Brighton Road (17 page)

The baron brushed past him, grumbling under
his breath, "Blasted woman. Not one grain of common sense beneath
all those curls. But I know my duty."

Jarvis paused in his efforts to plump up the
pillows to study Ravenel anxiously. It was always a bad sign when
the master began to pace. And was the look in his eye a trifle
feverish?

"I trust you have not taken a chill, my
lord."

"No, Jarvis," Ravenel said with barely
concealed impatience.

If not ill, Jarvis concluded, the master was
in a devilish bad skin over something more than all these traveling
mishaps or the conditions of this dreadful inn. Jarvis knew his
lordship and Miss Vickers had not set out today on the most amiable
terms with each other. Still, Miss Vickers was such a good-natured
young lady. Jarvis could not believe she had plagued his lordship
with either tantrums or hysterics.

He cleared his throat and ventured
sympathetically, "It has been a most trying day, my lord. I daresay
you and Miss Vickers had a monotonous time of it, waiting here at
this rundown inn."

"Monotonous!"

To Jarvis's surprise and alarm, his lordship
halted in his tracks and emitted a bark of laughter. "No, Jarvis.
Miss Vickers might inflict many torments upon a man, but monotony
would never be one of them."

The words were no sooner out of Ravenel's
mouth than he wished he had returned a more noncommittal answer.
Jarvis was regarding him with renewed uneasiness, the scrutiny of
his still keen blue eyes probing deep enough to render the baron
mighty uncomfortable. He felt himself coloring and returned to
rummaging through his trunks, demanding what had become of his
tooth powder.

Jarvis located it for him in a trice. "I am
glad to hear my lord was not bored. I trust you at least passed
your evening with some degree of comfort?"

The valet's concern and curiosity irritated
Ravenel's taut nerves to the snapping point. He straightened,
brandishing his toothbrush. "If you must know, Jarvis, Miss Vickers
and I spent our time inspecting the food for poison and waiting for
ghosts to whisk down the chimney That is, when we weren't engaged
in shouting matches and chasing each other around the tea
table."

To say nothing of the kissing, he added to
himself, an surge of heat rushing through his loins at the memory.
And to think nothing of it, either, if he wished to get any sleep
at all tonight.

He continued, not giving Jarvis time to
register his dismay. "But I suppose these events will become
everyday occurrences when Miss Vickers and I are married. I shall
soon grow to regard them as commonplace."

If he had expected to shock the imperturbable
Jarvis, Ravenel was disappointed. Although the old man exclaimed,
"Marry Miss Vickers?" he appeared more worried than startled. "But,
my lord, what about Miss Carruthers?"

"Miss Carruthers? What the deuce does she
have to do with any of this?"

"I thought that you were wanting to marry her
only yesterday morning."

Yesterday morning? Ravenel marveled. Aye, so
it had been, and yet the scene with Miss Carruthers seemed as hazy
in his memory as though it had taken place in another lifetime. The
only part that remained clear to him was bending over that settle
and finding tumbled brown curls, abashed green eyes, a pixieish
smile. Was it truly only yesterday that Gwenda Mary Vickers had
erupted into his life? It seemed more like years since he had bade
good-bye to a sane existence.

He said curtly, "I asked Miss Carruthers and
she turned me down. So now I am going to marry Miss Vickers."

Jarvis's fine white eyebrows jutted upward in
disapproval. "Miss Vickers is indeed a charming young lady, but it
would seem your lordship's decision is rather sudden."

"Damnation, Jarvis. You of all people should
understand why I am doing this Honor demands it. I could not allow
her reputation to be ruined owing to this little escapade."

"Is not your lordship being a trifle rash?
Chances are that matters might be arranged so that no one would
ever know about this mishap."

Ravenel found himself unexpectedly irritated
by Jarvis's well-meant comments. "No, the affair is quite hopeless.
I must marry her, and that's flat."

"And what is Miss Vickers's opinion?"

As usual, Jarvis had an uncanny knack for
cutting through to the heart of the matter. The baron thought of
Gwenda's insistence that she would never wed him, and his mouth set
into its former obstinate line.

"Miss Vickers's impractical opinions are of
no consequence. She has no more choice than I. I will make her
marry me. I see my duty quite clearly."

