"And we have no choice. The storm shows no sign of abating and I am worried about Jarvis and the others with only that broken-down coach for shelter."
"Oh. yes, the others," Gwenda said in a small voice. A guilty flush mounted into her cheeks. She had been so caught up in her own apprehensions, she had forgotten the unfortunate circumstances in which they had left James, Fitch, and the elderly valet.
Ravenel's hand enveloped hers in a reassuring squeeze. "Trust me. Everything will turn out all right."
Gwenda trusted him completely. It was Mordred she had her doubts about. But his lordship was correct. They had no choice.
When the baron turned back to the landlord, Mordred straightened immediately, all servile attention.
"I'll have a look at that carriage of yours now," Ravenel said, "as soon as my sister is settled into a private parlor."
"Alas, my lord, we don't have such a thing here. But I would be only too pleased to let the young lady have the use of my missus's sitting room."
All traces of his former insolence gone, the host could not have been more cloyingly polite. But as Mordred flashed her a crocodilelike smile, Gwenda thought she by far preferred it when he was surly.. As the man bowed her through the open doorway, she was reminded of the large black spider yet busily spinning its web on the mantel.
Mrs. Mordred's sitting room proved a most curious chamber, small and narrow. The cozy homespun rug, overstuffed horsehair sofa, and battered tea table were jarringly at odds with the collection of blunderbusses and muskets mounted upon the wall. The sight of these weapons made Gwenda wish she had had the foresight to bring along her own pearl-handled pistol.
The baron eyed the room with great disfavor but said, "Well, at least there is a better fire here than in the taproom. You stay close to the hearth and try to get some of the dampness out of your dress. I will not be gone long."
"Of course," she said dolefully. Here Ravenel was, preparing to leave her alone in the very heart of a murderer's den, and he was worried she might be taking a chill But Gwenda managed to put up a brave front. Only when the door had closed behind his lordship did she rub her arms and glance about her with a tiny shiver. Bertie was restless, too, sniffing in every corner. He seemed to be particularly fascinated by an old pianoforte shoved against the wall. When Gwenda drew closer to investigate, she saw that the dog had discovered nothing more sinister than a mouse hole. Next to it was a large workbasket, presumably Mrs. Mordred's.
She must be a strange sort of woman, indeed, for beneath the stack of sewing Gwenda could just make out the top of a bottle of gin. Her mind began to conjure up images of guilt-ridden consciences, murders ages old, perhaps someone walled up alive in the chimney bricking, a family accursed, the present generation driven to madness and strong drink.
With a sigh, she located a small three-legged stool and ensconced herself by the blazing logs on the hearth. There was nothing left for her to do but wait for Ravenel and allow her imagination to run riot.
The baron stood in the inn doorway, anxiously drumming his fingers as he watched the Nonesuch's ancient coach lumber out of the stable-yard, vanishing behind dark sheetings of rain. Never in his life had he found himself in such a quandary. He had longed to return with the coach and seek Jarvis out himself, but it would have been unthinkable to drag Miss Vickers back out into the storm or to abandon her in such dubious quarters as the Nonesuch.
At least the groom Mordred had produced from the stable had seemed a sturdy, sensible fellow, kindly despite his rough accent. But in this foul weather, even if the groom carefully followed the directions given him, Ravenel could not expect to see the carriage return with Jarvis within the next few hours.
Even if Mordred could be persuaded to hire out the vehicle, it would be close to midnight before the baron ever deposited Miss Vickers safely in Brighton. A heavy frown creased his brow. Who was he trying to fool? There was no possibility of traveling any farther this day. No matter what time the carriage returned, his elderly valet was certain to be done in by the afternoon's events, and there was also the footman's injured ankle to be dealt with. No, he might as well face the fact. They were all going to have to spend the night in this wretched place.
As Ravenel closed the door, shutting out the patter of the rain, his soft curse echoed about the empty taproom. Miss Vickers might be fretting and conjuring up all sorts of faradiddles about their host's murderous intent, but she obviously failed to see the true nature of their predicament.
