. Dressing herself as quickly as possible, she had lost no time in joining the others, who were already half
through with their breakfast.

Big Davey had borrowed a coach and hired a team, Mr.
Rendel informed her, and Little Davey had decided to go
with them also. No one explained Little Davey’s reason for
coming along, but from the guns he had brought with him,
it was obvious he was to serve as their guard.

Despite their early start, they did not, however, proceed
to London with all possible speed. With the sun now begin
ning to set behind them, Bethia asked, “Are you sure we
have not just been going around in circles? I vow, we have
been down this selfsame lane at least three times already today.”

“And I have been down this road a dozen times before,”
Mr. Rendel said, “and I can assure you that we are making
better progress than I had thought we would. In fact, we are
less than a mile from where we will spend the night.”

Ten minutes later the coach slowed its already snail-like pace, then turned sharply to the left and stopped.

Peering out the window of the coach at the hedgerow
tavern, Bethia could not keep the horror out of her voice.
“Surely you cannot mean for us to spend the night here?”

Perhaps in the bright light of midday the inn might not look so villainous, but in the dusk the Spotted Boar defi
nitely had a malevolent air about it. Damp sheets would be
the least of her worries if she were forced to spend the night in such a place.

“There’s less chance of your being recognized here than
if we stayed at a fancy inn on one of the main post roads,” Mr. Rendel said, reaching past her to open the door.

“And more chance of us being murdered in our sleep for
the few shillings we might have on our persons,” she re
torted, shrinking back in her seat. “Given the choice, I prefer to risk my reputation and save my skin.”

Ignoring her objections, Mr. Rendel climbed out of the coach, then held out his hand to assist her.

Frantically, Bethia sought for some argument, some
means of persuading him that this was all a very bad mis
take.

“I am well known here,” he said quietly, “and no one
will harm you so long as you are with me.”

Still she could not bring herself to quit the coach in
which they had been riding all day. As tired of being
jounced around as she had become—and the coach was not
at all well-sprung—at this moment its worn velvet squabs represented all the security she had.

“I am sure I could not sleep a wink in such a place. Why,
they are bound to have
...
to have damp sheets!”

“And more than likely bedbugs,” Mr. Rendel said quite cavalierly, as if such matters were of no particular impor
tance. “But the choice is yours, and if you prefer, I shall
have your dinner carried out here.” Then to her horror, he turned away from her and began walking toward the Spot
ted Boar.

In an instant she was out of the coach and after him.
Safety, she discovered, had nothing to do with coaches. Se
curity meant staying as close as possible to Mr. Rendel.

“Changed your mind?” he asked when she caught hold
of his arm.

“That was a thoroughly unscrupulous, unprincipled,
das
tardly
way to win an argument,” she said, “and I want you
to know I absolutely loathe and detest being coerced into doing something I do not wish to do.”

Pulling the hood of her cloak up so that it concealed her face, he said with a smile in his voice, “If I had intended to
coerce you, I would have pulled you bodily out of the
coach. As it was, I feel I acted with great tolerance by al
lowing you to choose where you would spend the night.”

Bethia tipped her head back far enough that she could
see his face. He was smiling, blast him! But by the light spilling out the window—the grime-covered window—of
the tavern, she could see that his eyes were dead serious.

“When you are with me, you will always be free to
choose,” he said simply. “I only advise, I do not com
mand.”

Leading two of the unharnessed horses past her, Little
Davey said, “But you’ll find things go better if you do what
Mr. Rendel ‘suggests.’ He’s dragged us out of many a tight
spot with our skin intact.”

“And was he also perhaps the one who led you into those
selfsame tight spots?” Bethia snapped back, still feeling a
bit aggravated by Mr. Rendel’s smug air of superiority.

“In the general course of things, I’d have to say that was
the case,” Big Davey said, leading the second pair of horses
past them. “But we try not to hold it against him, for he
does keep life from becoming too tame,” he added with a
deep chuckle.

“Come now,” Mr. Rendel said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “With three such stalwart protectors, do you really
think anyone in this place will attempt to molest you?”

Although she was loathe to admit it, Bethia rather
thought that it would take at least a half dozen men to go up
against Mr. Rendel, even if he were alone.

