Gail Eastwood (5 page)

“Welcome, welcome!” she exclaimed. “My lord, we are so honored by your visit! Here’s just the thing to take the chill off—our own local cider, as fine as any you’ll find served in Taunton.”

Brinton had unfastened the closures on his cloak, and as the woman approached with the tray, he swung the wet garment from his shoulders. “Here, lad. Drape this on that chair by the window.” He held it out to Gillian.

The aroma of the warm cider had triggered Gillian’s hunger, and she was feeling rather wobbly. She had no choice but to step toward Brinton to take the cloak, however. As the earl dumped the heavy mass of wool into her arms, she staggered under its weight.

“You brought some for the boy?” Rafferty cast an offhanded glance at the woman’s tray. “Good. I think he is also in need of sustenance.”

Once the tankards had been distributed and the woman was gone, the earl exchanged his superior attitude for one of solicitous concern. Setting down his own mug on the small table beside Gilbey’s sofa, he approached Gillian. “Allow me to do you the service, Miss Kendall. It is clear you need to sit down.”

Before Gillian could realize what he was about, he was gently unfastening her cloak. His fingers were sure and deliberate as they unndid the buttons, and a shiver ran through her despite the warm mug clutched tightly in her hands. His gesture was shockingly familiar, but her protest seemed to be stuck in her throat. Before she could dislodge it, he had removed the cloak from her shoulders and the moment had passed.

“Sit,” he ordered, and Gillian did so, selecting a chair she felt was appropriately distant from the furnishings grouped by the hearth. How could one man keep her so utterly off-balance? He could be horribly unfeeling at one moment, and remarkably considerate the next. He seemed to switch from being aloof and annoyingly proper to having no regard for propriety at all. Beyond all else, Gillian thought he seemed to delight in provoking her. Infuriating man!

However, she had to admit he was right about her posing as a servant. Not only would she personally attract less attention, but as a lord’s traveling party they would seem more believable. Anyone making inquiries after a young runaway brother and sister would never think to connect them with a pair of traveling gentlemen and their servant.

Gillian stared at the blue velvet drapes, lost in such thoughts. She failed to note a commotion and voices in the hallway until the innkeeper escorted another pair of travelers into their sanctuary.

“My deepest apologies, Lord Brinton,” the innkeeper began. “The fire in the other parlor seemed to be smoking quite badly, and I thought perhaps you would not mind sharing yours with these good folks for just a few minutes?” He hurried on, perhaps fearing that Brinton might object if given the opportunity. “This is, Squire Hammerton and his neighbor, Mr. Cornish. They live just up in Puriton; they are regular visitors here. I can certainly vouch for their character—they always pay their bill!” He giggled nervously and, after catching his breath, plunged on. “Squire and Mr. Cornish, I am honored to present the Earl of Brinton, and his companion . . .?”

“Mr. Kendall,” Rafferty finished with something less than his usual graciousness. He was annoyed by the intrusion and wondered cynically if the innkeeper even had another fire going in the other room as claimed. However, he had been left no polite choice but to accept the company thrust upon them.

The squire rushed forward to shake hands with the earl. “Honored, my lord—indeed, most generous of you!” He was a classic example of his species—round eyes looked out from a square, heavily jowled and rather florid countenance, set on a short, thick neck and massive shoulders. He was nearly of a height with Gilbey and the earl, quite dwarfing his companion by comparison.

Gilbey winced as the squire pumped his hand energetically.

“Mr. Kendall had the ill-fortune to be set upon by footpads in Taunton this morning,” the innkeeper explained hastily.

“Footpads! In Taunton!” the squire exclaimed, releasing Gilbey. He peered at him curiously. “You were fortunate to escape worse injury, young man. ’Tis enough to make one stay at home!” He nodded sagely to the small assembly. “We are all well out of there, I must say.” He launched into a description of the conditions he had found in Taunton, taking the opportunity to shed his coat.