They were apparently the only guests at the Nonesuch and she was without any sort of chaperone or female traveling companion. If it ever became known—and experience had taught Ravenel that such mishaps usually had a way of leaking out—there would be the very devil of a scandal. Her reputation would be utterly ruined.
Not that it was in any way his fault, the baron thought, but it was not precisely hers, either. The lady could not help it if she had been born a Vickers, taught to hire baritones for coachmen and French trollops for maids. But, blast it all, no Ravenel had ever been involved in scandal, and he was not about to be the first, If he had to, he would even---He shuddered. No! He could not possibly be thinking of marrying Miss Gwenda Mary Vickers.
"Your lordship?"
Ravenel's eyes flew open to find Mordred at his elbow. The fellow did have a nasty manner of creeping up on one. The baron had not even heard him enter the taproom.
"What is it?" Ravenel snapped.
"I was only wanting to know if I should be preparing a room for your lordship and your sister?"
The baron battled an urge to smack the suggestive leer from the man's face. It was obvious the innkeeper had not believed the sister-brother Banbury tale. But, then, who would? Ravenel wondered gloomily.
"Yes, we will require two rooms—one for myself and my valet, another for the lady."
The man's eyebrows rose even in the face of Ravenel's challenging stare, then Mordred merely shrugged and went to carry out his lordship's bidding, leaving Ravenel to find his own way back to the sitting room.
Just beyond the taproom, a pair of rickety stairs led up to the second floor. In the corridor beyond the stairs, he saw two doors but could not quite remember behind which one he had left Gwenda. He tried the first one; the handle would not turn. Before he could apply more force, he heard Bertie's bark in the opposite room. He supposed this particular door led to the kitchens or the cellar, but how strange that Mordred should keep it locked.
The baron felt far too preoccupied to give the matter more than a passing thought. As he strode toward the other door, his mind revolved with schemes to render his situation with Gwenda innocuous, more proper, to find some way to spare her reputation without sacrificing his own sanity. But at the moment his brain seemed too numbed with weariness to function clearly.
Rubbing his brow, he pushed his way into the sitting room. Gwenda sat huddled near the fire, her bedraggled skirts appearing to have reached the same state of semidamp discomfort as his own garb.
Bert yipped with joy to see Ravenel, but his lordship discouraged any warmer tokens of welcome. He forced the dog to lie down on the rug before turning his attention to Gwenda. Faced with the prospect that this woman might well have to become his wife, Ravenel found himself studying her more intently than he had ever done before. Of course, Gwenda could not be expected to be looking her best under the circumstances. But that was the curious thing. The baron, who had ever preferred a lady to be neat and precise, thought that Gwenda had never looked more charming than now, when her face was framed by a riot of curls drying into the most tousled disorder. The heat from the hearth had brought a becoming blush of rose into her cheeks; her green eyes reflected the gold of the firelight. The soft outline of her mouth was enough to invite any man to---
Ravenel checked his thoughts when Gwenda's gaze shifted in his direction, almost as though she had felt the weight of his stare. He flushed guiltily, then rubbed his hands together in a too hearty manner.
"Well, the coa
ch is on its way," he said in what he felt was the most foolish manner possible. After all that had passed between himself and Gwenda, why was he suddenly feeling so awkward with her, so acutely aware of being alone with her? To conceal this inexplicable attack of nervousness, he stomped about, blustering, "That rogue Mordred has not done one thing to see to your comfort. He could at least have managed a cup of tea."
Although Gwenda protested she wanted nothing, Ravenel flung open the sitting-room door and bellowed for the innkeeper. But his summons was answered by a youth who identified himself as Rob.
"Mister Mordred bade me to wait you and the lady," Rob intoned, like a child who has been taught to say his piece by rote.
The lad both looked and smelled as though his customary place was in the stables, but nonetheless the baron asked what the inn could offer by way of a supper.
"Leg of mutton, fried rabbit or spitchcock eel," Rob recited.
