Brighton Road (6 page)

Before he could reply to this accusation, she
added, "Have you got Bertie in there with you?"

"No, I most certainly have not!"

"Blast! Then I suppose he has gone following
the boots again." She added darkly, "As if I didn't know what
mischief that dog is plotting." She glowered in the direction that
Bertie had presumably disappeared.

The baron shifted impatiently. "Miss Vickers,
was there something you wanted of me?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, there was " His question
snapped her attention back to himself. Ravenel found himself
staring into her wide green eyes. He noted that they were not
precisely green. They had flecks of gold in them. Or was it that
she had golden eyes with flecks of jade? It was difficult to tell.
Her eyes seemed to have a trick of changing according to the
lighting and her mood. Also, she had the most absurdly long dark
eyelashes he had ever seen.

"... and I treated you very badly this
afternoon."

With a start, Ravenel realized Miss Vickers
was apologizing to him.

"I had no right to be eavesdropping and
thrusting myself into the midst of your affairs. It was abominably
rude of me."

"Miss Vickers, please!" The baron held up one
hand to stem this breathless flow of words. "I think the less said
of this painful matter, the better. I have no desire except to
forget it ever happened."

"But I cannot forget. Not until I make you
some amends. I have a gift for you and I hope you will accept
it."

A gift! Ravenel bit back a shocked
exclamation. Did this young lady have any notions of propriety?
"Really, Miss Vickers," he said. "I don't think that you
should—"

"Oh, please," she begged, extending the stack
of books to him with a wistful smile. Ravenel would not have said
Gwenda Mary Vickers was a beauty, but he was forced to admit that
she had an unusually appealing smile. It was not coy or of a forced
politeness; it was warm and genuine.

He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Well,
I…"

His hesitation was all the encouragement she
needed to eagerly thrust the books into his hands. With some
trepidation, he stole a glance at the title. The Dark Hand at
Midnight in Three Volumes, by G. M. Vickers. Good God! Ravenel
stifled a groan. Now he remembered Miss Vickers's peculiarity. She
wrote those blasted Minerva Press novels, which were all about
swooning women, family curses, men dashing about with swords and
ghosts and villains popping out of the wainscoting.

As the baron sought for some civil way to
thrust The Dark Hand right back at Miss Vickers, he felt something
brush against his sleeve and was startled to see Jarvis attempting
to peek past him into the corridor. Never in his life had Ravenel
known his valet to display such a vulgar emotion as curiosity

Gwenda Vickers dipped into a curtsy and
beamed at Jarvis. "Good evening, sir," she said. "I assume you must
be Lord Ravenel's uncle?"

"Why, no, miss."

"This is my valet," the baron filled in
drily. "Jarvis."

"Oh!" Miss Vickers did not look in the least
disturbed by her mistake. "How astonishing, for there is such a
remarkable resemblance between you. Although not the same color,
you both have remarkably handsome eyes."

It was the second time Miss Vickers had made
that idiotic remark about his eyes being handsome, Ravenel thought
irritably. It was high time this awkward and exceedingly improper
interview drew to a close. He supposed the quickest way to do that
was to graciously accept the wretched book. He shoved the volumes
at Jarvis and then turned to thank Miss Vickers in his most rigid
manner.

"Not at all," she said. "I only hope you
enjoy the book. I have marked one particular passage for you in the
second volume. It is where Antonio, Count Delvadoro, passionately
proposes marriage to Lady Emeraude."

"Miss Vickers!"

The lady seemed totally oblivious to his
warning growl.

"I don't mean to press the point," Gwenda
said, "but I really do feel you are in want of just a few
suggestions."

"Not from you!" Ravenel pressed his lips
together, waiting until he felt his rising temper was more under
control before he continued. "I beg your pardon, Miss Vickers, but
fiction is one thing, reality quite another."

"Pooh! Why should it be?"

"Why should it —" Ravenel choked. Then he
realized his mistake. He was trying to reason with Miss Vickers as
though she were a sane person and not a Vickers at all. He sighed.
"I shall try to find time to read the book, Miss Vickers. Now you
really should not keep standing about in a drafty inn
corridor."

