Brighton Road (5 page)

Jarvis coughed softly into his napkin and
cleared his throat. "I could not help noticing, my lord," he said
diffidently. "Am I to wish you joy?"

"No, I am afraid not, Jarvis," Ravenel said,
his frown deepening. He took a large pull from his mug of ale, then
wiped his lips with a napkin, looking as though the brew had left a
sour taste in his mouth.

"Never you mind it, Master Des," Jarvis said,
just as he had done so many times before when his lordship's odious
cousins had refused to include him in one of their escapades. He
added, "There is many a young lady who would consider herself
fortunate if you—"

"I doubt that," Ravenel said with such a
bitter twist to his lips that it struck a dull ache in Jarvis's
heart. "In any event, I have not given up on Miss Carruthers
yet."

"Then you mean to go with the others to
Tunbridge Wells after all," Jarvis said. Despite the pain in his
head and his certainty that his master's pursuit of Miss Carruthers
was not the best thing, he brightened. His master did not enjoy
himself in the company of other young people half enough.

But Jarvis's hope was quickly dashed. "No, I
am still going straight on to Brighton. I told you that my man of
business is going to meet me there."

"So you did, my lord," Jarvis said,
crestfallen. Business, it was always business with Master Des. His
lordship had been drilled with a sense of responsibility far too
early in life, with never a chance to enjoy all the follies of
youth.

"Miss Carruthers will be in Brighton herself
within a sennight." Ravenel frowned again as though the prospect
did not entirely give him pleasure. He startled Jarvis by asking
him abruptly, "Have you ever proposed to a lady?"

"Me, my lord? Good gracious, no."

The baron looked rather disappointed. "Then I
suppose you have not the least notion how to go about it."

Regretfully, Jarvis did not. An inveterate
old bachelor, it distressed him to feel he could be of so little
use to his master on this score. After much thought, he ventured,
"I suppose the direct approach would be the best. Put the question
plain and proper."

His answer seemed to please Master Desmond.
"That's what I thought, too," Ravenel said, nodding his head in
satisfaction as though somehow vindicated.

"Aye, my lord," Jarvis continued. "If the
young lady cares at all about you, she should not need much by way
of persuasion."

The rest of his answer did not seem to
delight Master Desmond as much. As his lordship became lost in
another brown study, Jarvis bit back the urge to say, Forget that
blond minx, Master Des. Miss Carruthers was such a cold sort of
beauty with her pale-colored hair and winter-blue eyes. Master
Desmond needed a lady with all the riot and warmth of springtime.
But that was not the sort of poetic sentiment a dignified valet
should be expressing, not even if he had served the family through
three generations.

Ravenel tossed off the last of his ale and
then rose with his characteristic abruptness. "Well, Jarvis, if you
are done harassing that unfortunate beefsteak, we'd best be off. I
should like to make Brighton well before dark, especially since we
will be traveling alone. I have dismissed Dalton."

Over the years Jarvis had trained himself not
to show surprise. "Indeed, sir?" was all he said.

"Yes, the fellow was too impudent by
half."

Although Jarvis heartily agreed with him, he
yet felt a little disturbed by the tidings. It was not like Master
Desmond to act so quickly and out of hand. He should not like to
think his lordship's recent disappointment was starting to cloud
his judgment.

He stood up to follow Ravenel from the coffee
room, not looking forward to an afternoon of the hot sun beating
down upon his ahead aching head. But he had barely taken a step
when the floor seem to rock beneath his feet, the paneled walls of
the coffee room spinning before his eyes.

"Jarvis!"

He caught a flash of Ravenel's face gone pale
with concern. His lordship's strong arm eased Jarvis back into his
chair.

After a few moments with his eyes closed, the
world around him resumed its normal steady balance. " It is
nothing, my lord," he said. "Except a drop too much rum."

"The devil it is! The heat has been bothering
you again and you never said a word to me."

"Nonsense. Fit as a fiddle, I assure you."
Jarvis would have attempted to rise again, but Ravenel refused to
let him.

"Well, that settles it. We shall spend the
night here and go on to Brighton in the morning."

