Unlike Tabitha, Sebastian thought that scenario through. He foresaw several difficulties. “Exactly how do you imagine scaring Miss Mackay off?”
“Why, I’ll simply tell her that unless she stops her nefarious demands, I’ll . . .” She paused, blinked. “Make sure she doesn’t work in ton households again?”
“And how do you imagine achieving a ton ban without divulging the reason why she shouldn’t be hired?”
“Hmm . . .”
“Indeed. In short, we need professional advice.”
“From the police?” Her tone suggested that was unlikely to be helpful.
“I admit that the police force is still in its infancy and often as riddled with crime as the underworld it seeks to rein in, however, I’ve heard of a new group being run out of Bow Street. I’ll make discreet inquiries, and see if we can’t find someone sensible to assist us. I gather Peel is looking to make his force respectable, so perhaps we can present this as an opportunity for him to demonstrate this group’s bona fides.”
She still looked uncertain, but eventually inclined her head in acquiescence. She glanced out of the carriage window. “It’s still light. If we push on, we can reach London tonight. Perhaps Bow Street will still be open.”
Sebastian frowned. “We left Harpenden later than expected. I’m not sure we should try for London tonight—I don’t fancy crossing Finchley Common in the dark, and I’m quite sure Gifford won’t relish the prospect, either.”
“Nonsense!” Tabitha waved dismissively. “You shouldn’t believe all those tales about highwaymen—I’m sure they’re greatly exaggerated.”
“Meaning you don’t want to believe them because they stand in the way of you and your goal—namely reaching London tonight.”
She blinked at him, then struggled unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. “Precisely. Buck up—fortune favors the brave. We’ll be perfectly safe. Now we have all the intelligence about Elaine Mackay, blackmailer, that we need, nothing is going to stop me from acting immediately and halting her in her tracks.”
Nothing except a stone, a boxing match, and a runaway phaeton. They’d passed through St. Albans and were heading south at a good pace when the carriage jerked as one of the horses stumbled. Gifford immediately hauled on the reins; the carriage swayed wildly, slowed, then came to an ominous halt.
The carriage dipped as Gifford climbed down. Sebastian opened the door, leapt down and went to confer. Tabitha scooted to the window and peered out, but all she could see were Sebastian’s and Gifford’s backs as they stood beside one of the leaders and talked.
A minute later, Sebastian returned. He climbed back in and sat. “The off-side leader caught a stone in his shoe. We’ve winkled it out, but the hoof’s tender. The horse will have to be rested. Gifford says Radlett’s the next town along. We should be able to get a replacement horse there, but until we do he’ll have to take it slowly. It’ll be late when we reach there.”
Tabitha set her lips, firmed her chin. Tipped it a touch higher. “Nevertheless, I see no point in halting at Radlett. Best to get on, even if we reach home at midnight.”
Sebastian raised his brows in a resigned manner. “We’ll see.”
What they saw when they finally limped into Radlett was hordes of carousing young gentlemen weaving about the main street. Tabitha stared. “They’re drunk. All of them.” That much was apparent. Many were singing, decidedly off-key; others were exchanging insults at the tops of their voices. “What the devil are they all doing here?”
Sebastian had been listening to the chants. Now he groaned. “A boxing match. There was one held today somewhere nearby.”
Tabitha viewed his grim expression with concern. “What does that mean for us?’
They discovered the answer when they reached the Radlett Arms, the only inn the tiny town boasted. Gifford had trouble merely clearing the way enough to turn the carriage into the yard. Tabitha shut her ears to the swearing and curses issuing from the box above.
Increasingly grim, Sebastian reached for the carriage door. “Stay here.”
She shifted to follow him. “Not a chance.”
He met her eyes, then looked out of the window at the churning sea of mindless young men filling the yard. His jaw clenched. He nodded curtly. “You may be right. Just stick close—hold on to me and don’t let go.”