"And if you will most particularly note that
one passage—"

"Yes, yes. Good night, Miss Vickers." He
eased the door closed, hearing her muted "Good night, Lord Ravenel"
through the heavy portal.

He stood by the door, listening for the
sounds of her retreating down the corridor. He frowned. A lady of
quality should not be wandering about alone at an inn like that.
For all of Miss Vickers's unusually forward behavior, Ravenel
sensed an innocence about her. The lady was clearly not up to snuff
and required some sort of a keeper.

In spite of a voice sternly reminding him
that it was none of his concern, the baron could not refrain from
inching the door open a crack and peeking out to make sure she had
gone safely back to her room. He saw Miss Vickers about to cross
her own threshold when her head snapped toward the end of the
hallway where the stairs led up from below.

"Colette!" Miss Vickers said in a tone of
mild exasperation. "I was wondering where you had gotten to this
time."

Colette, So Miss Vickers did at least have
some sort of a female traveling companion, Ravenel thought with an
inexplicable sense of relief. But his relief changed to dismay when
he saw the pert female who approached Miss Vickers. Damnation! It
was that French doxy he had caught practicing her seductive wiles
upon Dalton in the stables.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," Colette said. "I was
but fetching your warm milk from the kitchens."

She bobbed an insolent curtsy and handed the
glass to Miss Vickers. Something in the Frenchwoman's expression as
she followed Miss Vickers into her bedchamber disturbed Ravenel.
Colette's sinister smile would have done credit to a Lucrezia
Borgia.

The chit was obviously a person of no
character, a scheming lightskirt Miss Vickers ought to be warned
and— And what the deuce was he thinking of?

The baron closed his door, appalled by his
own fanciful notions. He was permitting his imaginings to run away
with him on the basis of witnessing one sly smirk, harboring
thoughts more worthy of the whimsical Miss Vickers than of his own
orderly mind. Ravenel passed a hand over his brow, wondering if
lunacy could possibly be contagious.

In any event, the lady and her maid were none
of his affair. He was trying to curtail all future acquaintance
with Miss Vickers, not entangle himself further with the lady.

The Dark Hand at Midnight
, indeed, he
thought contemptuously. He would make sure to instruct Jarvis that
those volumes should be conveniently forgotten when they left the
White Hart tomorrow.

But when Ravenel turned, he was appalled to
discover that Jarvis—that most correct and sensible of gentlemen's
gentlemen—had donned his spectacles and was already deeply
engrossed in Volume One.

The morning sun streamed through the windows
of Gwenda's room, patching the bed with squares of light. She could
feel the warmth upon her face, but she could not seem to force her
eyes open to confront the breaking of day. Nor did her limbs seem
to want to move, either. She felt as though she had been swathed in
cotton batting from head to toe with some of the fluffy whiteness
actually stuffed inside her head. A low groan escaped her lips,
some part of her mind registering the fact that she had just passed
a very strange night. It was not natural for her to sleep so
heavily, so deeply without dreams She always had some sort of
dreams.

With great effort, she managed to shift her
legs from beneath the coverlet. Something warm and moist was
licking the soles of her feet. Gwenda struggled up onto one elbow
and regarded the black and white blur at the foot of her bed
through bleary eyes.

"Bertie," she tried to call but hardly
recognized her own voice. When had her tongue gotten to be so
thick?

The dog stretched, then ambled along the
length of the bed. She patted him, coming slowly more awake as he
nuzzled her.

"That'll do, Bertie." She chuckled when his
rough tongue tickled her ear. She caught the dog's head firmly
between her hands and mumbled, "I trust you will be a good dog
today and behave more civilly if we chance to meet Lord Ravenel
again."

Bertie gave a sharp bark as though he
understood.

She yawned, scratching his ear. "Aye, like
all rogues, you are most quick with your promises, sir."

She knew full well Bertie would conduct
himself as outrageously as he always did. Not that it mattered.
There was little likelihood they would see Lord Ravenel again. Even
if he hadn't gone, she sensed that his lordship would dodge her
company. Why could she simply not leave him alone? It was one of
her own principles to rigorously avoid any gentleman with too much
starch in his collar. She had often found it denoted a most
humorless outlook on life.

