Julia London (3 page)

“Message says to stay here overnight. Roads are bad,” he said with a grunt.

“Overnight?”
Mrs. Petty fairly shrieked.

Mannheim shrugged indifferently. “He left some coin and arranged for two rooms.” With that his head disappeared and the coach door slammed shut.

Mrs. Petty turned a murderous gaze to Abbey as if she had caused the foul weather. “I ain’t no nursemaid, miss. You got to fend for yourself,” she snapped.

Abbey raised one finely sculpted dark brow and, biting back the stinging rebuke that she had never been waited on in her life and certainly wasn’t going to start with the likes of her, answered coolly, “I am quite capable of fending for myself, Mrs. Petty.”

Mrs. Petty mumbled something under her breath before flinging the coach door open. Without a word to Abbey, she climbed out and began to stalk away, taking giant steps in the deep snow. Finally she turned and glanced over her shoulder.

“Well? Come on, then!” she snapped, and disappeared into the white haze.

Abbey sighed wearily, pulled her hood up and climbed down from the coach. She certainly hoped Michael would show himself
soon
.

Despite the heavy snowfall, the common room of the small inn was very crowded. A group of boisterous men was gathered around the dart board, while smaller groups of men and a few women were scattered about rough-hewn tables. The stench of ale permeated Abbey’s senses, as did the uncomfortable
notion that heads swiveled toward her and lips curled at the sight of her.

Mrs. Petty had stopped to talk to a rotund man with a red, rubbery nose and a dirty apron stretched across his ample belly. He bent his head forward, listening, then motioned toward the stairs with the three empty tankards he held in one hand. Without looking back, Mrs. Petty began to make her way up a rickety staircase. Abbey supposed she should follow, and lifting her chin, she marched past the ogling men at the dart board, wended her way through the crush of tables, and up the stairs.

The room in which she found Mrs. Petty was small and sparsely furnished. A single bed was shoved up against one wall, just a few feet from a charcoal brazier that provided the only heat in the room. A mound of dirty blankets was stacked next to the single chair. The only other furnishings were an old basin and a small, tarnished mirror. Abbey glanced at Mrs. Petty, who was standing in the middle of the room with her feet spread apart and her hands on her hips.

She returned a sidelong look at Abbey. “Can’t sleep on the floor. Got a bad back,” she announced, and tossed her cloak on the bed. The woman was beginning to grate on her nerves. Whoever this old goat was, Abbey suspected she had been paid well enough to see her to her destination and could at least be expected to be civil.

“I will sleep on the floor provided you tell me how far to Blessing Park,” Abbey said defiantly.

Mrs. Petty lifted her arms to remove her bonnet and shrugged. “Five miles, not more.” She tossed her bonnet onto the chair before stooping to stir the coals in the brazier.

“Is Lord Darfield there?” Abbey asked as she removed her cloak and draped it across the back of the chair.

“I told you, I don’t know. His
secretary
hired me on.”

Abbey turned to the little window and rubbed the stiffness in her neck. Why on earth was it was too much to ask where her fiancé was and when he would come for her?
Calm down
, she told herself. She had waited all these years; surely one
more night would not kill her. At least she certainly hoped it wouldn’t.

“Is he going to meet us here?” she asked hopefully.

“You ask a lot of questions, missy,” Mrs. Petty replied rudely.

Abbey groaned with exasperation, picked up the crone’s bonnet, and tossed it on the bed. With a frustrated sigh, she sank into the chair, righting herself when it swayed precariously with her weight. Mrs. Petty was busy with the brazier, and Abbey watched as she fidgeted with the thing, noticing how rough the woman’s hands were. She shifted her gaze to her feet, which were covered by a pair of old, cracked leather boots that looked as if they were as old as the woman herself. She felt a sudden, unwelcome pang of pity and could almost hear Aunt Nan urging her to be charitable. She was stuck with this woman at least for one night, and it would be to her advantage to befriend her.

“I’m rather hungry. Do you suppose they’d send up a tray?”

Mrs. Petty snorted derisively. “This ain’t no fancy inn. You got to go downstairs if you’re hungry.”

“Will you join me? I would rather imagine you are hungry, too.”

“It takes coin to eat at an inn,” Mrs. Petty mumbled.

“I have coin,” Abbey insisted.

Mrs. Petty peered suspiciously over her shoulder at Abbey. “Don’t want your charity.”