She inwardly scoffed—she was hardly a helpless female—but the instant she set foot on the cobbles she realized her mistake. She seized Sebastian’s arm, then he reached back and caught her hand in his. Held it tightly.
Drunken men jostled her on every side. Most were young; she would have had no trouble freezing them in their tracks in a ballroom or in the park. In a poorly lit inn yard in a small country town, with not a ton matron in sight . . . that was another matter entirely. Most were nattily dressed, albeit somewhat the worse for wear, but their manners no longer matched their civilized appearance.
Luckily, the boisterous, uninhibited revelers—one step away from drunken louts—seemed to recognize something about Sebastian. They took one look at his face and backed off—enough at least for him to lead her through the throng to the inn’s front door.
She glanced back and saw Gifford still on the box, glowering at the milling crowd, his long whip held firmly and rather obviously in one hand.
Then Sebastian tugged her through the door and into the main room of the inn. If anything, it was even more crowded than the yard, but he managed by sheer presence and the skillful application of a hard shoulder here and there, to forge a path to the bar.
The innkeeper, while transparently doing a roaring trade, was looking a tad besieged. He spotted them. His eyes widened. He pushed past his serving staff and hurried to the end of the bar. “Sir—it’s . . .” He gestured to the mayhem all around. “They’re here and won’t be leaving until they’ve drunk my kegs dry. I wish I could help you and the lady, but you’d be wisest to drive on to St. Albans.”
“We’ve just come from there—we’re on our way to London. However—”
Watching the melee around them, Tabitha listened with half an ear while Sebastian explained in concise and forceful terms, his crisp accents in sharp contrast to the cacophony of slurring voices, why they could only go on if they could secure another horse.
She turned back to see the innkeeper vigorously shaking his head.
“I haven’t a spare horse—this lot has taken them all. But it would do you no good, anyway—the London road’s blocked. Some idiot ran his phaeton into the ditch, then another carriage ran into his. All told, six carriages ended locked together—they’re saying they’ll need a wheelwright to pull the mess apart. Some of my lads are down the road helping—last I heard, they thought it would be dawn before the road’s clear.”
Sebastian looked at Tabitha, then turned back to the innkeeper. “In that case, we’ll need your best room.”
“But—”
The innkeeper protested that the room was already let, but Sebastian inveigled and bribed, and ultimately reached an understanding with both the innkeeper and the two youthful sprigs who had originally hired the room. As it happened, both had lost heavily wagering on the boxing match and were happy to recoup their losses by agreeing to sleep in the hayloft.
Throughout the negotiations, Tabitha remained plastered to his side, reassurance and distraction combined. He didn’t ease his hold on her hand; he was conscious that her fingers—having curled tightly about his in the inn yard—also hadn’t eased their grip. The emotion that provoked was unnerving.
The two sprigs hied up the stairs to remove their bags from the room. Having satisfactorily concluded his business with the innkeeper, Sebastian dismissed the man with a nod, then turned and, once more placing himself in front of Tabitha, pushed into the crowd, heading for the stairs.
Given the density of bodies, some jostling was inevitable, but he kept a glower in place, discouraging any sufficiently inebriated to consider making any sort of try for Tabitha. He’d been young once,
long ago, but he still remembered the utter invincibility of youth, and none of those there would have expected to see a gently bred lady in their midst.
It was very likely that, were they able to think, they’d question whether she was gently bred or not.
At least she’d kept her hood up, shielding her face, and with her cloak swathed about her there was precious little of her figure visible . . . but boys would be boys, and lads would be stupid. He was immeasurably relieved when they reached the stairs without him having to defend her honor other than by assisting drunken hellions out of their way.
He drew her forward, around him. Bent his head to whisper, “Go straight up. Don’t look back. I’ll be right behind you.”
Although the majority of those in the inn were young, he’d noticed a few harder eyes, a few older, leaner faces, several predatory gazes that had drifted assessingly over her. He hoped his clear protectiveness would be sufficient to have those more dangerous gentlemen keep their distance. He was perfectly certain they, at least, would be sober enough to correctly interpret his behavior.
