Brighton Road

  His answer seemed to please Master Desmond. "That's what I thought, too," Ravenel said, nodding his head in satisfaction as though somehow vindicated.

  "Aye, my lord," Jarvis continued. "If the young lady cares at all about you, she should not need much by way of persuasion."

  The rest of his answer did not seem to delight Master Desmond as much. As his lordship became lost in another brown study, Jarvis bit back the urge to say, Forget that blond minx, Master Des. Miss Carruthers was such a cold sort of beauty with her pale-colored hair and winter-blue eyes. Master Desmond needed a lady with all the riot and warmth of springtime. But that was not the sort of poetic sentiment a dignified valet should be expressing, not even if he had served the family through three generations.

  Ravenel tossed off the last of his ale and then rose with his characteristic abruptness. "Well, Jarvis, if you are done harassing that unfortunate beefsteak, we'd best be off. I should like to make Brighton well before dark, especially since we will be traveling alone. I have dismissed Dalton."

  Over the years Jarvis had trained himself not to show surprise. "Indeed, sir?" was all he said.

  "Yes, the fellow was too impudent by half."

  Although Jarvis heartily agreed with him, he yet felt a little disturbed by the tidings. It was not like Master Desmond to act so quickly and out of hand. He should not like to think his lordship's recent disappointment was starting to cloud his judgment.

  He stood up to follow Ravenel from the coffee room, not looking forward to an afternoon of the hot sun beating down upon his ahead aching head. But he had barely taken a step when the floor seem to rock beneath his feet, the paneled walls of the coffee room spinning before his eyes.

  "Jarvis!"

  He caught a flash of Ravenel's face gone pale with concern. His lordship's strong arm eased Jarvis back into his chair.

  After a few moments with his eyes closed, the world around him resumed its normal steady balance. " It is nothing, my lord," he said. "Except a drop too much rum."

  "The devil it is! The heat has been bothering you again and you never said a word to me."

  "Nonsense. Fit as a fiddle, I assure you." Jarvis would have attempted to rise again, but Ravenel refused to let him.

  "Well, that settles it. We shall spend the night here and go on to Brighton in the morning."

  "Never, my lord," Jarvis quavered with indignation. "Certainly not on my account."

  "To own the truth, I am feeling rather exhausted myself."

  Jarvis knew a plumper when he heard one. He could not remember the day his lordship had ever admitted to feeling tired. Besides, Master Des had a trick of not quite meeting one's eye when he was being less than truthful. However, before Jarvis could protest, the baron rushed on, "Besides, I fear one of the bays might be straining a fetlock. That was why I dismissed Dalton—for neglect. No, I think we should all do better for an afternoon's rest."

  Jarvis grumbled, "Well, the bit about the horse is a far better tale than that nonsense about you being fatigued, my lord."

  "Good. I am glad you liked it?' Ravenel flashed one of his rare smiles. "You wait here a moment. I shall bespeak rooms for us and see to it that the bays are properly stabled."

  "Master Desmond!" Jarvis made one last attempt to protest, but the baron was already striding from the room. He knew there would be no dissuading his master. Obstinate he was, once he got a notion in his head, like all the Ravenels before him.

  Jarvis's shoulders slumped with dejection. What a worthless old stump he was, delaying Master Desmond this way. His lordship needed one of those smart young valets who could keep pace with him and rig him out in dashing style, make that Miss Carruthers suffer a few pangs of regret over trifling with Master Des's feelings.

  The bleakness of Jarvis's reflections increased when he later peered through the coffeeroom window and saw that the rest of Master Desmond's friends were departing for their carriages. Although his lordship was there to bid farewell to Miss Carruthers, she was too busy flirting with one of the other young bucks to even offer her hand to be kissed. When the coaches rattled away down the street, followed by the young men, laughing and shouting, on horseback, all gaiety seemed to have fled with them. Ravenel was left standing in the shade of the oak tree, his hand raised in a gesture of farewell that no one appeared to notice. Alone, Jarvis thought with a heavy heart. As ever, Master Desmond was alone.