"Never, my lord," Jarvis quavered with
indignation. "Certainly not on my account."

"To own the truth, I am feeling rather
exhausted myself."

Jarvis knew a plumper when he heard one. He
could not remember the day his lordship had ever admitted to
feeling tired. Besides, Master Des had a trick of not quite meeting
one's eye when he was being less than truthful. However, before
Jarvis could protest, the baron rushed on, "Besides, I fear one of
the bays might be straining a fetlock. That was why I dismissed
Dalton—for neglect. No, I think we should all do better for an
afternoon's rest."

Jarvis grumbled, "Well, the bit about the
horse is a far better tale than that nonsense about you being
fatigued, my lord."

"Good. I am glad you liked it?' Ravenel
flashed one of his rare smiles. "You wait here a moment. I shall
bespeak rooms for us and see to it that the bays are properly
stabled."

"Master Desmond!" Jarvis made one last
attempt to protest, but the baron was already striding from the
room. He knew there would be no dissuading his master. Obstinate he
was, once he got a notion in his head, like all the Ravenels before
him.

Jarvis's shoulders slumped with dejection.
What a worthless old stump he was, delaying Master Desmond this
way. His lordship needed one of those smart young valets who could
keep pace with him and rig him out in dashing style, make that Miss
Carruthers suffer a few pangs of regret over trifling with Master
Des's feelings.

The bleakness of Jarvis's reflections
increased when he later peered through the coffeeroom window and
saw that the rest of Master Desmond's friends were departing for
their carriages. Although his lordship was there to bid farewell to
Miss Carruthers, she was too busy flirting with one of the other
young bucks to even offer her hand to be kissed. When the coaches
rattled away down the street, followed by the young men, laughing
and shouting, on horseback, all gaiety seemed to have fled with
them. Ravenel was left standing in the shade of the oak tree, his
hand raised in a gesture of farewell that no one appeared to
notice. Alone, Jarvis thought with a heavy heart. As ever, Master
Desmond was alone.

As the sun set over Godstone's red-tiled
roofs, Ravenel watched Jarvis light the candles in his bedchamber.
The room was comfortable enough as inn rooms went, with a large
four-poster bed, although Ravenel could have done without the
lavender scented sheets.

For about the dozenth time, the baron started
to pace, then checked himself, struggling not to reveal his
restlessness to Jarvis. He could have been in Brighton by this
time, he thought, then was immediately ashamed of himself. What did
one more day matter? He had already been inconsiderate enough, not
noticing that the heat had been making Jarvis ill. The valet had
been part of the fabric of his life for as long as Ravenel could
remember, as much a solid, comforting presence as the baron's
beloved home. He kept forgetting that the old man must be well into
his seventies.

Studying the elderly servant's face as he
laid out the baron's night things, Ravenel mentally applauded his
decision to break the journey. Jarvis was looking much better for
an afternoon spent resting within the cool confines of the inn.

The pinched whiteness about his mouth and the
lines of strain feathering the corners of his eyes had been eased.
The delay in his traveling plans was a small price to pay, Ravenel
reflected, to see Jarvis looking much more the thing again. After a
good night's sleep, the elderly valet should be restored to his
invincible, stately self.

Although he did not feel in the least tired,
Ravenel feigned a yawn. "Well, I think I shall be turning in early,
Jarvis, and I suggest you do the same. I hope to be off at cock's
crow tomorrow."

"Very good, my lord. I'll just polish your
Hessians and then—"

But the baron moved more quickly than the
valet and snatched up the soiled leather footgear before Jarvis
could reach them.

"There is no need for you to bother about
that. I will simply send them belowstairs to the boots. That is
what those fellows are hired for after all."

"The boots, my lord?" Jarvis gasped, his
features settling into an expression of dignified horror. "You
would trust your Hessians to a common servant at an inn?"

"Why not? You know I am no dandy, Jarvis. It
makes no odds to me whether I can see my face reflected back in a
bit of leather."

"But, my lord—"

"And," Ravenel continued, his eyes skating
away from any direct contact with his valet's outraged blue ones,
"It is now the fashion to have one's footwear sent down to be
polished by the boots."