His companion said nothing. He was a small man, apparently inclined to be taciturn or, as Rafferty surmised, he seldom found many chances to participate in conversations around the squire.

“Yes—we had our fill of the crowds and confusion,” the latter continued with renewed enthusiasm, settling into a chair across from Gilbey’s sofa. “No one knew if the race would be held or not. I couldn’t brook no delay—I’ve got a special filly waiting for me at home.” He winked outrageously. “My missus, you know. She finds she can’t go long without my tender ministrations, if you take my meaning. That’s not to say if they’d a barmaid or a chamber-lass as well-endowed as my wife, I wouldn’t avail m’self of the opportunity.” Hammerton lapsed into loud, coarse guffawing that totally obscured the silence of his audience.

Brinton dared not look in Gillian’s direction. He felt somehow he should have been able to protect her innocent ears from such vulgar talk, but the squire, of course, had no way of knowing they were in mixed company.
Drat the innkeeper
, Rafferty thought. How long did the man need to prepare two private rooms?

“There’s nothing to match the comforts of one’s home, no matter what they say,” the squire was rambling on again. “It makes you wonder why anyone would give it up. Why, there were two scapegraces spent the night in th’ same taproom as Cornish and me, looking for a pair of runaways. Can you credit that? Footpads and missing persons!”

There was a subtle change in the room, as if a sudden noise had captured everyone’s attention.

Gilbey shifted on the sofa, presumably to make himself more comfortable. “Were these Somerset people?” he asked with studied casualness. He was fidgeting with the edge of his waistcoat.

“Not at all, not by those accents,” the squire answered.

“I meant, the missing persons—the ones they were seeking.”

“I believe they were said to be Devonish. Ain’t that right, Cornish?” Hammerton turned to his friend for confirmation.

“I believe the story was, a young lass and her brother from the South Hams had run away from their guardian.”

“That was it—that was it!” The squire took over the narrative again. “And he a viscount! Imagine!”

“The guardian?” Brinton interposed.

“No, no, my lord. The lad. Such foolishness! Consider the trouble they might run against. Why, if a young gentleman like Mr. Kendall here can be accosted by footpads, just think what might befall two such young runaways!”

His ruminations were interrupted by a loud fit of coughing as Gilbey choked on his cider. Brinton knew then if he glanced at the girl she would be sitting as silent and pale as a ghost. He carefully kept his eyes on the squire.

“Think, indeed,” he said encouragingly. “And why do you suppose a young viscount and his sister would show such poor judgment as to flee from their guardian?”

“Now that I couldn’t rightly say,” Hammerton replied, disappointingly. “These fellows had followed the trail to Exeter and then to Taunton, but lost track of them there. They were going to check all the northbound coaches this morning.” He sniffed in disdain. “Imagine a viscount on the common stage!”

“Horrendous,” agreed Brinton wryly. “Did you happen to learn who these people were?”

“They were little more than ruffians, I’d say,” the squire replied honestly.

“I mean, the young runaways and their guardian.” Brinton was finding his patience difficult to maintain. He caught a despairing glance from Gilbey.

“The Viscount Cranford, I believe,” said Mr. Cornish, who had already proven he was a better listener than the squire. “The guardian was Baron Pembermore.”

“You’re certain of this?” Brinton’s tone was laced with disbelief.

“Indeed,” answered Cornish. “But it seems to me there was also some mention of the Earl of Grassington. I didn’t catch the connection.”

The Earl of Brinton set his cider down very carefully on the pedestal table beside him. He felt as though he had suddenly fallen over the edge of a very tall cliff.

Chapter Five

Rafferty knew his ears could not have deceived him. What sort of bumble-bath had he stumbled into? The Earl of Grassington was his elderly uncle, who should have been too preoccupied with marriage plans to get embroiled in any other folly. Cranford lands adjoined his uncle’s in Devon, so there was a connection to the viscount, but could the lad truly be Cranford? Of all the titles in England the boy might have held, that one was almost too coincidental to be believed.