With that, Ravenel flung down his toothbrush.
There was no water in the chipped porcelain basin, anyway. He
stalked toward the bed, the silence into which Jarvis had lapsed
becoming more unnerving with each passing second.

"Well?" Ravenel rounded on his valet. "You
never liked Miss Carruthers in any case. So are you not going to
wish me joy?"

"Not yet, my lord." Jarvis's cryptic remark
and sudden smile were both equally annoying. Ravenel decided he had
had all he could possibly endure for one day.

When Jarvis helped him out of his dressing
gown, he flung himself into bed. Catching the edge of the sheet, he
gave it an angry jerk and rolled over in accompaniment to the sound
of tearing linen.

"I am not going to marry that overbearing
man, Bertie," Gwenda declared to her dog, who was attempting to
arrange himself on the window seat. Silhouetted against the glass,
Spotted Bert issued a mournful whine like some hound of dire
prophecy.

Beyond the latticed panes, the moon made a
ghostly glow cresting the night-beclouded sky. Upon the nightstand,
a candle burned low in its socket. A draft whistled past the
window, causing the flame to waver, sending shadows leaping up the
dark-paneled walls of the chamber.

Amid the moth-eaten velvet splendor of the
bedcurtains, Gwenda tossed and turned on the lumpy feather-tick
mattress. The room must once have been the finest the Nonesuch had
to offer, but now its decay was worthy of any ruined castle whose
mortar had ever dripped from the ink of Gwenda's pen.

The door didn't latch properly, either.
Gwenda had discovered that earlier when she had answered a timid
knocking. It had been Rob bringing up the trunk with her meager
belongings, which Jarvis had had the forethought to see recovered
from the wrecked coach. After the lad had gone, Gwenda had realized
there was no way to lock the door, leaving her prey to whatever
might be creeping abroad tonight in the corridor.

Never in her life had she so much scope for
her imagination to run rampant, and never in her life had she been
so indifferent to it all.

Despairing of ever finding a comfortable
position, she sat bolt upright in bed, hugged her knees to her
chest, and complained, "Ravenel might have delivered the trunk to
me himself. Along with an apology. The effrontery of the man,
Bertie! The insufferable condescension. As though he were doing me
the greatest of favors. The high-and-mighty Lord Ravenel stooping
to wed one of the half-mad Vickers. As if I would ever consider his
proposal."

Did she fancy it or was there a rather
accusing gleam in Spotted Bert's eyes? Gwenda squirmed. "Well, I
might have been carried away for just an instant. When he first
spoke of marriage, he seemed so much like I had envisioned
Roderigo."

Gwenda closed her eyes and touched a finger
to lips, yet tasting of the passion of Ravenel's kiss. She groaned.
"Ohhhh! How can any man so positively stuffed with duty and
pomposity possibly kiss that way?" She pummeled her pillow in
frustration. "It isn't fair, Bertie. It simply isn't fair."

She ceased the assault when she saw some of
the feathers flying out.

Bertie gave a soft, reproachful bark. He
crouched down on the seat, burying his head beneath his paws almost
as though trying to shut out some of her grumblings.

"I do beg your pardon, Bertie," Gwenda said
bitterly. "Pray excuse me for having troubled you with my trifling
problems." She rolled over with one last parting shot. "But I'm not
going to marry that man. I'll be hanged if I do."

She drew the musty coverlet up to ears, but
with such thoughts churning in her head, it was some time before
she drifted off to sleep. Even then it was a most restless slumber,
with disturbing snatches of dreams.

She stumbled through the mist-obscured ruins,
pursuing an elusive, ever-familiar stalwart figure garbed in a
black cape…

"Roderigo," Gwenda groaned into her pillow.
"Wait for me, my love."

Running so fast, her heart seemed ready to
burst She could never quite catch up to the raven haired man or
make him hear her. Then, as from a great distance, she heard…
barking?

Gwenda tossed from side to side. Bertie! What
was he doing here at the castle?

Her dog was growling, attacking the edge of
the dark-cloaked man's cape. Gwenda staggered forward, begging Bert
to stop. No! Heel, Bertie, heel. It is Roderigo. It is…The man
turned slowly around. It was Lord Ravenel. His strong arms reached
out, the dark glow of his eyes seeming to draw her to him.

