Brighton Road (14 page)

"Hallo!" Ravenel called. "Is anyone within?"
His inquiry was met with nothing but the rain lashing against the
windows.

"No one is here," Gwenda whispered. She
looked for some sign that Ravenel shared her uneasiness, but his
lordship merely appeared annoyed that his summons had not been
answered forthwith.

"Of course someone is here," he said. "That
fire did not build itself."

What an unfortunate way of putting it, Gwenda
thought. She envisioned a pair of disembodied hands stacking the
wood. That was one of the dreadful things about having a lively
imagination, she had long since discovered. At times, it could be
most inconvenient. She could not restrain a shiver that had little
to do with the wet gown clinging to her skin.

"Come over by the fire," Ravenel said. "You
are soaked through."

"As if you are not!"

But he ignored her retort. Showing no concern
for his own discomfort, the baron proceeded to remove his drenched
coat from her shoulders. He undid the wet strings of her bonnet,
then tugged it from her head, brushing aside the damp tendrils of
hair from her forehead.

"There. Now perhaps you can start to dry
out—" Ravenel broke off as Bertie shook out his coat, spraying them
both with a shower of droplets.

"Blast that dog!" But there was more of
exasperated tolerance in his lordship's voice than any real anger.
Gwenda noted with astonishment that the irascible Lord Ravenel was
accepting this latest disastrous turn of events with much better
humor than either she or Bertie.

While her dog suspiciously snuffled one of
the benches, Gwenda's eyes roved about the room, coming to rest on
the mantel where a large, sinister spider was about to feast on the
blood of a beetle caught in its webbing.

" 'This place has an aura of evil about it,"
she said, quoting the heroine of her last book, "An odor of death
and decay.'

The baron sniffed the air and crinkled his
nose. "That's frying onions," he said. "I'll check the kitchens for
the landlord."

Before he could stir a step, Bertie flattened
back his ears, a deep-throated growl escaping him. Gwenda resumed
her grip on Ravenel's arm as the door at the end of the room began
to creak open slowly.

She sent up a silent prayer that the
Nonesuch's landlord would prove to be a round, jolly sort of fellow
like Mr. Leatherbury. Even better, he might have a plump,
apple-cheeked wife to fuss over Gwenda and chase all these
nonsensical fears out of her head.

But as the host made his appearance, wiping
bony hands on a soiled white apron, she let out a quavery sigh. It
could not be worse than if she had strayed into one of her own
novels. With stooped shoulders, a hooklike nose, squinty eyes, and
coarse black hair, the wretch might as well have had "villain"
inscribed all over his sallow skin.

"What's toward—" he started to snap with a
heavy frown but was cut off by Bertie. The dog charged forward,
barking and baring his teeth.

"Eh! Get back, you flamin' brute." The man
retreated and snatched up a cudgel from behind the bar counter.

"No! You monster!" Gwenda cried, rushing
forward as he threatened to bring the heavy wood crashing down upon
Bertie's head. "Don't you dare!"

But Ravenel moved faster, catching hold of
Bert's collar and dragging the snarling dog back out of harm's
way.

"Down, Bertie!" Ravenel thundered.
"Quiet!"

Spotted Bert stopped barking but continued to
growl. The hair at the back of his neck bristled as at the next
instant a set of whiskers emerged from behind the bar. A fat black
cat tore off for the kitchen at a waddling run.

The host stepped forward, brandishing his
cudgel at all of them. "Clear out! The pair of you and take that
slaverin' beast with you afore I bash his skull."

If Gwenda had had any misgivings about the
Nonesuch and its host before, Bertie's reaction to the man only
served to confirm it. "We shall be only too happy to do so," she
said, reaching for Bertie's collar.

"No we won't," Ravenel said, although he
released the dog to her care. "I have no intention of being thrown
back out into the storm."

He turned the full weight of his formidable
stare on the landlord. "If this is how you treat your customers, I
am not surprised to find your establishment empty."

"I'm closed today," the man grumbled, but he
lowered the cudgel. "And I never have aught to do with
beggars."

"We are not beggars but victims of a coaching
accident," Ravenel said in his most lordly tones.

"What's that to me? I don't repair coaches
here. Be off with you."

