The Frost Fair (4 page)

The woman blinked. “Buy it? And the 'orses, too? Ye must be daft.”

“Not at all,” Meg said grandly, her panic disappearing. At such times it was quite satisfying to feel the power of wealth. “Shall we say three hundred pounds?”

The old farmer choked. He'd always known that city folk were extravagant, but this one was beyond all. “Yer cracked in yer noggin,” he croaked gleefully.

“Three 'undred?” the woman asked in disbelief. “Y'ain't even seen it!”

“Is it a closed carriage? If it is, then I care about nothing else. I will, of course, look over the horses. Have we a bargain?”

The woman hesitated. She would be making a substantial profit if she accepted the offer, but she would have to be without a carriage for some time. “Let's see the color o' yer cash,” she said, her eyes narrowed.

“Well, of course, I don't carry such an amount with me,” Meg explained cheerfully as she opened her reticule, “but I can give you twenty sovereigns and my vowels for the remainder—”

“Vowels?” asked the woman, frowning suspiciously.

“My note, you know. I'll send my man of business to redeem it as soon as I return to London.”

“Note?” The woman laughed scornfully. “You must think I'm daft as you! I ain't givin' up my carriage fer a
note
!”

Meg looked up with renewed alarm. “But you must—”

“Cracked in 'er noggin,” the old fanner repeated, nodding to himself.

“You don't understand!” Meg gritted her teeth in impatience. “I'm Margaret Underwood. My note is my
bond
.”

“Ye don't say!” the woman sneered. “Yer bond, eh?”

The old man uttered a hiccoughing laugh. “'Er bond!”

“Yes, my bond! My note is as good as gold, I promise you,” Meg assured her urgently.

“Nuthin's as good as gold,” the woman said bluntly. “Gold is gold, and promises is promises. I ain't givin' up my carriage fer no promises.” She turned her back on Meg. “Want another pint, gaffer?” she asked the old man.

“Don't mind. Listenin' to city folk do make un' chuckle so, it brings on a bit o' thirst.” The old man grinned.

Meg pressed her lips together to keep herself from bursting out with an angry, unladylike retort. Instead, she took a few impatient strides about the room, wondering anxiously what on earth she would do next. Her eye fell upon the man seated near the window. There was something about him—the quality of his coat, the deferential way the woman had treated him—that proclaimed the gentleman. Perhaps he might help her.

But something made her hesitate. Although the man was impressively tall and strongly built and had a face of decided character, he had so saturnine an air that she was momentarily put off. She continued her pacing while she regarded him surreptitiously.
What sort of man was this?
she wondered. He looked out of place drinking ale in so unpretentious and sequestered an establishment. With his short-cropped hair (which, although shot with grey, was thick and vigorous—the man couldn't be much beyond thirty-five years of age) and well-cut sporting coat, he'd have looked more at home in a hunting lodge with a glass of port in his hand.

In normal circumstances, she would have been completely indifferent to his presence. He was obviously country gentry—quite beneath her touch; in other circumstances she would have cut him completely if he'd attempted to speak to her. It went quite against the grain to approach him, but she was desperate for some assistance. If only the man were not so resolutely absorbed in his paper and ignoring everything else …

However, she had no time for leisurely contemplation and maidenly shyness. Aunt Isabel was probably beside herself with impatience by this time. Squaring her shoulders, she approached the man's table. “I beg your pardon, sir—” she began.

A pair of cold, dark eyes lifted from the page. The man's mouth seemed to tighten, and his breath expelled with what was unmistakably a sigh of resignation as he reluctantly pulled himself to his feet. “Yes?”

His obvious displeasure did nothing to make the situation easier for her. She felt herself flush. “I … er … know this is rather awkward, but I find myself in some difficulty. My name is Margaret Underwood …”

“Yes?”

The cool monosyllable was like a dash of cold water to the face. It took all her courage to proceed. “Well, you see … Dash it all, you
must
have overheard what passed between barmaid and me.”

“You mean Mrs. Perkins. No, I did not overhear. I don't pay attention to women's wranglings.”

