Brighton Road (15 page)

As Ravenel closed the door, shutting out the
patter of the rain, his soft curse echoed about the empty taproom.
Miss Vickers might be fretting and conjuring up all sorts of
faradiddles about their host's murderous intent, but she obviously
failed to see the true nature of their predicament.

They were apparently the only guests at the
Nonesuch and she was without any sort of chaperone or female
traveling companion. If it ever became known—and experience had
taught Ravenel that such mishaps usually had a way of leaking
out—there would be the very devil of a scandal. Her reputation
would be utterly ruined.

Not that it was in any way his fault, the
baron thought, but it was not precisely hers, either. The lady
could not help it if she had been born a Vickers, taught to hire
baritones for coachmen and French trollops for maids. But, blast it
all, no Ravenel had ever been involved in scandal, and he was not
about to be the first, If he had to, he would even---He shuddered.
No! He could not possibly be thinking of marrying Miss Gwenda Mary
Vickers.

"Your lordship?"

Ravenel's eyes flew open to find Mordred at
his elbow. The fellow did have a nasty manner of creeping up on
one. The baron had not even heard him enter the taproom.

"What is it?" Ravenel snapped.

"I was only wanting to know if I should be
preparing a room for your lordship and your sister?"

The baron battled an urge to smack the
suggestive leer from the man's face. It was obvious the innkeeper
had not believed the sister-brother Banbury tale. But, then, who
would? Ravenel wondered gloomily.

"Yes, we will require two rooms—one for
myself and my valet, another for the lady."

The man's eyebrows rose even in the face of
Ravenel's challenging stare, then Mordred merely shrugged and went
to carry out his lordship's bidding, leaving Ravenel to find his
own way back to the sitting room.

Just beyond the taproom, a pair of rickety
stairs led up to the second floor. In the corridor beyond the
stairs, he saw two doors but could not quite remember behind which
one he had left Gwenda. He tried the first one; the handle would
not turn. Before he could apply more force, he heard Bertie's bark
in the opposite room. He supposed this particular door led to the
kitchens or the cellar, but how strange that Mordred should keep it
locked.

The baron felt far too preoccupied to give
the matter more than a passing thought. As he strode toward the
other door, his mind revolved with schemes to render his situation
with Gwenda innocuous, more proper, to find some way to spare her
reputation without sacrificing his own sanity. But at the moment
his brain seemed too numbed with weariness to function clearly.

Rubbing his brow, he pushed his way into the
sitting room. Gwenda sat huddled near the fire, her bedraggled
skirts appearing to have reached the same state of semidamp
discomfort as his own garb.

Bert yipped with joy to see Ravenel, but his
lordship discouraged any warmer tokens of welcome. He forced the
dog to lie down on the rug before turning his attention to Gwenda.
Faced with the prospect that this woman might well have to become
his wife, Ravenel found himself studying her more intently than he
had ever done before. Of course, Gwenda could not be expected to be
looking her best under the circumstances. But that was the curious
thing. The baron, who had ever preferred a lady to be neat and
precise, thought that Gwenda had never looked more charming than
now, when her face was framed by a riot of curls drying into the
most tousled disorder. The heat from the hearth had brought a
becoming blush of rose into her cheeks; her green eyes reflected
the gold of the firelight. The soft outline of her mouth was enough
to invite any man to---

Ravenel checked his thoughts when Gwenda's
gaze shifted in his direction, almost as though she had felt the
weight of his stare. He flushed guiltily, then rubbed his hands
together in a too hearty manner.

"Well, the coach is on its way," he said in
what he felt was the most foolish manner possible. After all that
had passed between himself and Gwenda, why was he suddenly feeling
so awkward with her, so acutely aware of being alone with her? To
conceal this inexplicable attack of nervousness, he stomped about,
blustering, "That rogue Mordred has not done one thing to see to
your comfort. He could at least have managed a cup of tea."

Although Gwenda protested she wanted nothing,
Ravenel flung open the sitting-room door and bellowed for the
innkeeper. But his summons was answered by a youth who identified
himself as Rob.