Ravenel did not feel as though he could quite face a spitchcock eel, but he put in an order for the mutton. Gwenda did not appear to notice what was taking place. She was so unusually silent, he felt his own sense of discomfort increase. As soon as the boy had scurried out of the room, Ravenel stole another furtive glance at her.
He noticed the fear shading her eyes, the way her hands trembled. Of course. She, too, must at last be realizing the nature of their plight. He cursed himself silently for an inconsiderate fool. So caught up in his own grim reflections, he had given no thought to what Gwenda's must be feeling. Besides worrying about the prospect of her own ruin, she might well be harboring other terrors. After all, their acquaintance was brief. She might be supposing him the sort of bounder who would take advantage of this situation.
A rush of tenderness surged through him, a protective urge to draw her onto his lap. No, what was he thinking of? That would not be likely to reassure her.
Instead, Ravenel pulled up another stool beside her and reached for her hands. Despite the fire, they felt slightly chilled.
She gazed at him, her brow furrowing. "Oh, Lord Ravenel, I have been thinking." Her lashes swept up so that he was staring full into those ever-changeable green-gold eyes. He wondered if it really would be such a terrible fate to have to wed Gwenda Mary Vickers.
"Yes?" he prompted gently when she hesitated.
"Do you..." She faltered. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Do I what!"
This question was so far from anything Ravenel had expected that he was torn between an urge to shake her and to laugh aloud. He released her hands, saying,"I have never given the matter of ghosts much thought."
Gwenda's eyes shifted anxiously about the room. "What would you do if one were to rise up before you this very minute?"
"I would tell it to go away. I object to being haunted before I have had my dinner."
A reluctant smile quivered upon her lips, drawing forth the most appealing dimple. "Aye, I daresay you would."
Ravenel could see clearly what had been taking place in his absence. When Gwenda should have been agonizing over the prospect of her social ruin, the same imagination that had fashioned the terrors of The Dark Hand had been busily at work instead.
Before Ravenel could scold Gwenda for her nonsense, a timid knock sounded on the door. It was Rob returning to lay covers on the tea table. Ravenel was relieved to see that although Bertie sniffed at the lad's thick hobnail boots, the dog did not take the same exception to Rob that he had to Mordred. Gwenda, however, was another matter. She regarded the stable boy with an expression of horror.
When the lad had gone, she turned to Ravenel and said, "You couldn't possibly be thinking of eating anything!"
"Well, yes. That was largely my intent." His lordship lifted the cover off one of the dishes. The mutton looked overcooked, but he realized he was famished. He had had nothing to eat since breakfast.
When he invited Gwenda to join him, she vigorously shook her head.
"You must suit yourself, my dear," Ravenel said, too weary to coax her and too exhausted to stand on ceremony. He sat down at the table, but before he could raise one bite to his lips, Gwenda rushed across the room and all but snatched the fork from his hand.
"Don't! It might be poisoned."
"Miss Vickers—"
"No, truly! Pray listen to me, Lord Ravenel. There are worse possibilities than ghosts. I have heard of obscure inns where the unwary are lured in and poisoned or clubbed over the head."
The baron leaned back in his chair with a wearied sigh. "We were not lured in. The landlord did his best to get rid of us."
"That's exactly what I mean," Gwenda said, making his head nigh ache with her vehement illogic.
Still, he might have humored her and set aside his plate, no matter how hungry he was, if he had believed her to be genuinely distressed. But he detected a certain sparkle in her eye and began to suspect that she actually enjoyed terrifying herself with all these imaginings.
He wrestled his fork from her grasp and stubbornly attacked the food on his plate. But it was difficult to eat with any great relish with Gwenda on one side of him, looking as though she expected each mouthful to be his last, and Bert on the other, regarding him with pleading canine eyes.
Ravenel's appetite rapidly diminished. He flung down the fork in disgust and lowered his plate for Bertie, who devoured the remainder in two great gulps. The baron then had to spend several minutes convincing Gwenda that he had not just poisoned her dog.