  As the sun set over Godstone's red-tiled roofs, Ravenel watched Jarvis light the candles in his bedchamber. The room was comfortable enough as inn rooms went, with a large four-poster bed, although Ravenel could have done without the lavender scented sheets.

  For about the dozenth time, the baron started to pace, then checked himself, struggling not to reveal his restlessness to Jarvis. He could have been in Brighton by this time, he thought, then was immediately ashamed of himself. What did one more day matter? He had already been inconsiderate enough, not noticing that the heat had been making Jarvis ill. The valet had been part of the fabric of his life for as long as Ravenel could remember, as much a solid, comforting presence as the baron's beloved home. He kept forgetting that the old man must be well into his seventies.

  Studying the elderly servant's face as he laid out the baron's night things, Ravenel mentally applauded his decision to break the journey. Jarvis was looking much better for an afternoon spent resting within the cool confines of the inn.

  The pinched whiteness about his mouth and the lines of strain feathering the corners of his eyes had been eased. The delay in his traveling plans was a small price to pay, Ravenel reflected, to see Jarvis looking much more the thing again. After a good night's sleep, the elderly valet should be restored to his invincible, stately self.

  Although he did not feel in the least tired, Ravenel feigned a yawn. "Well, I think I shall be turning in early, Jarvis, and I suggest you do the same. I hope to be off at cock's crow tomorrow."

  "Very good, my lord. I'll just polish your Hessians and then—"

  But the baron moved more quickly than the valet and snatched up the soiled leather footgear before Jarvis could reach them.

  "There is no need for you to bother about that. I will simply send them belowstairs to the boots. That is what those fellows are hired for after all."

  "The boots, my lord?" Jarvis gasped, his features settling into an expression of dignified horror. "You would trust your Hessians to a common servant at an inn?"

  "Why not? You know I am no dandy, Jarvis. It makes no odds to me whether I can see my face reflected back in a bit of leather."

  "But, my lord—"

  "And," Ravenel continued, his eyes skating away from any direct contact with his valet's outraged blue ones, "It is now the fashion to have one's footwear sent down to be polished by the boots."

  It was a damned clumsy lie and Ravenel greatly feared he was wreaking havoc with Jarvis's pride, but he would not have the old man sitting up to polish the Hessians when he should be in bed. The baron strode firmly to the door. Ravenel flung it open, preparing to summon one of the inn servants.

  Instead of one of the maids, he saw the lanky figure of the boots himself just a few doors down the inn corridor. The boots was squatting down to pat the head of a familiar black and white dog, and standing next to him was an all-too-familiar lady.

  Good lord, Ravenel thought, freezing on the threshold of his chamber. That Vickers woman was still running tame at the White Hart. He had assumed her carriage had been repaired and she had departed hours ago.

  At the present moment, she was thanking the boots for returning her dog. "I am pleased to hear that you think Bertie such a friendly creature. Indeed, he is most sociable, but I ought to warn you. I fear he has not been bearing you company out of entirely disinterested motives."

  The boots appeared as bewildered by this strange statement as Ravenel himself, overhearing it. But he was not going to risk another encounter with Gwenda Vickers merely to satisfy his curiosity as to what she was talking about. He attempted to
step back quietly and close the door.

  But it was too late. The incorrigible Bertie had already spotted him. With a joyous bark, the animal came loping toward him as though Ravenel were his long-lost master. The baron braced himself for the assault, but handicapped as he was by the Hessians still clutched under his arm, he had to endure several licks sweeping from the tip of his chin up to the bridge of his nose before he could collar the dog.

  "Heel, you infernal hound!" he said as Gwenda hastened over to intervene. "Miss Vickers, have you no control over this wretched animal?"

  "None whatsoever, I'm afraid," she said. Ravenel thought she might at least appear a little uncomfortable to encounter him again, considering the circumstances of their last meeting. But far from appearing disconcerted, she seemed absolutely delighted to see him.

  "Lord Ravenel. This is splendid," she said. "I thought you had gone. I was going to post it to you, but now I shan't have to. Just wait here. I won't be a second."

  Before the baron could protest or even inquire as to what the deuce it was, Miss Vickers spun about and raced off down the corridor. She was already whisking into one of the rooms when it occurred to him that she had left him to struggle with her dog.