They reached the first floor gallery. The two happy sprigs came along, smiling as inanely as only the thoroughly intoxicated can. They tipped salutes his way, then clattered down the stairs.
He urged Tabitha on. “It’s the room at the far end of the corridor.”
They reached the door. He opened it, glanced inside, then waved her through, and followed.
Tabitha halted two steps into the room and surveyed the amenities. A massive four-poster bed sat against one wall, heavy swags of crimson brocade tied back to each post. Curtains of similar fabric had been drawn over the wide windows, shutting out the encroaching night. Two nicely padded armchairs were angled before the hearth in which a cheery fire blazed.
Walking to the bed, she tested the resilience of the mattress—adequate—noted the creamy linens were soft with age, but spotless. Turning, she sat on the bed and surveyed her partner, somewhat surprised to realize that that was how she now thought of him.
He’d closed the door, but was examining the bolt fixed to it. Apparently satisfied, he glanced at her. “I’ll go and fetch our bags and arrange for a meal to be served to us here. I want you to bolt the door after I leave—don’t open it for anyone but me, even if they claim to be the innkeeper’s son bringing more coals for the fire.”
She widened her eyes.
His lips tightened. “Promise you’ll do as I say.”
He was serious—deadly serious. She nodded. “Of course.” It would be ungrateful to tease him, not when he was so tense, and on her behalf. “I’ll just wait here until you come back.”
He hesitated, as if comprehending that such capitulation was a concession, then nodded. “I won’t be long.”
Opening the door, he went out.
Tabitha considered the door, then rose, walked to it, threw the bolt, then listened.
Sure enough, his footsteps only then moved back up the corridor.
“Humph!” Turning, she contemplated the bed, then ambled to the armchair facing the door and flopped into it.
She wanted to move forward, was keen to take the next step to stop the blackmailer, whatever that step was. Fate, it seemed, had other ideas.
She grimaced and looked about the room again, searching for distraction. Finding none—even the three paintings on the walls were dull and uninspiring—she fixed her gaze on the flames leaping in the grate. Her lips curved at the thought of some enterprising hellion attempting to gain access by pretending to be the coal-boy.
To her it seemed a fanciful notion, but Sebastian . . . he took what he saw as his responsibilities seriously. He’d been a soldier, had done his duty by his country—had been prepared to give his life for that cause. His family had called on him to save the succession by sacrificing what many men would regard as their well-earned freedom; from all she’d heard, he’d accepted that duty, too, perhaps not happily, yet without complaint. Then she’d involved him in her mission to identify and vanquish the blackmailer, and once he’d committed himself to that endeavor, he’d accorded it his undivided attention.
To the point where he now saw her as someone it was his duty to protect.
In the past, any man seeking to protect her, let alone make a duty of it, would have received short shrift from her. Sebastian, however. . .
Head tilting, she stared unseeing at the flames and tried to pinpoint why he was different. Why she felt no overwhelming need to escape him and his protective tendencies. Indeed, quite the opposite; she’d been grateful more than once.
She saw his protectiveness clearly, yet felt none of her usual violent antipathy . . . perhaps because he hadn’t at any stage tried to patronize her, to dictate, or to cast her as an adjunct. He’d never treated her as anything other than a capable adult, an equal.
Perhaps that was why, with him, she was behaving as one—why she was prepared to admit that she’d needed his escort into the inn, that she wouldn’t have been comfortable, let alone safe, making her own independent way through the drunken throng. A year ago she would have tried to claim she could. Perhaps the years had finally brought wisdom?
She wasn’t entirely sure that was true; beneath her mature exterior beat the undeniable heart of a hellion. Outrageous actions were the province of her branch of the Makepeaces, and in that regard she was her parents’ daughter.
Yet no matter what she did, Sebastian probably wouldn’t be shocked. He’d taken her breaking into Lord Rothbury’s library in his stride, then had included her in the watch in the church, even though she’d had to be in disguise.