Placing his hands on her neck and using his thumbs to
tilt her chin up, Mr. Rendel smiled down at her and said,
“Do you really think I am such a fool that I would deliber
ately lead you into danger?”

Bethia looked deep into his eyes and admitted to herself
that she would follow this man wherever he led her. But the
last remnants of her pride did not allow her to tell him that.
“I shall endeavor in the future to follow your advice,” was
all she said.

He held her gaze, and for a long moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but then he removed his hands, read
justed her hood, and taking her by the arm, escorted her
into the Spotted Boar.

The air inside was redolent of gin, and the pipe smoke
made Bethia’s eyes water. The coarse voices around her gradually stilled as the clientele of this wicked place be
came aware of her presence.

She did not need any advice from Mr. Rendel about
keeping her face covered; no power on earth could have
forced her to lift her eyes from the straw-strewn plank floor
to stare back at the men she knew must now be staring at
her.

“Ah, Mr. Rendel, we have not had the pleasure of your
company in over a year now,” the landlord said. “And what
can we do for you this fine evening?”

“I require stabling for my horses, two rooms for me and
my men, and supper for four,” Mr. Rendel said, his hand on
her back pushing her toward the stairs she could see a few
feet in front of them.

“And who’s with you tonight?” the host inquired in a ge
nial way, which nevertheless rang false to Bethia’s ears.

“Big Davey and Little Davey,” Mr. Rendel replied, his
tone of voice cutting off any further questioning.

“You can have both rooms on the left,” the landlord
called after them when they were already halfway up the
stairs.

Behind them the sound of men’s voices rose again,
louder even than before, only now it was interspersed with
raucous laughter. Bethia had no doubt that she was the
main topic of conversation.

The first room on the left already contained someone else’s portmanteau, but Mr. Rendel simply pitched it out
into the hallway, then shut and bolted the door behind
them.

To Bethia’s surprise the room appeared to be remarkably clean, and a comforting fire was crackling in the fireplace.
Sinking down onto the bed, she found it soft and inviting.
The bedbugs had apparently been her companion’s idea of
a joke.

“I shall have to spend the night in this room with you,”
Mr. Rendel said, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door. At the sight of him in his shirtsleeves,
Bethia again felt every muscle in her body tense up.

“It is not what I would wish,” he continued, “but I fear in
this case I must protect my own reputation.”

Sitting down in a chair by the fire, he began to pull off
one of his boots. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, too aston
ished to speak.

“If I sleep in your room tonight, everyone below will assume you are my doxy, and therefore no one will question
your presence here.” He pulled off the second boot and set
it beside the first. “But if you sleep alone, there will be talk from here to the coast, with everyone speculating as to who
you might be and why you are traveling with me.”

In his stockinged feet he came toward her as silently as a
cat. Pulling her unresisting to her feet, he untied her cloak
and lifted its heavy weight off her shoulders.

When he hung it on a second hook by the door, she
found herself watching with delight the way his muscles
rippled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

So this is seduction, she thought. This is what poets write
about—this feeling of fires igniting in every vein when he
looks at me—this desperate longing to have him touch
me—this aching need to feel his arms around me.

But Mr. Rendel showed no sign of wanting to hold her.
“I shall, of course, sleep in the chair,” he said, moving past her to resume his place by the fire.

He did not meet her eyes—deliberately?—and she could
not tell if he felt any of the pain she was now feeling. Seduction and abandonment—she had experienced both in the
space of a few minutes. It had all the makings of a farce
and would doubtless be a great hit on the London stage.

Unfortunately, she did not feel like laughing, and when
the landlord fetched them their supper, she managed to
choke down very little of it.

“This is the world I come from,” Mr. Rendel said when she shoved her plate away. “You would do well to think a
second time before you decide to marry me.”

“So this has all been a test?” she asked, her nerves too
much on edge for her to control her temper. “You deliber
ately brought me to this thieves’ den in order to dissuade
me from marrying you?”

“Lower your voice,” he said curtly, and in direct contra
diction to his earlier denial, it sounded very much like a
command.

Embarrassed by her emotional outburst, she bit her lip
and turned to stare mutely into the fire.

“Despite what you have obviously been imagining, the men below are nothing but honest farm laborers, relaxing
after a day of toil in the fields.”