"Mister Mordred bade me to wait you and the
lady," Rob intoned, like a child who has been taught to say his
piece by rote.

The lad both looked and smelled as though his
customary place was in the stables, but nonetheless the baron asked
what the inn could offer by way of a supper.

"Leg of mutton, fried rabbit or spitchcock
eel," Rob recited.

Ravenel did not feel as though he could quite
face a spitchcock eel, but he put in an order for the mutton.
Gwenda did not appear to notice what was taking place. She was so
unusually silent, he felt his own sense of discomfort increase. As
soon as the boy had scurried out of the room, Ravenel stole another
furtive glance at her.

He noticed the fear shading her eyes, the way
her hands trembled. Of course. She, too, must at last be realizing
the nature of their plight. He cursed himself silently for an
inconsiderate fool. So caught up in his own grim reflections, he
had given no thought to what Gwenda's must be feeling. Besides
worrying about the prospect of her own ruin, she might well be
harboring other terrors. After all, their acquaintance was brief.
She might be supposing him the sort of bounder who would take
advantage of this situation.

A rush of tenderness surged through him, a
protective urge to draw her onto his lap. No, what was he thinking
of? That would not be likely to reassure her.

Instead, Ravenel pulled up another stool
beside her and reached for her hands. Despite the fire, they felt
slightly chilled.

She gazed at him, her brow furrowing. "Oh,
Lord Ravenel, I have been thinking." Her lashes swept up so that he
was staring full into those ever-changeable green-gold eyes. He
wondered if it really would be such a terrible fate to have to wed
Gwenda Mary Vickers.

"Yes?" he prompted gently when she
hesitated.

"Do you..." She faltered. "Do you believe in
ghosts?"

"Do I what!"

This question was so far from anything
Ravenel had expected that he was torn between an urge to shake her
and to laugh aloud. He released her hands, saying,"I have never
given the matter of ghosts much thought."

Gwenda's eyes shifted anxiously about the
room. "What would you do if one were to rise up before you this
very minute?"

"I would tell it to go away. I object to
being haunted before I have had my dinner."

A reluctant smile quivered upon her lips,
drawing forth the most appealing dimple. "Aye, I daresay you
would."

Ravenel could see clearly what had been
taking place in his absence. When Gwenda should have been agonizing
over the prospect of her social ruin, the same imagination that had
fashioned the terrors of The Dark Hand had been busily at work
instead.

Before Ravenel could scold Gwenda for her
nonsense, a timid knock sounded on the door. It was Rob returning
to lay covers on the tea table. Ravenel was relieved to see that
although Bertie sniffed at the lad's thick hobnail boots, the dog
did not take the same exception to Rob that he had to Mordred.
Gwenda, however, was another matter. She regarded the stable boy
with an expression of horror.

When the lad had gone, she turned to Ravenel
and said, "You couldn't possibly be thinking of eating
anything!"

"Well, yes. That was largely my intent." His
lordship lifted the cover off one of the dishes. The mutton looked
overcooked, but he realized he was famished. He had had nothing to
eat since breakfast.

When he invited Gwenda to join him, she
vigorously shook her head.

"You must suit yourself, my dear," Ravenel
said, too weary to coax her and too exhausted to stand on ceremony.
He sat down at the table, but before he could raise one bite to his
lips, Gwenda rushed across the room and all but snatched the fork
from his hand.

"Don't! It might be poisoned."

"Miss Vickers—"

"No, truly! Pray listen to me, Lord Ravenel.
There are worse possibilities than ghosts. I have heard of obscure
inns where the unwary are lured in and poisoned or clubbed over the
head."

The baron leaned back in his chair with a
wearied sigh. "We were not lured in. The landlord did his best to
get rid of us."

"That's exactly what I mean," Gwenda said,
making his head nigh ache with her vehement illogic.

Still, he might have humored her and set
aside his plate, no matter how hungry he was, if he had believed
her to be genuinely distressed. But he detected a certain sparkle
in her eye and began to suspect that she actually enjoyed
terrifying herself with all these imaginings.

