Rogues and Ripped Bodices (13 page)

A
Reckless Rake

Seven
Years Later

The cabriolet barrelled along
the old country road, a blur of yellow and black against the green hills,
seeming to hit every stone and bump. It kicked up dust as it went. Eleanor
found her heart in her throat as she pushed her horse to keep up. The weather
had stayed dry for over a week now, leaving the roads solid and powdery. Would
the occupant push the vehicle so recklessly on wet ground?

Knowing the occupant, likely
so. He had always been reckless. She doubted seven years had changed him.
Drawing in a breath and giving Blossom a tap to her flanks, she urged the horse
on and prayed her riding hat did not fly from her head. If any of her
acquaintances saw her now, they would not believe their eyes. Of course, she
had left them all behind in France. None of her old friends from England would
be surprised to see her in disarray with her hat falling from her head and her
curls springing from her head like a jack-in-the-box.

Nor would Lord Lucian Deverill,
Viscount of Rushbourne. He had always thought her a mess, she knew that much.
What a shame it had taken her so long to realise that all those long looks had
been looks of disgust, and not admiration. And now fate had thrown them
together once more by way of her late husband’s business dealings.

If
she
ever caught up with him. She was at a disadvantage with her side saddle and
only one horse. His two horses could outrace her with ease, but she had it on
good authority that Lord Rushbourne liked to stop at a pub at the crossroads on
his journeys out. The housekeeper had taken pity on her when she had been
turned away from the Rushbourne estate for the third time with claims the
viscount was not around. More likely, he refused to see her. He would not even
answer her letters.

She wouldn’t be dismissed so
easily this time.

The ramshackle tavern—The Eight
Bells, the housekeeper had informed her—came into view. From far away, it was
pretty. Perhaps even twee. But as she drew closer, signs of neglect began to
show. The stone wall around it was worn and crumbling. The windows needed new
paint and the sign only had two bells on it. The rest were worn away by poor
weather, leaving no more than a few flecks of paint.

Such was the unforgiving nature
of the Yorkshire countryside. While the rare spot of sunshine warmed her
through her mauve riding jacket, nothing could keep out the winds that normally
blustered along the open stretches of land. It smoothed the rocks and pushed
the dust into hills. Not even nature could compete with such weather, let alone
an inn created by man’s hands.

Eleanor’s sense of misgiving
vanished as she spotted the cabriolet parked around the side of the building
near the stables. The horses were gone, presumably being tended to by a stable
hand. Lucian had to be inside.

She spotted the stable boy
whose brows rose under his flat cap when he saw her. He hastily pulled out a
set of steps and placed them beside her as she brought her horse around the
dilapidated wall. Shoulders straight, chin lifted, she pretended she had an
audience of thousands and slid from the horse with grace.

It took every ounce of her
concentration to do so. None of it came naturally to her. Every movement had to
be carefully planned or it was likely she would spill onto the ground at any
moment. A task as simple as walking proved difficult for Eleanor. Not even a
title such as countess could change her clumsy temperament. One would think
after seven years of pretending to be elegant and graceful, it would be second
nature, but alas it was not.

“Will you feed and water her,
please?” she asked the boy before digging into her purse and withdrawing a
shilling to press into his grubby palm.

His eyes widened at the sight
of the money and Eleanor concluded the patrons of the inn were likely usually
travellers on foot or locals. She had spied no other horses around, indicating
most customers were poor and this was not on a well-travelled route. Those
journeying down the country to London would take the better roads whilst those
on foot might prefer the direct cut across the moors.

Blossom didn’t really need any
food or water. The inn was only some three miles from Hawthorne Hall, but who
knew how long she might be here. If she tracked down Lucian, she had high hopes
of speaking with him about the shares she had in his printing factory and how
she might play a role in the business. Her late husband owned a large
percentage of his business in Lancashire and as such, she hoped her opinion
might be heard now those shares had been passed over to her.

A wave of grief washed over her
at the thought of Edward being gone. She had been out of mourning for five
months now and in England for three of those. It had taken her a while to make
arrangements to tie up all her loose ends in France. She had let their home in
Paris, not seeing a reason to keep it empty. She couldn’t see herself returning
to the place where she had nursed Edward through the last months of his life.
He had been a dear old man and a good friend. Life without him seemed really quite
lonely.

Eleanor huffed out a breath and
eyed the open doorway of the inn. Low rumbling voices and the occasional burst
of male laughter reverberated from inside. Shadows haunted that chipped
doorway. Scuffs of wood had splintered off the doorframe and she suspected the
damage could well be from brawling and customers being thrown out, rather than
mere weather damage.

Her heart thrummed in her
chest, making her legs jelly-like and threatening to send her feet out from
underneath her as they were so often want to do. She checked her hat, adjusted
her jacket and tightened the loop of her purse around her wrist.
Eleanor
,
she told herself,
you have travelled far and wide
. She had seen the
deserts and the mountains, encountered people from all walks of life. A few
shabby patrons would not daunt her.

And nor would the viscount.

The odour of ale and unwashed
bodies washed over her as she stepped inside. She fought to keep from wrinkling
her nose. This was a two room establishment by the looks of it with no separate
dining area. Just two rooms—one to the left and one to the right. She could see
in both from the doorway and both looked as drab as the other. Which one would
Lucian be in and why was he stepping foot in such a place?

Why was she?

Because she had no other
choice, she reminded herself. How else was she to speak with the man?

On an impulse, she stepped
left, ducking beneath the old wooden beam that had tattered old notes pinned
across it. She eyed the currency, noting many of them were from places far and
wide. She recognised some of them from her travels.

