London's Last True Scoundrel (11 page)

The coachman shook his head. “Axle’s broke.”

“Can you fix it?” she said.

He eyed her. “The
axle’s
broke, miss,” he repeated patiently. “Need a smithy for that job.”

Davenport came around and inspected the damage. “There’s a village farther down the road, about two miles or so, where we can arrange to get the coach repaired. You two can ride the horses. We’ll walk.”

“But how long will that take?” Hilary almost wailed with frustration.

The coachman rubbed his chin. “Hard to say, miss. It’s pretty bad and not the work of a moment to mend. I doubt we’ll get the carriage back on the road today.”

*   *   *

Davenport knelt down beside the coach. He ran his hand over the bent axle and found the damage was just as bad as the dour coachman had said.

Had the wheel been tampered with? There was no way to tell. One couldn’t assume anything except that the vehicle had been in a poor state of repair to begin with.

The circumstance didn’t quiet the edgy sensation prickling at the nape of his neck.

He surveyed their surroundings but didn’t catch any sign of his shadow.

“We’ll have to walk to the inn,” he told Honey. “I’ll be able to hire another conveyance there.”

“But what about Trixie’s ankle?” said Honey. “She could not possibly walk two miles.”

Davenport mentally kicked himself for instigating that foolish deception. There was no way in hell he was carrying the plump maid all that way.

“Sorry, I’d forgotten Trixie’s ankle.” He drew a breath through his teeth. “Billy, can you take Trixie up before you?”

Billy grinned down at the maid. “Aye, that I can.”

Trixie gave a disdainful sniff but condescended to allow herself to be lifted up before Billy. There was no saddle, of course, but the steeds were accustomed to being ridden by postillions and docilely accepted their burdens.

“Come on,” said Davenport to Honey when he’d tied her bandboxes to the horses’ harness. “We might as well take a shortcut cross-country if we must go on foot.”

*   *   *

Hilary wasn’t certain how it came about that she ended up alone with Davenport and without her having the least say in directing her own servants. Despite his seeming nonchalance, he displayed the qualities of a man who was born to command.

Unable to think of a better scheme, she picked up her skirts and climbed a stile after him.

“The broken axle is most unfortunate,” she panted, hurrying to keep up with Davenport’s long, easy stride. “Do you think it was an accident?”

His head snapped around. For the first time, he looked at her. “Why? What else could it be?”

She halted, taken aback by his taut expression. Real concern shadowed his eyes.

Now she began to feel uneasy. “I don’t know. I thought perhaps Billy had thought of a scheme to slow me down until my brothers catch up with me.” She shrugged. “Which is nonsensical, for Tom and Benedict wouldn’t follow me anyway.”

Relief sketched across his features.

She narrowed her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

A shot rang out.

The next moment she was flat on her back on the ground beneath the hedgerow, with Davenport on top of her.

The breath crushed out of her lungs. She was afraid, but most of all, she was acutely aware of him, sprawled over her. His body, so big and heavy, but heavy in a way that was not at all unpleasant.

“Was that a—”

“Gun. Yes,” he gritted the words between his teeth. Then he let out a stream of vicious invective that shocked her to the marrow.

“Someone is trying to
kill
you?” she squeaked.

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “But I wouldn’t put money on it at this juncture.”

He shifted so that he supported his weight on his elbows. His body was hot and hard and his breathing came fast, but he was all business now. That teasing light had died from his eyes.

“Just what is happening here?” she hissed. “You know something about this. You must. People don’t just go shooting at other people for no reason.”

“I am not at all sure the shot was for us. It’s probably someone out for a day’s sport, shooting wood pigeons.”

“Then why,” Hilary managed, “are we lying here like this?”

“Better to be safe than riddled with holes.” He gazed down at her, and a hint of his customary good humor returned. “Why, Miss deVere,” he said, his piratical mouth curling at the edges. “We really must stop meeting like this.”

*   *   *

Another shot sounded. Farther away, this time. Probably a couple of local lads out bagging fowl, just as he’d told Honey.