  "Miss Vickers," Ravertel fumed as her bedchamber door clicked shut. The accursed dog was showing a strong desire to bolt inside Ravenel's own room and make Jarvis's acquaintance.

  "Oh, no, you don't," he said, although it took a great deal of his strength to dissuade the friendly animal. He managed to ram his Hessians into the hands of the boots, who had stood watching the entire scene with a huge grin on his face.

  "Would yer lordship be needing a bit of a hand?" the boots asked.

  "No!" Ravenel said, having succeeded in thrusting Bertie back along the corridor. "You just look after my Hessians. I'll be wanting them first thing in the morning." And to Bertie he commanded, "And you! Get along. Follow your mistress."

  Bertie whined. Wagging his tail, he gazed soulfully at the baron. Hardening his heart against the dog's mournful look, Ravenel retreated into his room and slammed the door. He released his breath in a gusty sigh and proceeded to straighten his cravat, which had gone askew in the struggle with the dog.

  He turned to meet Jarvis's questioning look. "My lord, whatever is—"

  But the elderly valet's question was cut off by the sound of a light rapping on the door. The dog couldn't knock. Ravenel assumed it had to be her.

  He grimaced and closed his eyes. Would Jarvis think he had run completely mad if he told the valet to pretend that he wasn't here? No, it wouldn't serve. Nor could he permit his venerable valet to open that door and be flattened by the exuberant Bertie.

  "Never mind, Jarvis," Ravenel said. "I'll deal with this."

  Cautiously he inched open the door, but there was no sign of the dog, only Miss Vickers She appeared completely unruffled, as though it was the most natural thing in the word for an unescorted lady to knock at the chamber door of a strange gentleman.

  Balancing three slender leather-bound volumes in her hand, she said reproachfully, "Lord Ravenel. You didn't wait."

  Before he could reply to this accusation, she added, "Have you got Bertie in there with you?"

  "No, I most certainly have not!"

  "Blast! Then I suppose he has gone following the boots again." She added darkly, "As if I didn't know what mischief that dog is plotting." She glowered in the direction that Bertie had presumably disappeared.

  The baron shifted impatiently. "Miss Vickers, was there something you wanted of me?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes, there was " His question snapped her attention back to himself. Ravenel found himself staring into her wide green eyes. He noted that they were not precisely green. They had flecks of gold in them. Or was it that she had golden eyes with flecks of jade? It was difficult to tell. Her eyes seemed to have a trick of changing according to the lighting and her mood. Also, she had the most absurdly long dark eyelashes he had ever seen.

  "... and I treated you very badly this afternoon."

  With a start, Ravenel realized Miss Vickers was apologizing to him.

  "I had no right to be eavesdropping and thrusting myself into the midst of your affairs. It was abominably rude of me."

  "Miss Vickers, please!" The baron held up one hand to stem this breathless flow of words. "I think the less said of this painful matter, the better. I have no desire except to forget it ever happened."

  "But I cannot forget. Not until I make you some amends. I have a gift for you and I hope you will accept it."

  A gift! Ravenel bit back a shocked exclamation. Did this young lady have any notions of propriety? "Really, Miss Vickers," he said. "I don't think that you should—"

  "Oh, please," she begged, extending the stack of books to him with a wistful smile. Ravenel would not have said Gwenda Mary Vickers was a beauty, but he was forced to admit that she had an unusually appealing smile. It was not coy or of a forced politeness; it was warm and genuine.

  He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Well, I…"

  His hesitation was all the encouragement she needed to eagerly thrust the books into his hands. With some trepidation, he stole a glance at the title. The Dark Hand at Midnight in Three Volumes, by G. M. Vickers. Good God! Ravenel stifled a groan. Now he remembered Miss Vickers's peculiarity. She wrote those blasted Minerva Press novels, which were all about swooning women, family curses, men dashing about with swords and ghosts and villains popping out of the wainscoting.