Meg was completely taken aback. The man was positively icy. Almost any gentleman she'd ever encountered would have jumped at the chance to act the gallant for her. What was the matter with this one? But she had gone too far into the conversation to withdraw now. “It is
not
women's wranglings,” she said, trying to keep the signs of annoyance from her voice. “It's a matter of business. I don't think Mrs. Perkins understands about monetary notes. Since you seem to be a gentleman of some substance, and since you and Mrs. Perkins are acquainted, I wonder if you would be so good as to explain to her that it is perfectly safe to accept a note from me in the amount of—”

“No, ma'am, I shall not be so good,” the gentleman cut in flatly.

Meg couldn't believe her ears. “Wh-what?” she stammered.

“I don't care to involve myself, ma'am.”

“But … it's only the smallest sort of involvement, I assure you,” she explained, feeling as if she'd stumbled into what was either a nightmare or an asylum for the insane. “You see, I am Margaret Underwood—”

“Yes, you said that.”

“
Lady
Margaret Underwood—”

Behind her, Meg heard the barely muffled snickers of Mrs. Perkins and her “gaffer.” The old man sneered, “Lady indeed!”

Meg ignored them. “Of the Underwoods of Suffolk—”

“Yes?” the gentleman queried with a barely masked lack of interest.

“My father was Edward Underwood. Surely you've heard of him? The fifth Earl of Barringham?”

“It would make no difference if I had.”

She would have liked to hit him! The man was completely unreachable. “Are you just going to stand there and do nothing to help me?” she exploded in disgust. “Surely you must see that the vowels of the daughter of the Earl of Barringham are good anywhere in England!”

“Yes, they may well be,” he said, quite unimpressed.

“Then won't you
please
tell Mrs. Perkins so?”

“I've already told you that I don't care to interfere in the bickerings of females. Please excuse me.” And with a curt nod, he sat himself down and immediately absorbed himself in his newspaper.

Meg stood rooted to the spot. The impudent fellow had actually had the temerity to seat himself while she remained standing! Had she been a man, his behavior would have given sufficient cause to call him out!

The other two in the room were snickering behind her back. Meg felt her face redden in humiliation and chagrin. She glared at the seated man with venom. Never had she met anyone so lacking in gallantry. No,
worse—
the fellow was completely lacking in human
feeling
! He deserved to be horsewhipped … flayed till he bled! She would have liked to strike him down and stamp him into the ground with her heel! Her glare was so smoldering it should have burned the back of his head, but the maddening creature paid no heed. He merely turned a page with deliberate care and continued to read.

She let out an explosive, hissing breath, put up her chin and stalked out of the taproom, out of the inn and out of the sight of them all. Never, she swore to herself, would she step into the Horse With Three Tails Inn again—not as long as she lived! Not even if she had to sleep in the snow and freeze to death!

The sight of the snow-covered innyard gave her a momentary shock. The layer of white on the ground had perceptibly thickened, and the snowflakes were falling densely, with a steady purposefulness that was much more alarming than the flurries had been. Roodle was walking the horses in circles to keep them warm, and their steamy breath was visible in the icy dark. If it were not for the fact that under their covering of snow the leaves were still visible on the branches of the nearby trees, Meg would have imagined she'd emerged from the inn right into the heart of January.

At the sight of her, Aunt Isabel lowered the carriage window. “What kept you, my love? I hope you haven't asked them to harness the horses. It's much too dark and snowy to proceed further, isn't it? Shall we stop here for the night?”

“I'd rather die!” her niece exclaimed through clenched teeth. Without a word of explanation, she turned to Roodle, who had ceased leading the horses and was waiting for her instructions. “Are you married, Roodle?” she asked.

“What, m'lady?” The groom was clearly astounded by the irrelevancy.

“I asked if you are a married man. Do you have family residing in this district?”

“No, ma'am, I ain't an' I don't.”

“Then there's nothing or no one here to make you desire to remain in this particular region, is there?”

He squinted at her as if she'd lost her mind. “Well, yes, ma'am, there is. I
live
here, y' see.”

“Yes, but there's nothing to prevent you from living elsewhere, is there?”

