Trapped at the Altar (30 page)

“For God's sake, Gabriel, do something,” she muttered under her breath. “Don't just wave the blade,
use
it. Frighten them. It won't take much.”

The footman appeared and yelled at the urchins, marching across the green towards them, his fists bunched. They took one look at him and fled, racing away across the green. Gabriel bent double, catching his breath before slowly sheathing his sword. He looked anxiously around once more, then hurried across the green towards the inn.

Ariadne stepped away from the window. She was
shaken by what she had seen, not just by the sight of Gabriel, not even by the thought that he was probably in the taproom below finding some Dutch courage, but by the revelation that he was so totally unable to take care of himself. It was all very well to live in that rose-tinted world of soft colors and pretty poems, of lovemaking under the dappled shade beneath the wide-spreading leaves of a beech tree. But that wasn't the world they had to live in.

She thought of the attack at the inn in the Polden Hills. What would Gabriel have thought if he could have seen her fighting like any one of the men? Filthy, sooty, bloody. It would have horrified him.

She pushed the thought aside. It was of no importance. What mattered was what she was to do now. Gabriel would be looking for her . . . or perhaps just waiting for her to find him. She had to speak to him, if just to persuade him to go back home, where he would be safe on familiar ground. He would be in no danger now from the Daunt clan. He posed no threat to them anymore. Ariadne was safely beyond his reach.

Whatever could have possessed her, a Daunt through and through, to imagine she could live in Gabriel's world? It had seemed to offer so much promise, a whole landscape of peaceful loving. Clear-eyed now, Ariadne looked at herself, at who she was. She was not cut out for peaceful loving. She thrived on something else altogether.

But that did not alter the present situation. Gabriel had to be taken care of before he was hurt and before his presence in the city could disturb the promise that she
and Ivor had found in the glorious rough-and-tumble of last evening and the long night that had followed.

And she had to do that without Ivor being aware of any of it. Ivor, the all-seeing Ivor. It would not be easy, but since when had she expected her life to be easy?

A sardonic smile touched her mouth.

In the taproom below, Gabriel tossed a pewter cup of brandy down his throat and thumped the cup down emphatically on the counter. “Another.”

The landlord, expressionless, refilled the cup and turned back to the conversation he was having with a couple of regulars at the end of the bar counter, reflecting that the young man looked in need of a stiffener. He was green as grass.

Gabriel began to feel better as the strong spirit burned in his throat and belly. He felt the heavy weight of the purse of guineas in his pocket. He'd been to see his father's lawyer that morning to give him his letter of credit, and the man had been gratifyingly obliging. Squire Fawcett was an old and valued client. Gabriel was now in possession of sufficient funds to purchase a new coat and britches and make a respectable presentation of himself to his father's friend in Threadneedle Street, who would give him the necessary introductions to make an appearance at court.

He had managed to fight off those ruffians, who had been after his purse. Gabriel called for another brandy, feeling rather pleased with himself. They had been after his purse, and he still had it. A small victory but a good one.

A
riadne looked around the suite of furnished rooms in the lodging house on Dacre Street, just a short walk to the park of St. James's and the sprawling edifice of Whitehall Palace. They were quite handsome rooms, a decent-sized entryway, a salon, a dining room, a bedchamber with a small parlor adjoining, kitchen and servants' quarters on the floor below.

“Well, what do you think?” Ivor inquired, pulling back the heavy brocade curtains at the long windows of the salon.

“Rather grand,” Ari said. “And very drafty. There's too much window.”

“True enough,” he agreed. “But it's a price you have to pay for the appearance of luxury.”

“How expensive is it?” She ran a finger over the carved molding of a rosewood table.

“Hideously, but we can afford it.” He turned back to the room. The tapestries on the walls banged idly in the
drafts from the windows, and the Turkey carpets lifted under the whistling wind blowing beneath the handsome double doors. “We'll have to block the drafts somehow and keep fires going in all the hearths. We'll also need a cook.”

“I doubt Tilly will take kindly to that.” Ari folded her arms with a shiver.

“She can't take care of you and do the cooking,” Ivor pointed out.

“Tilly wouldn't agree. We could hire a maid, though, maybe two, to help her out. She'd like that.”

Ivor nodded. “I own I'd prefer to keep the household as much to our own people as we can. Abe and the others will manage the stables and the heavy work. We'll hire a couple of youngsters to help Tilly.”

“When do I meet this relative? You said he was quite congenial.”

Ivor had insisted that Ari remain in the King's Head while he made the necessary contacts and the arrangements for the next stage of their business, and she had rather resented being kept out of the action, but now it was surely time for her to step upon the stage.

“Lord Lindsey and his lady will pay a courtesy visit to you as soon as we are properly settled,” Ivor told her. “This house is owned by a friend of his. He rents out the various apartments to courtiers who are not housed in the palace.”

“And makes a tidy profit, I daresay,” Ari observed drily.