It was a damned clumsy lie and Ravenel
greatly feared he was wreaking havoc with Jarvis's pride, but he
would not have the old man sitting up to polish the Hessians when
he should be in bed. The baron strode firmly to the door. Ravenel
flung it open, preparing to summon one of the inn servants.

Instead of one of the maids, he saw the lanky
figure of the boots himself just a few doors down the inn corridor.
The boots was squatting down to pat the head of a familiar black
and white dog, and standing next to him was an all-too-familiar
lady.

Good lord, Ravenel thought, freezing on the
threshold of his chamber. That Vickers woman was still running tame
at the White Hart. He had assumed her carriage had been repaired
and she had departed hours ago.

At the present moment, she was thanking the
boots for returning her dog. "I am pleased to hear that you think
Bertie such a friendly creature. Indeed, he is most sociable, but I
ought to warn you. I fear he has not been bearing you company out
of entirely disinterested motives."

The boots appeared as bewildered by this
strange statement as Ravenel himself, overhearing it. But he was
not going to risk another encounter with Gwenda Vickers merely to
satisfy his curiosity as to what she was talking about. He
attempted to step back quietly and close the door.

But it was too late. The incorrigible Bertie
had already spotted him. With a joyous bark, the animal came loping
toward him as though Ravenel were his long-lost master. The baron
braced himself for the assault, but handicapped as he was by the
Hessians still clutched under his arm, he had to endure several
licks sweeping from the tip of his chin up to the bridge of his
nose before he could collar the dog.

"Heel, you infernal hound!" he said as Gwenda
hastened over to intervene. "Miss Vickers, have you no control over
this wretched animal?"

"None whatsoever, I'm afraid," she said.
Ravenel thought she might at least appear a little uncomfortable to
encounter him again, considering the circumstances of their last
meeting. But far from appearing disconcerted, she seemed absolutely
delighted to see him.

"Lord Ravenel. This is splendid," she said.
"I thought you had gone. I was going to post it to you, but now I
shan't have to. Just wait here. I won't be a second."

Before the baron could protest or even
inquire as to what the deuce
it
was, Miss Vickers spun about
and raced off down the corridor. She was already whisking into one
of the rooms when it occurred to him that she had left him to
struggle with her dog.

"Miss Vickers," Ravertel fumed as her
bedchamber door clicked shut. The accursed dog was showing a strong
desire to bolt inside Ravenel's own room and make Jarvis's
acquaintance.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said, although it
took a great deal of his strength to dissuade the friendly animal.
He managed to ram his Hessians into the hands of the boots, who had
stood watching the entire scene with a huge grin on his face.

"Would yer lordship be needing a bit of a
hand?" the boots asked.

"No!" Ravenel said, having succeeded in
thrusting Bertie back along the corridor. "You just look after my
Hessians. I'll be wanting them first thing in the morning." And to
Bertie he commanded, "And you! Get along. Follow your
mistress."

Bertie whined. Wagging his tail, he gazed
soulfully at the baron. Hardening his heart against the dog's
mournful look, Ravenel retreated into his room and slammed the
door. He released his breath in a gusty sigh and proceeded to
straighten his cravat, which had gone askew in the struggle with
the dog.

He turned to meet Jarvis's questioning look.
"My lord, whatever is—"

But the elderly valet's question was cut off
by the sound of a light rapping on the door. The dog couldn't
knock. Ravenel assumed it had to be
her
.

He grimaced and closed his eyes. Would Jarvis
think he had run completely mad if he told the valet to pretend
that he wasn't here? No, it wouldn't serve. Nor could he permit his
venerable valet to open that door and be flattened by the exuberant
Bertie.

"Never mind, Jarvis," Ravenel said. "I'll
deal with this."

Cautiously he inched open the door, but there
was no sign of the dog, only Miss Vickers She appeared completely
unruffled, as though it was the most natural thing in the word for
an unescorted lady to knock at the chamber door of a strange
gentleman.

Balancing three slender leather-bound volumes
in her hand, she said reproachfully, "Lord Ravenel. You didn't
wait."