He shook his head as if he were trying to clear his brain, sending a flurry of snowflakes whirling from the brim of his high-crowned hat. “I don't know as I follow yer meanin', m'lady. I can't live nowheres else if I'm in the 'ire of Lord Isham. An' if ye'll pardon me sayin' so, if I don't get 'is carriage back t' the stable soon, I mayn't 'ave a place t' live a-tall.”

“But,” she persisted, “would you consider
living
somewhere else if you were
employed
by someone else? For a higher wage, of course.”

“Lord Isham pays me forty quid per,” the groom responded proudly.

“Per annum? Miserly. I'll double it.”

The sturdy little fellow gaped, visibly shaken. “Double?” he croaked. He pushed his hat back from his forehead and rubbed at his bald pate with nervous fingers which protruded from the holes of a thick glove. “Ye wish me t' work fer
you?
” he asked, his brow knitted in confusion. “Fer
eighty quid?
”

“Yes, I do. For eighty quid per. What do you say?”

“Well …” He furrowed his brow and thoughtfully resumed walking the horses. “I dunno why I shouldn't … if you ain't diddlin' me …”

“I'm not diddling. I'm deadly earnest. There is, however, one condition.”

Roodle stopped his walk, cocked his head to one side and looked at her through suddenly narrowed eyes. “I might've figured on that. There's some bobbery y' want o' me.”

“Yes. I want you to make off with his lordship's carriage and horses.”

“Make off with 'em? Ye mean steal—?”

“We'll return them eventually. But yes, I suppose it
is
stealing. I want you to steal them and take Mrs. Underwood and me back to London, where you will find employment as
my
coachman in
my
stables for as long as it suits you to stay.”

“London!” the groom breathed, wide-eyed. “Gawd!”

“And one thing more—”

He winced. “I know'd it. Yer goin' t' ask me t' murder someone.”

For the first time since she'd arrived at this insufferable place, she broke into a laugh. “No, not quite as bad as that. It's only that I have to tell you that there won't be time for you to go back to Isham Manor to get your things.”

“Do y' mean—? You ain't thinkin' o' startin' out this very night!”

She laughed again, a laugh of triumph, of relief, and of careless disregard of any consequences. She reached for a riding crop that lay resting on the coachman's seat. “I'm thinking, Roodle,” she grinned, thrusting the crop into his hand and springing upon the carriage steps, “of starting
right now
.”

Chapter Four

Aunt Isabel pressed her nose against the window of the carriage, nervously peering out into the night, but her niece leaned back against the cushions and grinned. She'd managed to escape from Charles Isham and from the confines of the Horse With Three Tails Inn, and even the danger of a drive through the snowy blackness couldn't dampen her high spirits.

She could hear Roodle whistling to himself in the coachman's seat as he guided the horses along the road, but whether the tune expressed a gleeful exuberance over his new prospects or a tense anxiety over the condition of the roads she couldn't say. She rather expected it was the former, for once he'd decided to throw his lot with her rather than return to face Lord Isham's wrath, he'd been as optimistic and helpful as she could have wished. By the simple expedient of hanging a lantern at the end of a pole suspended out from the horses' harness, he had made it possible to see the road ahead. With a coachman of his ingenuity, Meg was certain that they would manage to reach Harrogate without mishap.

But she could see that her aunt's hands were tightly clenched, the knuckles showing white. She could hardly blame the poor woman for losing her usual spirit—this had been a dreadful day for her. Ever since Meg had first told her, that morning, that they were to steal out of Lord Isham's house by late afternoon, the poor dear had been on edge. They'd had to endure all the activities which the Ishams had planned for them, while at the same time finding opportunities to pack as many of their belongings as they could carry. Isabel had been as brave as Meg could have wished, but this ride through the ever-deepening snow was more than her aunt could stand.

Perhaps it was cruel to push on to Harrogate. In the best of weather—and in broad daylight—the ride would take an hour. But under the circumstances, with the coach barely inching along the road, the trip might last well into the night. It might even be possible that Arthur Steele, too, was being delayed by the storm. She looked out of the window at the steadily mounting snow. Should she stop at the nearest inn and leave Harrogate for the morrow? She had never before believed it, but perhaps discretion
was
the better part of valor.