He wrestled his fork from her grasp and
stubbornly attacked the food on his plate. But it was difficult to
eat with any great relish with Gwenda on one side of him, looking
as though she expected each mouthful to be his last, and Bert on
the other, regarding him with pleading canine eyes.

Ravenel's appetite rapidly diminished. He
flung down the fork in disgust and lowered his plate for Bertie,
who devoured the remainder in two great gulps. The baron then had
to spend several minutes convincing Gwenda that he had not just
poisoned her dog.

The only tolerable part of the meal was the
surprising quality of the brandy, which Rob served after clearing
the dishes away. Ravenel had a hard time persuading Gwenda to let
him drink it, but the struggle was well worth it. He had not
sampled such fine spirits since he had drunk the last bottles he
had been able to obtain from France.

He wished Gwenda would toss off a bumper
herself. It would do her a world of good, help her to relax.
Ravenel feared if he did not soon give her something else to think
about besides ghosts and murderers, she would drive him to
distraction. If her mind worked in the manner of an ordinary sort
of young lady, he would not have to be racking his brains for some
way to make her understand the real problem that faced them. As it
was, he could think of no easy way to introduce the unpleasant
subject.

He set down his brandy glass and took to
pacing the narrow room. Unfortunately, Gwenda did the same and they
frequently had to come to abrupt halts to avoid colliding. The only
one behaving sensibly, Ravenel noted wryly, was Bert. The dog
yawned and watched their progress from a cozy spot where he was
curled up before the fire.

Ravenel stalked over to the windows, the sky
pitch-black beyond, but at least the rain had nearly ceased. The
carriage sent to rescue Jarvis would likely return soon. That would
be a great relief, but it did nothing to alter the situation with
Gwenda. Ravenel glanced over his shoulder and noted that the lady
had paused in her perambulations long enough to poke the fire.

How would she react when he told her she
would likely have to marry him? Gwenda was so unpredictable, there
was no telling. He hovered nervously near the pianoforte. He didn't
realize he had begun to plunk out a tune on the keys until Gwenda
replaced the poker and exclaimed in surprise, "I didn't know you
played. I never fancied that you would…I mean—"

"I don't." Ravenel said, quickly drawing back
his hand. "That is, I never had lessons. I play a little by
ear."

"But what a remarkable talent to waste. Why
did you never have a tutor?"

He shrugged his shoulders in a manner that
was a shade too offhand. A childhood memory he had thought long
forgotten surfaced in his mind: the stern uncle who had been his
guardian actually locking the door to the music room so that that
Ravenel could not succumb to temptation.

He unconsciously repeated his late uncle's
words. "Playing the pianoforte is not something the Baron Ravenel
is expected to know."

"But if you are fond of music, why not?"
Gwenda asked, looking thoroughly confused.

And so she would be, Ravenel realized. He
remembered her insisting,
"In my family, enthusiasm and dreams
and imagination have always been valued above your odious common
sense."

He suppressed a strange twinge of envy as he
tried to explain to her, "My being fond of music is all the more
reason I should avoid it. A man in my position cannot afford
foolish distractions."

He did not truly expect Gwenda to understand
this point of view, but neither was he prepared for the sympathy
that shone so warmly from her eyes.

It both embarrassed and disconcerted him. Why
the deuce should she be feeling sorry for him, when it was she who
was hovering on the brink of social disaster? He said, "There are
far more pressing matters for you to worry about than my lack of
music lessons, matters that do not seem to have occurred to
you."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that we have been
pitch-forked together in the most devilish manner. "You and
I—we..." To his annoyance, Ravenel felt his face growing red, his
tongue seeming to tie itself in knots.

"We what?" Gwenda asked.

Her air of bewilderment snapped the last of
his patience. He crossed the room and roughly seized her upper
arms. "Damn it, Gwenda. You have to marry me."

Her eyes widened; her mouth dropped open. She
had never found her imagination lacking before, but not even in her
wildest dreaming had she ever thought of Ravenel clasping her in
such a passionate manner, demanding that she be his wife. Nor had
she imagined what her own reaction would be. She blushed. She
trembled. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear her own
tremulous breathing.