"Stop it," Gwenda mumbled. "You are not my
Roderigo. You are not."

It took every ounce of resistance she
possessed to wrench herself awake. She sat up, breathing hard,
brushing back damp tendrils of hair from her eyes.

"Damn that man, Bertie!" she gasped,
directing her gaze toward the window seat. "I told him ... I
did—"

She broke off, her words faltering. Although
the candle had long ago guttered out, the pale glow of the moon was
enough for her to realize the window seat was empty. Gwenda groped
about in the darkness, expecting to find Bert curled up at the foot
of the bed, but her hands encountered nothing but the rumpled
coverlet.

It was then she noticed the shard of light
slicing its way across the floor, light that emanated from the
crack where the door to her bedchamber stood ajar.

Gwenda's hands tightened on the sheet as she
hugged it to her breast.

"Bertie?" she called softly. There was no
answer. She called louder, a little more urgently. "Bert!"

Still no response. But it was nothing to be
alarmed about, she tried to assure herself. Bertie was frequently
given to nocturnal wanderings. He might have scented that black cat
again or¬Gwenda winced at a less comforting thought—or Mordred.

Shivering, she swung herself out of bed. She
located her wrapper and tugged it on over her nightgown. Padding
cautiously to the door, she peeked out. There was no sign of Bert
or anyone else in the corridor beyond. But someone had left a
candle burning in the old-fashioned wrought-iron wall sconce.

"Here, Bertie." Gwenda tried to whistle, but
she was so nervous she couldn't pucker. A heavy thud issuing from
the lower story of the inn nearly caused her to jump from her skin.
The noise was followed by the unmistakable creak of footsteps.

It must be well past midnight, she told
herself. Yet someone was up and stirring Someone or
something
.

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the
uncomfortable pounding of her heart.

"Blast you, Bertie," she whispered, wishing
the dog was safe in her room, wishing her room had a bar a foot
thick. Her gaze traveled toward a closed door only two down from
her own room—the door that Rob had informed her earlier led to
Ravenel's lodging.

But Gwenda could well imagine what the
baron's scathing comment would be if she roused him in the middle
of the night to go searching for Spotted Bert. As if she needed his
lordship's help in any case, she thought, stiffening her spine.

She was sure Bertie hadn't gone far. Most
likely that was him she heard below in the kitchens, knocking
things over, making a nuisance of himself.

"Won't I give him a dreadful scold when I
find him," she said with a quavery laugh. Ravenel was right about
one thing. There was not the least reason to be frightened. The
Nonesuch was nothing but a neglected old building.

All the same, Gwenda first took the
precaution of fetching her pearl-handled pistol from the trunk. She
set it to one side while she searched for something to put on her
bare feet, pleased to find that for once she had not mislaid her
slippers. Shoving her feet into the soft leather, she stepped out
into the hallway. With trembling hands, she removed the candle from
the sconce and used it to light her way down the stairs.

The wretched steps did have to creak so,
shrieking her approach to whomever might be lurking— No. Gwenda set
her lips resolutely. She could not allow herself to think such
ridiculous things. There was no whomever—only Bertie.

When she reached the lower floor, she raised
the candle and glanced nervously about. All seemed quiet and yet
...

The darkness itself, the inn's very walls
seemed to have taken on life. The hair prickled at the back of
Gwenda's neck. She could feel a presence, eyes watching her.

Then she heard another floorboard creak—and
she hadn't moved. "Oh, Bertie," she quavered. "Please let it be
you."

But the prayer had scarce left her lips when
a hand shot out of the shadows behind her, gripping her shoulder.
Gwenda screamed and spun about. She flailed the candle before her
like a sword, spattering hot wax on her knuckles.

The light flickered across Ravenel's brocade
dressing gown as he flung up one arm to shield his face. "Damn it,
Gwenda! Stop that before you set me on fire."

"Ravenel?" Gwenda sagged back against the
wall, just barely managing to steady the candle while she pressed
her other hand over the region of her wildly thumping heart.

His lordship cautiously lowered his arm.
"What the deuce are you doing here?"