She might certainly have put Ravenel down as
the stuffy lord he appeared to be, striking eyes or no, if she had
not chanced to be walking toward the front of the inn at a
particular moment yesterday afternoon. It was then that she had
seen Ravenel as he stood and waved good-bye to Miss Carruthers. He
must be more in love with the lady than Gwenda had at first
supposed, for he had appeared not so much high in the instep as
unhappy and vulnerable. Gwenda's intuition told her that Lord
Ravenel was a lonely man, and she could not bear to see anyone left
lonely. But what could she do to alter Ravenel's case? He was
obviously not the sort of man to accept anyone's advice.

"I doubt my interference did any good at all,
Bertie," Gwenda murmured to her dog. "Most likely he used my book
to light the fire as soon as I was gone, and the next time he woos
Miss Carruthers or any other lady, he'll make the same mistakes all
over again."

Gwenda sighed, then shrugged. At least she
had the satisfaction of knowing she had tried. She swung her legs
over the side of the bed. Through eyes yet dulled with sleep, she
squinted at the small china clock ticking on the mantel. Good
heavens! Five minutes after the hour of nine. If that time were
correct, then the morning was more advanced than she had at first
supposed. She was not ordinarily a late sleeper.

"Colette?" Gwenda called, stretching her arms
over her head and suppressing another yawn. She spoke more sharply
when she received no answer. "Colette!"

There was still no response from the
adjoining chamber.

"Rot that girl. Sleeping in again and deaf as
a post besides. I tried to tell Mama she would never do."
Grumbling, Gwenda pushed herself to her feet and was surprised to
feel that her legs were a little wobbly. Even the swat of Bertie's
tail against her calves seemed enough to unsteady her. She
staggered to the white porcelain washbasin She strained to lift the
heavy pitcher and splash a small quantity of water into the
bowl.

Taking a deep breath, she heroically dashed
some of the cold water onto her face. Although she gasped with the
shock, it felt good, setting all her pores a-tingle, and driving
off the last wisps of fog that clouded her brain. As she reached
for a linen towel to dry herself, her gaze fell on a soiled glass
left on the nightstand.

Her nose crinkled at the curdled remnants of
the milk she had drunk last night. Beastly stuff. She would not
have bothered with it if Colette had not pestered her so. The milk
had had the most peculiar undertaste. She must remember to speak to
Mr. Leatherbury about it.

But the first order of business was to rouse
Colette to help her dress, then make inquiries as to whether that
dratted coach brace had been mended.

Gwenda shuffled barefoot across the carpet to
the door of the small chamber that adjoined hers and rapped loudly.
"Colette!" This time she did not wait for any response before
unceremoniously shoving the door open. The sight that met Gwenda's
eyes momentarily drove all thoughts of her errant maid from her
head. She gave a tiny gasp and stood frozen in the door frame

Her portmanteau, which had been arranged so
neatly along the wall of Colette's room, were now tumbled about the
room. The lids were flung open, the trunks empty except for a few
trifling articles of clothing strewn over the floor. It took
Gwenda's stunned senses a few moments to recover before her mind
assimilated the truth.

"I've been robbed," she said, a sick feeling
striking in the pit of her stomach. But how and when? She could not
forbear a nervous glance about her as though she might find the
thief yet lurking behind the curtains or beneath the bed.

No, she was being nonsensical. The deed had
obviously been done under cover of night. She bent down and righted
the small casket that had contained her jewels, now distressingly
empty.

Her shock slowly faded, with anger taking its
place. "The wretched villain," she cried, "sneaking in here while I
slept but yards away." The mere idea of such a thing caused a
shiver to work its way up her spine.

She turned to glare at Spotted Bert. "And
you, Bertie! A fine watchdog you are! It would not surprise me if
you had licked the villain's hands and then helped retrieve things
to put into his sack."

Bertie cocked his head, appearing confused by
the reproachful tone.