The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

Lord Albert recoiled, dusting off his coat as if Garge’s touch had soiled it. ‘I’m sure I don’t care that much for the gel.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘You shouldn’t leave her loitering about in public houses, if you don’t want her accosted.’

‘Exactly,’ Mr Evernden replied with an exasperated glance at Sylvia.

Did he think to blame her because Lord Albert was a despicable rake? She returned stare for stare.

Lord Albert drummed his fingers on the counter’s polished wood.

Mr Evernden glared at his back, then turned to the bristling innkeeper. ‘Now, landlord, a room for Mademoiselle Boisette, if you please.’

Garge grunted. ‘You ain’t welcome here, sir, not you or your bit o’ muslin, not nohow. I’ll have your carriage brought around and your bags brought down.’ He shook his head and muttered, ‘Mademoiselle indeed. Whatever next? This is a respectable house, this is, and Frenchies ain’t welcome, nor their fancy men, neither.’

He turned to Lord Albert and bowed. ‘I apologise for that, my lord. We don’t usually get riff-raff in here. Now we’ve got that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, Lord Albert, I assume it’s your usual room?’

A dull red suffused Mr Evernden’s lean cheeks. He didn’t speak. He grabbed the valise and hatbox from Sylvia’s hand and strode outside.

Head held high, Sylvia trotted after him. No matter what he thought, she had done nothing wrong. If he dared say one word of criticism, she would provide her opinion of the whole male population.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

Long strides carried him across the cobbled yard. Neatly dodging a liveried lackey running at full tilt with a tray of tankards to a waiting tilbury, he disappeared into the stables.

Nonplussed by yet another startling change in her circumstances, Sylvia waited as instructed. Gradually, her thoughts took some order. It seemed she would have to try this Hare and Hounds after all.

Nearby, a gentleman assisted a woman in a red-plumed bonnet into a shiny black barouche. A terrier, chased by two scruffy urchins, barked at the wheels of a departing coach. As it rattled beneath the archway into the street, she thought she glimpsed a figure flat against the wall. She peered into the gloom, but saw nothing but shadows.

More to the point, she needed a plan. She darted a swift glance around the courtyard, seeking inspiration. With nowhere to stay and Mr Evernden once more in command, she seemed to have come full circle.

‘Miss Boisette.’

She stared in astonishment. The voice came from Christopher Evernden, but instead of his comfortable town coach, he perched high on a maroon-bodied curricle pulled by two ebony horses. An ostler dashed up to hold the nervous team and Mr Evernden leaped down.

She backed away. ‘Where’s your carriage?’

‘I sent it back to London with my servant.’

Gallivanting around the countryside in an open carriage with a strange man reeked of danger. ‘I’m not riding in that.’

He stalked to her side. ‘Either you get in or I’ll pick you up and put you in. Your choice, but make it quick.’

The set of his jaw and the angry glitter in his eyes said he would have no compunction about throwing her into the horrible thing. And yet, for all that he towered over her, she felt not the slightest bit afraid.

‘Very well. I will ride with you as far as the Hare and Hounds.’ At least the rain had ceased.

He handed her up. The fragile equipage rocked precariously on its long springs. While she settled herself with care on the seat, she admired the high-priced cattle in the traces. Mr Evernden obviously knew horses.

The team tossed their heads and stamped their feet. The rackety thing lurched. She grabbed for the side. It was worse than any ship.

The moment Mr Evernden climbed into his seat and took up the reins, the groom released the bridles. Solely in charge of the spirited pair, Mr Evernden glanced around him. With a dexterous twist of his strong wrist, he flicked his whip and set his horses in motion.

She’d heard a great many tales about young blades who drove like the wind in their sporting carriages. More often than not, they broke their necks. She curbed the desire to hang on to his solid-looking forearm.

In moments, the carriage eased its way through the archway. No sign of the man she thought she’d seen loitering in the shadows and yet the hairs on her neck prickled as if someone was watching. Oh, for goodness’ sake. Now she was imagining monsters on every corner. The events of the afternoon must have rattled her nerves. Her biggest problem sat at her side.

They turned out on to the road.

‘I assume you know where to find this Hare and Hounds?’ she asked, pulling her cloak tight against the chilly air.

‘I didn’t say I was going to the Hare and Hounds.’

She stared at the hard line of his profile. He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the flickering muscle in his strong jaw boded ill.

‘Then where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

Once more, something uncomfortable writhed in her stomach. Alone with this man, she had nothing but her wits to defend her and half the time they seemed to go begging where he was concerned. ‘I expect I shall see, but I would prefer to know.’

He gave a short humourless laugh. ‘What difference does it make? You’re going, whether you wish it or not.’

Chapter Four

‘If you are wise, you won’t cause any more trouble,’ he said and pulled out to pass a slowly moving town coach.

Sylvia gripped the side of the curricle and shot him a glare designed to freeze ‘Without your interference, there would have been no trouble.’

‘I suppose you didn’t almost cause a mill back there, cosying up to some namby-pamby, titled puppy with more hair than wit.’ He fired her a hard glance. ‘And just what were you doing there, anyway?’

The mill, as he called the altercation, was entirely his own doing. ‘My affairs are not your concern.’

A muscle jerked in his jaw and his anger sparked across the space between them. ‘Really? We’ll see about that.’

Prickles raced down her back. Until his resentment subsided, she risked more than sharp words from the bristling male at her side. And if he overturned this ridiculous vehicle, it would be the perfect ending to a perfectly awful day. She sat back, determined not to say another word.

The carriage bowled along at a smart clip, his strong hands grasping the ribbons with practised assurance. The spirited team ate up the road, passing everything in its path.

The traffic thinned. Signs of habitation dwindled to the occasional farm along the road. The clouds rolled away and the horizon disappeared into hazy dusk, while sunset gilded the tops of distant trees. She nibbled her bottom lip. Just how far did he intend to travel? If they went too far, she would not get back to Tunbridge Wells in time to catch the morning coach.

Her trunk. How could she have been so stupid? She clutched at Mr Evernden’s sleeve.

A stony expression met her gaze. ‘What?’

‘I left my luggage behind.’

‘You can collect it in the morning.’

The savage edge to his tone and the vicious flick of his whip above his horses’ heads gave her but a moment’s pause. ‘We must go back. What if it is stolen?’

‘Miss Boisette, if you think I would set foot in that place again… I have never in my life been ejected from anywhere, let alone a common inn.’ Anger vibrated from him in waves.