He had thought the viscount to be an older man. He tried to remember if he had ever met his uncle’s neighbor. Could the lad have just recently come into the title? Had there ever been mention of a sister? The young earl rose and crossed to stand before the fire, staring into the snapping flames. He did not want the others to see his face, for he feared it would betray the conflicting emotions whirling through his mind.

Rafferty believed that the pair were siblings, at least. It would explain the resemblance between them and the unloverlike closeness he had noted. It hurt his pride a little that they had not confided in him, but, he reasoned, were he in their situation, he might not have done so either. At least there was certainly no marriage in the wind between them. A curious feeling of elation mixed with his other reactions.

He was horrified to think that any of these people were associated with Baron Pembermore, however. The talk bruited about London held the baron to be a scoundrel—a gamster and wastrel of the very worst sort, despite high connections. Could the man truly be the young pair’s guardian? Was he the reason they were running away? How in heaven’s name had his uncle come to be mixed up in the affair? Brinton struggled with these questions, aware that in the back of his mind a skeptical voice kept asking,
Is any of this story true?

“Your rooms are ready, my lord.” The innkeeper’s voice cut into Brinton’s thoughts.

Abruptly turning his back on the fire, the earl saw that cider was being served to the squire and Mr. Cornish and that the innkeeper was standing expectantly in the doorway to the hall, ready to lead his party upstairs. Rafferty willed an inscrutable mask of control to cover his features. He would fathom out this puzzle, but not yet.

***

The challenge of leaving the room without betraying her role kept Gillian from succumbing to the panic that had begun to surge through her. The squire and Mr. Cornish’s tale had confirmed her worst fear—that, somehow, someone had indeed traced her and Gilbey to Taunton. Gillian had to assume that only the unforgiving weather and the extraordinary crowds had saved them from being found. What a mixed blessing that she and Gilbey had been prevented from taking their coach! She felt a warm surge of gratitude toward Lord Brinton for making possible their escape.

The earl, however, was impossible to read. She had watched him get up and move before the fire. He had moved casually, but she suspected that he had made the connection between his passengers and the Devonshire runaways. Was he shocked by what he had heard? Was he angry that they had deceived him? What would he do now? There had been no clue to his reaction.

Gillian gathered up the men’s wet garments and her own, hoping the squire and his friend were not watching her. She nearly staggered under the weight of the coat and two cloaks as she followed after the others. She trailed slowly up the stairs, trying to avoid the dragging ends of the voluminous cloaks. Ahead, Gilbey limped along with his weight on Brinton’s arm. The earl was coughing under the strain of assisting him.

The little procession entered an elegant room furnished all in Chinese yellow. Gillian dropped her burden onto the nearest satin-clad chair, longing to sink down on top of it. Her arms ached, and she felt exhausted to the very bone, but to sit without the earl’s permission would be unthinkable in a servant.

Brinton needed a moment to recover and catch his breath, but then he inspected the rooms and dismissed the innkeeper, requesting him to send up a hearty tea. As soon as the man departed, Gillian headed for the mate to Gilbey’s chair by the fire. To her dismay the steps she had intended to be firm and purposeful faltered, and her knees wobbled. Her brother looked at her in consternation. Brinton was by her side in an instant, grasping her elbow and guiding her to the chair.

“I’m all right,” she said, but her voice came out as a throaty whisper and there was a catch in it.
Oh, no
, she resolved,
not tears again!

Brinton squatted in front of her chair, looking up into her eyes and taking her hands into his. He removed her gloves and began to rub her fingers, as if she were a child just come in from the cold.

“I—I just need to eat,” she stammered faintly. The earl’s motions were causing the most remarkable sensations to travel up her arms. In her weakened state she was afraid her body might begin to shake all over. She could not seem to unlock her gaze from his.

“Tea should be here directly,” he said softly. He released her hands then and rose to pace away from the hearth and back again. He stopped and looked first at Gilbey, then at Gillian.