"We are not seeking repairs, but a place of
shelter. Then I need some horses and a coach to be sent to fetch
the servants and baggage we were forced to leave behind. The lady
and I will require some dry clothes, and later, a bit of
supper."

Gwenda, struggling to keep a grip on Bertie,
blinked at the baron in astonishment. He rapped out his commands as
though he truly expected this surly rogue to obey him.

"Lady?" The man's squinty eyes flicked over
Gwenda. "That's rich, upon my word."

Ravenel moved so quickly that Gwenda hardly
had time to gasp. He wretched the cudgel from the host's hands and
fairly lifted the weasely fellow off his feet by his collar. It
took all of Gwenda's strength to restrain Bertie, who seemed eager
to join his lordship in the assault.

"The
lady
," the baron repeated with
stony emphasis. "Is my sister, Miss Gwenda Treverly,and I am Lord
Ravenel. We are both accustomed to being accorded a little more
respect."

Although the man's gaze roved fearfully up
the baron's towering length, he choked out, "It wouldn't matter if
you was the Prince Regent hisself. There's nothing I can do for
you. This inn is closed."

"Perhaps I can persuade you to open it."
Ravenel released the man.

The host staggered, one bone-thin hand
snaking up to rub his unwashed neck. His lordship groped for his
waistcoat pocket. He took great pains to display both the chain of
his gold pocket watch and the ruby signet ring he wore as he drew
forth a thick wad of damp bank notes and flicked them.

Gwenda made a small sound of protest, which
went unheeded. She could not believe the sensible Lord Ravenel
could be so foolhardy. Did he not see the gleam of greed in that
villain's eye? Did he not notice the furtive licking of the
lips?

She bent down beside Bertie and huddled the
dog protectively closer. With a feeling of dread, she noted the
immediate change in the host's manner. Rubbing his hands together,
he purred, "Well, there might be somewhat I could do. Never let it
be said that Orville Mordred turned his back upon fellow creatures
in distress "

"Mordred? His name would be something like
that," Gwenda muttered into Bertie's ear. The dog let out a low
wuff as though in agreement.

Mordred scratched his long, pointed chin.
"Happen to have an ostler I could send off with my own rig to fetch
your servants,"

"Good. Make arrangements to do so at once."
Ravenel returned the money to his pocket, blind to all of Gwenda's
efforts to catch his eye, "And if you have a woman on the premises
who could attend to my sister---"

"Alas, no, there isn't." Mordred attempted an
ingratiating smile that revealed two brown stumps where his front
teeth should have been. "My missus was called away unexpected-like
to her mother in Leeds."

More likely he murdered his wife and stuffed
her up the chimney, Gwenda thought. That's why it didn't draw
properly. Feeling that she had kept silent for far too long, she
straightened and cleared her throat.

"My lord." Belatedly, Gwenda remembered the
relationship the baron had bestowed upon them. "Brother dear, might
I have a word with you?"

Ravenel looked startled, then quickly
recovered himself. "Oh. Er, certainly, my dear sister."

As he approached, Gwenda caught him by his
wet sleeve and tugged him closer to the fire. She stole a glance at
Mordred. Although the man appeared nonchalant enough, she could
have sworn the villainous rascal's ears grew by several inches in
an effort to hear what she whispered to the baron.

Gwenda kept her voice so low, Ravenel was
obliged to bend his tall frame to the point where the curve of his
cheek was but a breath away from her lips.

"Lord Ravenel, I must tell you the truth.
This was not the inn I was looking for. I have never been to this
place in my life."

"I rather guessed that, my dear." The baron's
brief smile would have been intolerable if not for the unexpected
gleam of tender amusement in his eyes.

Her pulse gave a little flutter, but she
ignored the sensation as she whispered urgently, "We cannot stay in
this dreadful place. That fellow is likely plotting to slit both
our throats."

"Miss Vickers! This is not the time to let
your imagination—"

"It is not my imagination. You have only to
look at that man to see what a scoundrel he is." She gestured
vigorously to where Mordred leaned against the bar, feigning to
remove some of the dirt from beneath his nails with a small
jackknife. "He has mean eyes and," she added, as a triumphant
clincher, "Bertie growled at him."

Ravenel sighed with weary patience. "Bertie
was growling at the cat."