Davenport cursed himself. He’d overreacted. If the man who followed him had wanted him dead, he’d have had ample opportunity well before now.

He was so keyed up, he hadn’t taken the time to enjoy the feel of Honey beneath him. Now that the perceived danger turned out not to be danger at all, he did.

She must have seen some change in his expression, for she squirmed a little in an attempt to get up. The action sent deliciously tantalizing sensations through his body.

Truly, he must stop torturing himself like this when he knew nothing would come of it. They needed to get to that inn and make sure nothing else happened to slow their journey.

“Is it safe now?” Honey said, pushing at his shoulders with her palms. “That shot seemed farther away.”

“You smell of violets,” he said, drawing a deep, appreciative breath.

“You are making that up,” she said impatiently. “Is it safe to be on our way, do you think?”

He cocked his head to listen but heard no more shots. “We’ll wait five more minutes. That should do it.”

And then he set about
not
kissing her. He brushed a long, curling tendril of deep gold from her face, tucked it behind her ear. As if he wished to clear a path for his mouth to follow.

He imagined pressing his lips to the pulse point in her graceful neck, feeling her responsive shiver. He thought about taking her pretty, lush mouth, possessing it in the same way he burned to posses her body, plunging deep.

She could scarcely mistake precisely what he wanted. The size and hardness of him pressing against her stomach must be impossible to ignore.

Something heated and softened in those brown eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she breathed.

“Like what?” Stupid question, but all of the blood had deserted his brain. Stringing more than two words together was beyond him.

“Like you want to, oh, to devour me.” She gave a choking gasp and thrashed a little. “For pity’s sake, let me up.”

To his regret, another faint sound of a distant shot finally settled the matter. He let her push him away and wriggle out from beneath him.

After a moment or two, he rose and followed her as she marched off toward the village.

“You are incorrigible,” she complained, increasing her pace. “I believe you knew they were hunters all along.”

He hadn’t, but he now felt foolish for his overreaction, so he said, “You can’t blame a scoundrel for trying, Honey.”

“Stop calling me Honey!” she yelled.

He grinned. “But it suits you so well.”

She made a noise between a cry and a growl and stalked off, even faster this time. He had no trouble keeping up with her, of course, with his longer stride. That seemed to infuriate her more.

They soon reached the inn. Too soon for his liking.

The establishment was a small one and the only carriage available for hire that day was a gig, so he hired it and ordered the horses put to.

He didn’t find the servants in the stables or the yard, but the carriage horses were there, so Trixie, Billy, and the coachman must have made it here and be somewhere on the premises. He ordered Honey’s bandboxes to be transferred from the horses to the gig.

“The servants are probably in the taproom,” he told Honey, heading for the inn. “At least Trixie won’t have gone far.” He hoped not, or the game would be up and Honey would be furious with him.

There was no private parlor at this small commercial establishment, so he commanded Honey to wait in the vestibule of the shadowy, dark-paneled inn while he went to the taproom to find Trixie and the men.

When she protested, he pointed out to her that ladies did not frequent taprooms and besides, she’d wanted to maintain her anonymity, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t it draw attention if she went in there with him?

For once, she did as she was told, pulling her veil down over her face while she waited for him. The entrance hall to the inn was dim and full of bustle. He didn’t think anyone would notice her there.

The hostelry clearly did a roaring trade in merchants and prosperous farmers passing through on their way to the metropolis and back. Even at this hour, the taproom was full to bursting, noisy with good cheer. The scent of spilled ale, sweat, and dung filled his nostrils.

Davenport’s presence garnered a few startled and curious looks. They were not accustomed to seeing noblemen in full evening kit at a little after three in the afternoon, it seemed.

Well, and who could blame them for staring? Honey was right to avoid appearing in his company. He looked what he was, a wealthy scoundrel out for a spree. One that lasted days, not just one evening.

A swift reconnaissance told him Billy and the coachman weren’t present. As a sop to expectation, he ordered an ale and asked the landlord if he’d seen men of their description and a woman of Trixie’s. “Too busy to notice,” was the answer he’d expected and the answer he received.