  As the baron sought for some civil way to thrust The Dark Hand right back at Miss Vickers, he felt something brush against his sleeve and was startled to see Jarvis attempting to peek past him into the corridor. Never in his life had Ravenel known his valet to display such a vulgar emotion as curiosity

  Gwenda Vickers dipped into a curtsy and beamed at Jarvis. "Good evening, sir," she said. "I assume you must be Lord Ravenel's uncle?"

  "Why, no, miss."

  "This is my valet," the baron filled in drily. "Jarvis."

  "Oh!" Miss Vickers did not look in the least disturbed by her mistake. "How astonishing, for there is such a remarkable resemblance between you. Although not the same color, you both have remarkably handsome eyes."

  It was the second time Miss Vickers had made that idiotic remark about his eyes being handsome, Ravenel thought irritably. It was high time this awkward and exceedingly improper interview drew to a close. He supposed the quickest way to do that was to graciously accept the wretched book. He shoved the volumes at Jarvis and then turned to thank Miss Vickers in his most rigid manner.

  "Not at all," she said. "I only hope you enjoy the book. I have marked one particular passage for you in the second volume. It is where Antonio, Count Delvadoro, passionately proposes marriage to Lady Emeraude."

  "Miss Vickers!"

  The lady seemed totally oblivious to his warning growl.

  "I don't mean to press the point," Gwenda said, "but I really do feel you are in want of just a few suggestions."

  "Not from you!" Ravenel pressed his lips together, waiting until he felt his rising temper was more under control before he continued. "I beg your pardon, Miss Vickers, but fiction is one thing, reality quite another."

  "Pooh! Why should it be?"

  "Why should it —" Ravenel choked. Then he realized his mistake. He was trying to reason with Miss Vickers as though she were a sane person and not a Vickers at all. He sighed. "I shall try to find time to read the book, Miss Vickers. Now you really should not keep standing about in a drafty inn corridor."

  "And if you will most particularly note that one passage—"

  "Yes, yes. Good night, Miss Vickers." He eased the door closed, hearing her muted "Good night, Lord Ravenel" through the heavy portal.

  He stood by the door, listening for the sounds of her retreating down the corridor. He frowned. A lady of quality should not be wandering about alone at an inn like that. For all of Miss Vickers's unusually forward behavior, Ravenel sensed an innocence about her. The lady was cl
early not up to snuff and required some sort of a keeper.

  In spite of a voice sternly reminding him that it was none of his concern, the baron could not refrain from inching the door open a crack and peeking out to make sure she had gone safely back to her room. He saw Miss Vickers about to cross her own threshold when her head snapped toward the end of the hallway where the stairs led up from below.

  "Colette!" Miss Vickers said in a tone of mild exasperation. "I was wondering where you had gotten to this time."

  Colette, So Miss Vickers did at least have some sort of a female traveling companion, Ravenel thought with an inexplicable sense of relief. But his relief changed to dismay when he saw the pert female who approached Miss Vickers. Damnation! It was that French doxy he had caught practicing her seductive wiles upon Dalton in the stables.

  "Pardon, mademoiselle," Colette said. "I was but fetching your warm milk from the kitchens."

  She bobbed an insolent curtsy and handed the glass to Miss Vickers. Something in the Frenchwoman's expression as she followed Miss Vickers into her bedchamber disturbed Ravenel. Colette's sinister smile would have done credit to a Lucrezia Borgia.

  The chit was obviously a person of no character, a scheming lightskirt Miss Vickers ought to be warned and— And what the deuce was he thinking of?

  The baron closed his door, appalled by his own fanciful notions. He was permitting his imaginings to run away with him on the basis of witnessing one sly smirk, harboring thoughts more worthy of the whimsical Miss Vickers than of his own orderly mind. Ravenel passed a hand over his brow, wondering if lunacy could possibly be contagious.

  In any event, the lady and her maid were none of his affair. He was trying to curtail all future acquaintance with Miss Vickers, not entangle himself further with the lady.

  The Dark Hand at Midnight, indeed, he thought contemptuously. He would make sure to instruct Jarvis that those volumes should be conveniently forgotten when they left the White Hart tomorrow.

  But when Ravenel turned, he was appalled to discover that Jarvis—that most correct and sensible of gentlemen's gentlemen—had donned his spectacles and was already deeply engrossed in Volume One.