"He was not. That was not Bertie's
cat-chasing growl. He—" Her protest was cut off by Ravenel's laying
his fingertips upon her lips.

"I perfectly agree with you, Gwenda," he said
gently, lowering his hand. "I am sure Mordred is a rogue, but the
worst I anticipate is his charging me thrice for whatever miserable
service he offers."

"But—"

"And we have no choice. The storm shows no
sign of abating and I am worried about Jarvis and the others with
only that broken-down coach for shelter."

"Oh. yes, the others," Gwenda said in a small
voice. A guilty flush mounted into her cheeks. She had been so
caught up in her own apprehensions, she had forgotten the
unfortunate circumstances in which they had left James, Fitch, and
the elderly valet.

Ravenel's hand enveloped hers in a reassuring
squeeze. "Trust me. Everything will turn out all right."

Gwenda trusted him completely. It was Mordred
she had her doubts about. But his lordship was correct. They had no
choice.

When the baron turned back to the landlord,
Mordred straightened immediately, all servile attention.

"I'll have a look at that carriage of yours
now," Ravenel said, "as soon as my sister is settled into a private
parlor."

"Alas, my lord, we don't have such a thing
here. But I would be only too pleased to let the young lady have
the use of my missus's sitting room."

All traces of his former insolence gone, the
host could not have been more cloyingly polite. But as Mordred
flashed her a crocodilelike smile, Gwenda thought she by far
preferred it when he was surly.. As the man bowed her through the
open doorway, she was reminded of the large black spider yet busily
spinning its web on the mantel.

Mrs. Mordred's sitting room proved a most
curious chamber, small and narrow. The cozy homespun rug,
overstuffed horsehair sofa, and battered tea table were jarringly
at odds with the collection of blunderbusses and muskets mounted
upon the wall. The sight of these weapons made Gwenda wish she had
had the foresight to bring along her own pearl-handled pistol.

The baron eyed the room with great disfavor
but said, "Well, at least there is a better fire here than in the
taproom. You stay close to the hearth and try to get some of the
dampness out of your dress. I will not be gone long."

"Of course," she said dolefully. Here Ravenel
was, preparing to leave her alone in the very heart of a murderer's
den, and he was worried she might be taking a chill But Gwenda
managed to put up a brave front. Only when the door had closed
behind his lordship did she rub her arms and glance about her with
a tiny shiver. Bertie was restless, too, sniffing in every corner.
He seemed to be particularly fascinated by an old pianoforte shoved
against the wall. When Gwenda drew closer to investigate, she saw
that the dog had discovered nothing more sinister than a mouse
hole. Next to it was a large workbasket, presumably Mrs.
Mordred's.

She must be a strange sort of woman, indeed,
for beneath the stack of sewing Gwenda could just make out the top
of a bottle of gin. Her mind began to conjure up images of
guilt-ridden consciences, murders ages old, perhaps someone walled
up alive in the chimney bricking, a family accursed, the present
generation driven to madness and strong drink.

With a sigh, she located a small three-legged
stool and ensconced herself by the blazing logs on the hearth.
There was nothing left for her to do but wait for Ravenel and allow
her imagination to run riot.

The baron stood in the inn doorway, anxiously
drumming his fingers as he watched the Nonesuch's ancient coach
lumber out of the stable-yard, vanishing behind dark sheetings of
rain. Never in his life had he found himself in such a quandary. He
had longed to return with the coach and seek Jarvis out himself,
but it would have been unthinkable to drag Miss Vickers back out
into the storm or to abandon her in such dubious quarters as the
Nonesuch.

At least the groom Mordred had produced from
the stable had seemed a sturdy, sensible fellow, kindly despite his
rough accent. But in this foul weather, even if the groom carefully
followed the directions given him, Ravenel could not expect to see
the carriage return with Jarvis within the next few hours.

Even if Mordred could be persuaded to hire
out the vehicle, it would be close to midnight before the baron
ever deposited Miss Vickers safely in Brighton. A heavy frown
creased his brow. Who was he trying to fool? There was no
possibility of traveling any farther this day. No matter what time
the carriage returned, his elderly valet was certain to be done in
by the afternoon's events, and there was also the footman's injured
ankle to be dealt with. No, he might as well face the fact. They
were all going to have to spend the night in this wretched
place.