If they weren’t here or in the stables, where were they? If he was to keep his promise to Honey to get her to London tonight, they needed to get moving. He’d leave the men to wait for the carriage to be fixed and return it to the Grange, but Honey wouldn’t go anywhere without Trixie.

Only, where was the chit?

CHAPTER EIGHT

The most peculiar sense of apprehension overtook Hilary when Davenport left her. When he was around, she was by turns exasperated, shocked, and infuriated. But there was no doubting the fact that having a big, strong man at one’s side made one feel safe from the rest of the world.

She marveled at the way Davenport had taken command back in the stables, giving orders and demanding a vehicle and a horse with utter assurance, despite having no more than a few coins in his pocket.

His manner alone was enough to convince staff that he was, indeed, the Earl of Davenport, an aristocrat whose credit was good anywhere. No matter that his face was bruised like a prizefighter’s, nor that even Trixie’s ministrations could not make his evening dress pristine again.

There was an air about him, a force of personality that could only spring from a background of privilege and ease. But more than that, a bone-deep confidence and a knack for command, when he chose to exercise it, brought him instant obedience.

Hilary perched on a little wooden stool against the wall and looked about her. She’d never been in such an establishment as this bustling inn. It was not a hostelry that catered to ladies, or females of any description, for that matter. Commercial men—tradesmen and farmers, bankers and city clerks—seemed to frequent the place.

The noise that spilled from the taproom was loud and often punctuated by obscenity. She winced every time another raucous burst of laughter rang out.

She supposed she ought to be glad it was laughter she heard and not a brawl. One guess who’d be at the hub of any fight that came his way. Though she had made Davenport promise not to punch anyone during their journey, she wasn’t confident he’d keep his word if it came down to an affray.

She recalled how he’d looked, standing over her two enormous brothers, fists clenched, feet planted wide. The fierce light in his eyes had faded as soon as he realized she stood there, but she’d caught sight of it for all that. And she’d known then, if she hadn’t suspected all along, that the Earl of Davenport was not a man to be trifled with, however easygoing his general demeanor.

Hilary sat in the corner at the edge of a row of chairs against the wainscoted wall, trying to look inconspicuous and succeeding fairly well, she thought. She folded her hands in her lap, cast down her gaze, and waited.

Some time passed before she felt someone’s attention upon her. No mistaking that feeling, although she’d be hard-pressed to explain or justify it.

Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t resist looking up.

That was a mistake. A big, florid-faced man with a mustard waistcoat gave her a knowing grin that had a cruel edge to it.

“Well, now, and ain’t you a pretty little thing?” The words were loud, slightly slurred.

Hilary darted a look around, hoping the man did not address her. But of course, that was a vain hope.

According to the rules of etiquette, no gentleman would dare approach a lady to whom he’d not been introduced. Not unless he wished to be snubbed, that was.

But those rules only applied to gentlemen, not to men of this man’s ilk. Nor to scandalous earls, she thought dryly. And being herself without a maid or chaperone to lend her respectability she was fair game.

“Oh, come on now, love. Give us a smile.”

Unease dripped down her spine like cold molasses. She ought to give the man a blistering set-down. He was probably some ordinary merchant, a bit full of himself, hopeful of setting up a flirtation with a young woman who appeared to have no one near to protect her.

To him the encounter was a harmless distraction, but it wasn’t to her.

She kept her gaze lowered, regarding the man’s mud-splashed boots, willing him not to come any closer.

Another pair of boots joined the loud waistcoated man’s. “Cor blimey, what have we here? You all alone, sweetheart? Need some company, eh?”

Now there were two of them! The second man was even larger than the other, with a bushy black beard that seemed to emphasize his wet-mouthed leer.

Refusing to answer their rude questions, Hilary sat up straighter. She disliked feeling cowed. She wanted to give the men a piece of her mind. Yet, she reminded herself, to engage in any manner with these strangers would draw attention and she needed to avoid that at all costs. Besides, if she reprimanded them, they’d read it as either a challenge or an invitation. She wished to give them neither.