“I daresay,” Ivor agreed as aridly. “However, we cannot expect to move in the top echelon of royal circles if we do
not have an address to go with the position. The palace is a short stroll across the park, not one, however, to be taken by you alone at any time, and not even with Tilly close to dark,” he added.

“Why not? Is it dangerous?”

“It's renowned as a playground for libertines and debauchery in general,” Ivor told her. “Perfectly respectable in daylight and in the open, for a lady accompanied by her maid, but what goes on after sundown and in the shrubberies is another matter altogether.”

Ari laughed. “You forget, my dear Ivor, that I am a Daunt, the child of brigands, robbers, kidnappers, and the like. I doubt your St. James's Park can hold any terrors for me. Besides, I have my knife.”

He shook his head. “Oh, trust me, I am not afraid for
you,
Ari, I know better than that, but your reputation is another matter. We are here, if you recall, to rehabilitate the reputation of the Daunt family. You won't do that by getting the name of a reckless debauchee up for a tumble under the bushes in St. James's Park.”

“Point taken.” Her smile was rueful. “I don't think I'm going to enjoy respectability.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised. I'll show you how much there is to enjoy this evening.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Now, that sounds promising. But why must we wait until this evening? There's a perfectly good bedchamber . . .”

He silenced her with a finger on her lips. “However gratifying I find your enthusiasm for bed sport, madam wife, I regret to say that that was not what I had in mind.”

“Oh.” She sucked his finger into her mouth. “Are you quite certain?”

He laughed, gently reclaiming his finger. “Quite certain . . . at least for right now. How would you like to go to the theatre?”

“To see a play?” Her gray eyes widened.

“That is what one usually does at the theatre.”

“When do we leave? I must dress . . . there's a gown in lavender damask over a black underskirt, with black lace. It's most dramatic.” She pranced away from him, the words tumbling from her mouth. “Come and see if you approve.”

“Not now. I have to go out again. I'll be back in two hours, and then I can see the complete picture.”

She paused, giving him a shrewd look. “Go out to do what?”

“Acquire a sedan chair for you. And liveries for the men. Lady Chalfont cannot be carried through the streets of London in a hired chair with scruffy chairmen at the poles. We must begin as we mean to go on, my lady.”

“Daunt men in livery?” She went into a peal of laughter. “Oh, I wish you the very best of luck, Sir Ivor.”

He merely smiled. “Our men, little Daunt, have known all along what this mission would entail. They are perfectly amenable.”

“You mean Rolf put the fear of God in 'em,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe, but they are loyal to you, Ari. As is the entire valley. You should know that by now.”

She did, of course; she just hadn't thought of the men accompanying them in quite that way. She had grown
up with them and simply accepted them more as friends than as servants. She had, of course, always known they would protect her as Lord Daunt's granddaughter, but she'd spent much of the time in the valley trying to evade that protection. Now she saw them in another light. She inclined her head in rueful acknowledgment and left the salon.

Tilly was in the bedchamber, hanging Ari's new wardrobe in the armoire, filling the linen press and the dresser drawers with snowy, frothy lace and muslin shifts, silk fichus, and shawls. The new shoes were arrayed in a line against the wall.

Ari had grown accustomed over the last two weeks to the thought of all this finery and footwear, but she had never seen it amassed in this way before. “Lord, Tilly, when am I ever going to wear everything?”

“All in good time, I reckon, Miss Ari,” Tilly responded phlegmatically. “Once you're at court, you'll change your gown twice a day, or so I'm told.”

“By whom?” Ari perched on the corner of the bed, idly fingering a shawl of delicate Indian muslin. Such a prospect sounded quite outlandish. Like everyone else in the valley, she was accustomed to changing her linen weekly, but she wore her outer garments until they were sufficiently soiled to make laundering absolutely necessary.

“One of the maids who works with the lord and lady on the next floor. There's three suites in the house, she tells me. She works for Lord Mallet and his lady, and along from them in the west wing is Sir Joshua and Lady Shipton. But we 'ave the biggest apartments, she tells
me.” A note of proprietorial pride entered Tilly's voice as she shook out the folds of a turquoise velvet cloak.

“Do you think you can manage the cooking, Tilly, as well as look after all this?” Ari gestured largely to the bedchamber and the mass of garments.

“I can manage for you and Sir Ivor, miss, and take care of you, but the men . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“If we hired two girls to help you, would that make it easier? Or should we hire a cook, just to take care of the kitchen?” Ari played idly with the fringe of the bed coverlet, as Tilly considered.

“I don't want no cook but myself in my kitchen,” Tilly announced. “And neither is anyone goin' to touch your clothes, Miss Ari, but me.”

“Then we'll get you some help.” Ari looked up. “You shall make up your mind about who will suit you, Tilly. There are girls aplenty desperate for work out in the streets.”

“Oh, aye,” Tilly muttered. “I've seen 'em, too. Poor mites for the most part, don't look strong enough to carry a scuttle of coals.”

“You'll fatten them up,” Ari stated, getting off the bed. “Now, help me choose something to dazzle London with. Sir Ivor and I are going to the theatre.”