“I suppose that the name Kendall is as much a fiction as your relationship as cousins?” His tone was gentle but strained, leaving Gillian with the impression of tightly reined control.

She glanced at Gilbey and saw that he had colored to his ear tips. She knew that she was flushed as well, from the tingling in her face. How should they answer? Gilbey’s eyes met hers and the twins stared at each other for a moment. Then Gilbey swallowed nervously and faced the earl.

“I suppose we should make a clean breast of things, my lord. We owe you that, for all your assistance—that much and a great deal more. Rest assured we will repay you.”

“I have not helped you in expectation of repayment,” Brinton said tightly. “However, I do feel I have a right to know whom I have been helping, and why.”

Gillian toyed with the gloves in her lap. She could not bring herself to look at Brinton. Better to let Gilbey handle the confrontation, she thought. She was so tired, and she wasn’t sure she could stand to see the look of disapproval that might come over Brinton’s face when he learned their story.

Legally, she and Gilbey had no right to defy their guardian. Brinton might not see the justification for what they were doing and might even be angry that they had involved him. Yet, when had she suddenly become such a coward? She must have faced her father’s disapproval a hundred times for various antics, and never had it bothered her. What made this so different? Defiantly, she lifted her chin and turned to the earl.

“Our family name is Kentwell,” she began. “Gilbey and I are twins if you can believe it,” she added with a brittle little laugh. “We live at Cliffcombe, in the South Hams, not far from Kingsbridge. Or should I say, we did.” Emotion was threatening to defeat her brave attempt. “My brother is the Viscount Cranford,” she finished quickly, looking away.

A wave of pain washed through her like a breaker tumbling stones on the beach at home. She had given up so much! She put a clenched fist to her lips and closed her eyes to banish the images of faithful servants and her dog, Hector, no doubt bereft and puzzled by her absence. She must not think of them. She must look only ahead.

The earl and her brother were shaking hands. “Not so well met as might be usual, eh, Cranford?” Brinton said.

“Unusual circumstances, to say the least,” Gilbey agreed. He aimed an encouraging smile at his sister.

“So, you have run away from home?” Brinton prompted.

“Yes,” the twins replied in tandem. As they paused to see which one would take up the narrative, they were interrupted by a quick rap on the door.

“Devil take it,” said Brinton under his breath. As he went to the door, he cast a meaningful glance at Gillian, who realized she ought to get up.

“What?” the earl fairly barked at the boy who stood outside. The lad held a bucket of steaming water in each hand. “Oh,” Brinton said somewhat sheepishly, backing up. “Right through here—the tub is set up in the other room. Tyler will show you.” He nodded pointedly at Gillian.

Gillian led the boy through, grateful for the earl’s presence of mind.

“Just leave the buckets,” she told the boy in a gruff voice. “I’ll see to them.” She escorted him back into the outer room.

Brinton tossed the lad a shilling and saw him out. As soon as the door closed, Gillian blurted, “Who is Tyler?”

Brinton smiled. “Tyler is my valet at home.”

“And where is your home? We know as little about you as you know about us!” Her questions bore an undertone of resentment.

The earl parried deftly. “Let us not divert from the topic at hand, despite the interruption, Miss Kentwell. You have run away from your home in South Devon, a very drastic thing to do, and have run into nothing but trouble since.” His eloquent, dark eyebrows rose in expectation. “Come now, Cranford, before your bathwater gets cold.”

“Our mother died in childbirth when we were eight,” Gilbey said, taking up the tale. “There were no other children. Then a year ago our father died. His younger half brother is our guardian, Baron Pembermore.” Gilbey paused to look at Gillian, who nodded to him to continue.

She was watching Brinton’s face as he listened, trying to interpret what she saw there. For the most part what she saw was an annoyingly handsome man, whose classically sculptured features hid what was passing through his mind. She thought she could detect a tightness to his jaw, however, and a slight narrowing of his eyes, as if he didn’t like, or didn’t believe, what he was hearing. Her heart sank.