In her experience that made him a rare find—a rare gentleman.
One with whom she could be herself, a man who saw her clearly yet didn’t feel moved to criticize.
A sharp rap interrupted her reverie.
Rising, as she walked to the door she called, “Who is it?”
“Trantor. Sebastian.”
She felt herself smiling as she slid back the bolt and swung open the door.
He entered, carrying her bag and his. “Gifford says he’s happy to sleep in the carriage—he wants to keep his eye on the horses. I’ve arranged for him to eat in the kitchen. The innwife will be up shortly with our meal.”
Shutting the door, she turned. “You’ve thought of everything. Thank you.”
He threw her a look, then set her bag beside the bed. He glanced at the crimson counterpane, then took his bag to the other side of the room and set it beneath the window. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep before the fire.”
She frowned, but before she could voice any protest, a tap on the door heralded the innwife bearing a large tray. Two girls followed, carrying various platters.
They ate before the fire, with the tray on a small table between the armchairs. It was a curiously comfortable meal. The noise from below was muted by the thick walls, floors, and beams, and the solid oak door. They didn’t speak of their mission—what was there to say?—but instead shared entertaining stories culled from their own experiences, or that of friends or family.
It was a relaxing time. As the fire died to glowing embers, Sebastian tried to imagine spending a similar evening alone with any other lady, and couldn’t. The realization was unsettling.
A tap on the door proved to be a serving girl come to fetch the tray and build up the fire; with the door ajar, the sounds of the rowdy revelry below reached them. When the girl left, Sebastian held the door for her, then shut it and shot the bolt.
Turning back to Tabitha, he studiously ignored the large and comfortable bed. Reminded himself of the “long” in his long game; this was not an appropriate time or place to press his suit. “Gifford and I think we should leave at first light. The crowd below won’t be stirring until later, and we want to be well ahead when they do. So we should get some sleep.” He waved her to the bed.
She sighed, rose, and went toward the bed, to the far side, closer to the window. “I’m really not sure about that.”
He
forced himself to move toward the hearth. “About what?”
“About getting any sleep—not with that crowd below. Who knows what they may take it into their drunken heads to do?”
She was anxious? He hesitated, then, jaw clenching, bent to move the small table out of his way. “I’ll be here by the fire. I don’t believe any of them will try to force their way in, but if they do, rest assured I’ll stop them.”
“Hmm . . . perhaps.” She stripped off the spencer she’d been wearing over her gown, then set her fingers to the gown’s laces.
His mouth dried. He turned to face the flames—tried not to let the image of her sliding off her gown form in his mind. But he heard the telltale swish of skirts, the soft rustling of petticoats, then the bed creaked. He waited for several heartbeats, then glanced her way.
Sitting propped against the pillows, the covers hiked to her shoulders, she was surveying the expanse beside her. “This is a large bed, and there’s a lot of it unoccupied.” Across the room, she met his gaze. “I would feel much safer—and will certainly find it easier to sleep—if you weren’t so far away.”
Even from across the room he saw the faint frown on her face, in her eyes—as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d said that.
But then her gaze refocused on him. Her chin firmed. “I’ll sleep much better if you’re not all the way over there, but here”—she pointed to the other side of the bed—“within arm’s reach.”
Lust leapt, but he hauled it back, pushed it down. “I’m not sure that’s a good—”
A crash reverberated in the corridor, accompanied by the thud of limbs hitting walls and floor. Drunken whispers reached them—more than loud enough to penetrate the oak door.
Tabitha jettisoned what little patience she’d possessed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Trantor—I’m not inviting you into my bed. You can sleep between the covers and the sheet—and keep your shirt and breeches on. That way, if any of those idiots tries to push their way in, you can respond immediately.”
Why she wanted him beside her, close, she wasn’t entirely sure, but some part of her mind was perfectly certain that that was where he should spend the night. As she’d said, within reach.