Before Eleanor could wonder at
the people who had brought these notes from all over the world, someone knocked
into her. The stout man doffed his cap and grinned before swaying past her. He
sloshed some ale on the floor and it splashed her shoe. She tried not to utter
an exclamation for fear of drawing attention to herself, but apparently it was
too late. When she peered around the dimly light room, she noted every set of
eyes were upon her.

She swallowed the knot in her
throat that was trying to strangle her and clutched her purse tighter. Then she
brushed past the men at the wooden bar in the hopes of reaching the back of the
room to see if Lucian was there. Disappointment weighted her heart when she managed
to ease herself to the rear of the bar and gaze around. He was not even sitting
by the lit fire or at any of the several benches lining the room. She squinted
at the occupants in case she had mistakenly discounted one of them and saw them
all staring back. None of them were Lucian to be sure. They were all hunched,
grubby looking fellows in shabby clothes, and with expressions of varying
degrees of exhaustion on their faces. It might have been a few years, but even
time could not have spoiled Lucian’s looks to that degree. The man always had
been a handsome devil—something of which he was thoroughly aware.

“Can I get you a drink, miss?”

Eleanor jolted as the innkeeper
appeared at her side, only separated from her by the scratched wooden bar. He
wiped his hands down his apron and smiled. She smiled hesitantly back. There
was nothing untoward in his expression. Most likely he saw a profit in her, but
they both knew she didn’t belong here and really should not have even stepped
foot in the pub.

“I...” What did one drink in
such a place? Was it even safe to drink the ale? “An ale?”

He nodded with satisfaction and
drew her an ale. The drink sloshed over the sides of the dented tankard and she
handed over a coin. His grin widened as he pocketed it. She had no idea how
much one paid for a drink in these sorts of places but apparently she had paid
too much.

The innkeeper waited and
Eleanor realised she’d have to take a drink. Gingerly clasping the pewter
handle, she lifted the drink to her lips and tried not to grimace. She took the
tiniest sip and in spite of the bitterness of the drink, she used her finest
acting skills to pretend it was the best drink she had ever tasted.

“Thank you,” she said quietly
as he nodded with satisfaction. “Tell me, have you seen Lord Rushbourne? I
thought I saw his vehicle outside.”

“I’ve not seen ‘im, miss, but
he may be in the backroom.” He thrust a finger towards the room behind him. The
room on the right. “My wife is serving in there today.”

She nodded and contemplated the
ale. Should she leave it? Take it with her? She lifted her gaze to the
innkeeper to see he had gone and was serving another man at the end of the bar.
She knew everything there was to know about etiquette in the finest households
but the etiquette of a simple traveller’s inn was far beyond her. 

Before she could make her
decision, a whiff of an unwashed body reached her nose. She failed to stop the
automatic wrinkling of her nose. A man, his cap worn and battered and his shirt
tied loosely at the neck to reveal a great chest of hair, propped himself on
the bar next to her. His arm brushed hers and he winked.

While she was trying to school
her reaction, another man came to the other side of her and hemmed her in. She
backed away only to smack into a solid wall of muscle. Quivering, she turned
and had to close her eyes briefly and pray it was the body of a saviour.

This was no hero but a tall,
wide-set man with brawny arms and crooked teeth. He grinned down at her, and
she had to crane her neck to eye him. Had she not learned long ago that heroes
did not exist? Foolish girl. He stepped forwards so that she was slotted
between all three of them. She clutched her purse and mentally counted how much
money she had. If they wanted it, fine, as long as they left her person be.

She tried to peer over the man
beside her to get the innkeeper’s attention but apparently he had found
somewhere else to be at that point. Intentionally? Or had the men been waiting
for him to go before striking?

“W-what do you want?” Lord, she
hated how fragile her voice sounded. Years of travelling the world and she
still quaked like a leaf in the wind when confronted by strangers.

“Are you lost, miss?” the man
to her right asked and plucked at a button on the sleeve of her jacket.

“N-no, not lost, but I fear I
should be going.” Eleanor clutched her arm to herself. “If you would not mind
stepping aside...” she said to the tall man blocking her path.

He remained in front of her,
his arms folded across his chest. “I don’t think so. Not often we get a fine
lookin’ lady like yourself in the Eights. We wouldn’t mind enjoying your
company for a little longer.”

Eleanor pressed her hands to
her stomach in a bid to quell the nervous butterflies. Butterflies? No, more
like bees. A swarm of angry, stinging bees, just jabbing at her insides. She
had to get out of here before she did something foolish like swoon. Her corset
had already grown too tight and greyness began to cloud her vision.

“I really must be leaving. I
bid you good day.” She tried to step past the wall of muscle that counted for a
man but found herself pushed back.

Eleanor stumbled into the man
at the end of the bar and he laughed before snatching her hat from her head. It
tore the pins from her head and her hair spilled around her in crazed curls.
She whirled and tried to snatch it from him but he only laughed and held it
away from her.

“This will do nicely for my
missus,” he said. “I’m sure a fine lady like yourself has plenty of other
hats.”

“That is mine,” she replied.
“Give it back.”

Her words might have sounded
petulant or even angry were it not for the breathless quality to her voice.
Then the larger man closed in on her and dots began to swim in front of her
eyes. Oh no. She was going to faint. She’d suffered the hottest climates, the roughest
seas, and the most frightening encounters with natives, yet she had never
fainted. Now, here, in a small English inn, she was going to faint and these
men would be able to do whatever they wanted with her. She put a hand to the
bar and swayed forwards, fully expecting the floor to rush up and meet her.

Then the strangest thing
happened. A set of muscular, warm arms scooped her up.