The only tolerable part of the meal was the surprising quality of the brandy, which Rob served after clearing the dishes away. Ravenel had a hard time persuading Gwenda to let him drink it, but the struggle was well worth it. He had not sampled such fine spirits since he had drunk the last bottles he had been able to obtain from France.
He wished Gwenda would toss off a bumper herself. It would do her a world of good, help her to relax. Ravenel feared if he did not soon give her something else to think about besides ghosts and murderers, she would drive him to distraction. If her mind worked in the manner of an ordinary sort of young lady, he would not have to be racking his brains for some way to make her understand the real problem that faced them. As it was, he could think of no easy way to introduce the unpleasant subject.
He set down his brandy glass and took to pacing the narrow room. Unfortunately, Gwenda did the same and they frequently had to come to abrupt halts to avoid colliding. The only one behaving sensibly, Ravenel noted wryly, was Bert. The dog yawned and watched their progress from a cozy spot where he was curled up before the fire.
Ravenel stalked over to the windows, the sky pitch-black beyond, but at least the rain had nearly ceased. The carriage sent to rescue Jarvis would likely return soon. That would be a great relief, but it did nothing to alter the situation with Gwenda. Ravenel glanced over his shoulder and noted that the lady had paused in her perambulations long enough to poke the fire.
How would she react when he told her she would likely have to marry him? Gwenda was so unpredictable, there was no telling. He hovered nervously near the pianoforte. He didn't realize he had begun to plunk out a tune on the keys until Gwenda replaced the poker and exclaimed in surprise, "I didn't know you played. I never fancied that you would…I mean—"
"I don't." Ravenel said, quickly drawing back his hand. "That is, I never had lessons. I play a little by ear."
"But what a remarkable talent to waste. Why did you never have a tutor?"
He shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was a shade too offhand. A childhood memory he had thought long forgotten surfaced in his mind: the stern uncle who had been his guardian actually locking the door to the music room so that that Ravenel could not succumb to temptation.
He unconsciously repeated his late uncle's words. "Playing the pianoforte is not something the Baron Ravenel is expected to know."
"But if you are fond of music, why not?" Gwenda asked, looking thoroughly confused.
And so she would be, Ravenel realized. He remembered her insisting, "In my family, ent
husiasm and dreams and imagination have always been valued above your odious common sense."
He suppressed a strange twinge of envy as he tried to explain to her, "My being fond of music is all the more reason I should avoid it. A man in my position cannot afford foolish distractions."
He did not truly expect Gwenda to understand this point of view, but neither was he prepared for the sympathy that shone so warmly from her eyes.
It both embarrassed and disconcerted him. Why the deuce should she be feeling sorry for him, when it was she who was hovering on the brink of social disaster? He said, "There are far more pressing matters for you to worry about than my lack of music lessons, matters that do not seem to have occurred to you."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that we have been pitch-forked together in the most devilish manner. "You and I—we..." To his annoyance, Ravenel felt his face growing red, his tongue seeming to tie itself in knots.
"We what?" Gwenda asked.
Her air of bewilderment snapped the last of his patience. He crossed the room and roughly seized her upper arms. "Damn it, Gwenda. You have to marry me."
Her eyes widened; her mouth dropped open. She had never found her imagination lacking before, but not even in her wildest dreaming had she ever thought of Ravenel clasping her in such a passionate manner, demanding that she be his wife. Nor had she imagined what her own reaction would be. She blushed. She trembled. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear her own tremulous breathing.
"Oh, my lord—Ravenel," she stammered. "I never dreamed that—that you would feel this way."
"Of course I would. I am a man of honor, after all."
"So you are," she murmured shyly. "My chivalrous knight."
"I could not just ride away after I had compromised you, no matter how unwitting it was on my part. As a Ravenel, I could not tolerate that sort of scandal."
The hand that Gwenda had been reaching up to stroke his lordship's cheek froze in midair. "What?" she asked faintly. "What are you talking about?"
He shot her a look more impatient than loverlike. "My dear, you will be utterly ruined if it is known you spent the night at the same inn as I, unchaperoned. That is why I have no choice but to marry you."