“It’s not charity. Consider it my thanks for seeing me through a rather trying day,” she said brightly, trying to make her expression as sincere as she could.

Mrs. Petty considered her another moment. “I ain’t no duenna,” she cautioned.

To Abbey, that suggestion was nearly as absurd as their present situation. “I really did not think you were, Mrs. Petty,” she replied. “Come on then, I’m famished. And do you know, I think I would like an ale. Do you like ale?” Abbey started to move toward the door, and from the corner
of her eye she saw Mrs. Petty stand and smooth her plain brown skirt.

“It ain’t proper for a young miss to drink ale,” she muttered disapprovingly as she patted her thin gray hair.

“Why, Mrs. Petty, that sounded positively like a duenna.” Abbey laughed as she opened the door, and when Mrs. Petty passed, she mocked a curtsey fit for a queen behind the sour woman’s back.

They were shown to one of two private rooms in the back of the inn. As they waited for the innkeeper to clear the table, Abbey noticed a man seated in the room next to theirs. He was sitting alone, his long, muscular legs stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He had one hand on a tankard, the other shoved in the top of his buff trousers. He was much better dressed than the other patrons, with a neckcloth tied simply at his throat and a brown brocade waistcoat beneath a tan riding coat. He still wore his hat, and since he was sitting in the shadows, she could not see his face. The only thing she noticed was the red glow of the cigar that was clenched between his teeth. Suddenly conscious she was staring, Abbey nodded politely, then crowded behind Mrs. Petty into the other room.

Abbey ordered two ales and two pies, and as they waited, she perched her chin atop her fist and eyed the very stoic Mrs. Petty. They sat in complete silence until the innkeeper brought the food. Only then did Mrs. Petty make a guttural sound and attack the food with a gusto that suggested she had not eaten in some time.

And the meat pie was awful. Abbey picked at it while she sipped her ale, choosing to rearrange the carrots to one side instead of eating them. When Mrs. Petty wiped her wooden bowl clean, she eyed Abbey’s expectantly until the young woman pushed it across the table to her. “Really, I am not hungry,” she said, but it was plain Mrs. Petty did not care if she was or not.

“I was expecting Lord Darfield to meet me,” Abbey prompted as she watched the woman dig into her second pie.

“That’s a laugh,” Mrs. Petty said with a mouthful of food.

Surprised, Abbey asked, “Why is that?”

“Well, to begin with, he’s a marquis, and a marquis don’t go to the docks to meet his visitor. The visitor comes to him.” Mrs. Petty spoke as if she were talking to an ignorant child.

“I see your point”—Abbey nodded politely—“except that I am not really a visitor.”

Mrs. Petty stopped her chewing and glanced up. “What are you then?”

“Why, I am his betrothed!” Abbey said with some astonishment. Surely Mrs. Petty knew
whom
she was escorting, but she stared at Abbey as if she had just announced she was the Queen of England and burst into laughter, revealing half-chewed food.

Abbey’s brows rose. “May I ask what you find so amusing?”

Mrs. Petty managed to stop long enough to swallow her food in one big gulp. “Ain’t every day a fine lass marries a rake,” she said sarcastically. “Then again, maybe you
ain’t
such a fine lass.”

Abbey sat back as if Mrs. Petty had just slapped her, but she hardly noticed the slur directed at herself. She was mortified Mrs. Petty would defame Michael.

“A
rake
? How could you possibly say such a thing?”

Mrs. Petty sneered contemptuously as she propped her elbows on the table, a knife in one hand and a fork in the other. “Let me tell you about your
marquis
. The Devil of Darfield is an outcast. He never leaves Blessing Park cause he ain’t allowed in any
reputable
establishment.… Why, he probably ain’t even allowed in
here
.”

Abbey started to tell the stupid woman that she had clearly confused Michael Ingram with someone else, but Mrs. Petty shook a fork at her and continued. “The whole town knows his father ruined the family name with all his gambling and drinking. Drank himself to death, he did. They say the devil set those debts to right by
pirating
—”

“Mrs. Petty! You are mistaken—”

“I ain’t mistaken about a bloody thing, you stupid gel! He
stole
his wealth, he did! Oh, that family lived in a high and mighty style to be sure, but in shame! He didn’t care. He kept right on pirating!”

“Mrs. Petty!”
Abbey gasped with outrage. “How could you say such a vile thing!”