“Our uncle has all but ignored us during this year that we’ve been in mourning,” Gilbey continued. “We had settled back into fairly normal patterns at home, with the servants to attend our needs. We are almost nineteen, and in just over two more years will be of legal age.” He cast a significant look at his sister. “Uncle William will interfere with us no more then,” he declared staunchly.

“But you said that he’d ignored you?” Brinton questioned.

“We live quietly and keep to ourselves. Gillie does her music. I like to fish and fancy myself an artist. We favor long rides along the coast. Our headlands are rather spectacular—have you ever been to South Devon?”

“Yes,” said Brinton. Gillian could see the comers of his mouth had tightened, and the tenseness in his voice was unmistakable. Was his patience wearing thin?

“Five days ago our uncle announced that I am to be married,” Gillian interjected. She could not mask the bitterness in her voice. “He had the arrangements well in hand.”

“I imagine you took that rather amiss,” the earl said with mock seriousness. He looked more amused now than tense. It was well his shins were not in striking range of Gillian’s feet, for she had a stong urge to kick him.

“Truly,” he continued more soberly, “I can understand how shocked you must have been, but there are still many arranged marriages these days. You are apparently of marriageable age, although I have to say, you do not look it. Was the match he desired for you so unacceptable? He did not propose to marry you off to a wife-beater, or some sort of rakehell, did he?”

“No.”

They were interrupted once again by a knock at the door.

“What now?” Brinton exclaimed in frustration. He opened the door quickly, and there, of course, was the woman with their tea. “Very well,” he said ungraciously, “put it on the table there.”

She entered the room and deposited the tray. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, seeing Gilbey seated by the fire still fully dressed. “Sir, Mr. Kendall’s bathwater will be getting cold!” She was no doubt dismayed by the prospect of sending up more.

“He likes it that way,” growled Brinton, all but pushing her toward the door. He gave her a half crown. “Thank you.”

Gillian was already at the table pouring out tea when he turned around. He assisted her in setting out the enticing collection of breads, Scotch eggs, and potatoes, served with a few sausage links placed on the side. The aroma drew Gilbey away from the hearth without a word. They pulled up chairs and fell to ravenously, as if their earlier breakfast had never been.

After a pause of several moments, Brinton began again. “Surely you were not surprised to discover you must marry?” He sipped his hot tea and set the dish carefully back in its saucer.

“Of course not,” Gillian retorted. She reached for another split bun, weighing her words. Could she make Lord Brinton understand the horror she had felt over the betrothal? She must try, for it was clear that she and Gilbey still needed his help. They were only twelve miles from Taunton, for pity’s sake, where their pursuers might still very well pick up their trail.

“My uncle could not care less whether or not I am ready to be a wife,” she began again. “He pledged me to the Earl of Grassington without so much as consulting me, and then he all but expected me to kiss his feet in gratitude. Can you imagine? That I should be grateful to him for arranging to ruin my life!”

“Is the idea of the marriage so hateful, then?”

Gillian thought Brinton’s eyes were watchful, and his posture seemed very stiff. “Grassington is old enough to be my grandfather,” she persevered. “He does not socialize, nor is he known to travel. Although he is our nearest neighbor, I have met him only twice. To be forced to marry him is like a sentence to be entombed on his estate.”

She paused, the color rising delicately in her cheeks with the passion of her remembered anger. “You must understand that, although I love the South Hams, I have desires. I would like to see London and something of the rest of the world. And I would pine for company, for people closer to my age, married to him.” Overwhelmed by her distaste for the idea, Gillian abruptly got up from the table and moved restlessly to the windows overlooking the inn yard.

“Uncle William had the gall to sit in our drawing room and suggest that I should be pleased to be marrying an earl!” In the heat of the moment Gillian quite forgot that she was addressing one. “As if that were of utmost importance, or even highly unattainable!” She sniffed. “I am young, passable-looking, and the daughter of a viscount. My father left me a very generous portion. It is not outrageous to think that I might marry an earl—a young one—if I had that ambition.”