“Then his no-good sister got with child by some scoundrel and ran off with him, and his mama, she was so distraught she
hanged
herself out there at Blessing Park. And what did he do? Took to the seas and pirated some more, till he couldn’t go nowhere. He’s an outcast all right! I’m surprised he ain’t been dragged off to Newgate by now.” Mrs. Petty stabbed a piece of potato and thrust it in her mouth and eyed Abbey with a look that dared her to disagree.

Abbey’s initial shock quickly gave way to fury. How dare this woman remark so bitterly on the most generous man in the world? She leaned slowly toward Mrs. Petty, who had gleefully resumed eating her pie. “You are very sorely mistaken. The marquis is an honest man, a gentleman, and a noble soul. The good deeds he performs in a single year would put both our lives to shame!”

Mrs. Petty snorted contemptuously and reached for her ale.

Abbey grabbed the tankard before her fingertips could touch it and pulled it toward her until she had the woman’s full attention. “I know how such awful rumors start. I think people naturally become a little envious when a man of such character and ability lives modestly among them. It’s almost as if one perceives their own inadequacies to be somehow pointed up by the unique qualities of someone such as Lord Darfield. But I assure you, he is not deserving of your malicious gossip. He is more of a man than the sum of those in the common room, and I will not allow you to defame him!”

Mrs. Petty growled and lunged for her ale. “Well, ain’t you a Miss Know-All? Look at you, fresh off the boat from America with those pretty eyes and that pretty hair, thinking you know all there is to know about the scoundrel! You are naive if you think your
noble
marquis is going to marry you. He
don’t believe in legitimate bonds! If he got you here by telling you he was going to
marry
you … well, then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for, and you’ll soon be on a ship bound for America in ruin, mark my words!” With that Mrs. Petty drained her tankard and slammed it down on the table for emphasis.

Abbey angrily gripped the side of the table and glared at the woman. “If you think so ill of him, Mrs. Petty, then I can only imagine you are escorting me out of the generosity of your own spirit, for
surely
you would not have accepted payment for services from such a scoundrel!”

The remark obviously hit home and brought Mrs. Petty up short; her mouth puckered as if she were eating a lemon. She slowly leaned across the table so that her face was only inches from Abbey. “Why, you miserable, no good little American
chit
! You’ll get what you deserve with that no-account scoundrel!”

Suddenly sickened by the sight of the woman, Abbey pushed away from the table and stood. “If you are
quite
through …” She was so furious she could not continue. She drew a ragged breath as she reached for her reticule and began to root frantically within it until she pulled out some coins, tossed them carelessly on the table, and leveled a reproachful gaze at her companion.

“You may say what you will of me, Mrs. Petty, but I dearly hope I
never
hear you defame Lord Darfield again, for I am quite certain I will cause you bodily injury. Now, I am going to retrieve my satchel from the coach and go to bed. Please have
another
pie and more ale. I would not want you to spread your vicious lies on an empty stomach,” she said, and turned abruptly from the table.

She was so livid she marched right into the middle of the common room without so much as a glance about and, with her hands on her hips, searched for Mannheim. Finally she spotted him across the crowded room, sitting at a table with the driver behind several empty tankards. He saw her at the same time and stood uncertainly, grasping the table for support.

“Something wrong, miss?” he asked when she had finally pushed her way through the crowd and to his table.

“Mr. Mannheim, if you would be so kind, I require a small green satchel I left in the coach,” she said stiffly.

The man slid his bloodshot gaze to the driver, who had yet to look at Abbey, and then back to her. He swallowed an ale-soaked belch as he seemed to consider her request and slowly let go his grip on the table.

“Yes, mum,” he muttered, and pushed past her toward the door. Abbey stood firmly rooted to her spot, her hands on her hips, and her chest heaving with each furious breath, oblivious to the chaos around her. Good
God
, she hoped Michael would come for her in the morning; her return to England was
not
getting off to a very good start.

As her temper began to cool, she gradually became aware that the din had lessened and had the awful feeling that all eyes were upon her. She turned slowly to look over her shoulder, her eyes widening slightly at the sight that greeted her. Several men at the dart board had stopped their play and were sheepishly staring at her behind the broad back of a very large, very ugly man. He was looking at her with a leer on his lips that made her want to poke out both his eyes. She turned to face him and folded her arms across her middle. The fingers of one hand drummed her arm as she angrily stared right back.