Brighton Road (4 page)

As he stalked around the side of the inn,
heading for the stableyard, Gwenda Vickers's voice echoed in his
mind once more.
"You were doing everything absolutely all wrong
. Even now, you could go after Miss Carruthers, take her in your
arms…"

"Bah!" Ravenel muttered under his breath.
"What romantic nonsense." Imagine offering such personal advice to
a man she had never met before! Miss Vickers must be all about in
her head, the same as the rest of her family. And yet he could not
help mentally reviewing his wooing of Belinda, wondering if he had
proceeded amiss. No, he could.not concede that he had. He had
conducted his courtship with the same seriousness and propriety he
brought to all of his duties as Baron Ravenel. And in his
twenty-eighth year, one of those duties was to get himself a wife,
then an heir.

Miss Carruthers had seemed such an ideal
choice: a baronet's granddaughter, a lady of breeding and
refinement, intelligent and accomplished, not given to any wild
whims of behavior—at least not until today.

Lost in his reflections, Ravenel drew back
instinctively as the stage rattled past him away from the inn, the
outside passengers clinging precariously to the top rail. So
Belinda still mourned this Colonel Percival Adams who had died in
Spain. Doubtless a cavalry officer with a fine pair of mustaches,
and excessively dashing, which Ravenel was fully aware that he was
not. "
Sobersides
"—that was the sobriquet bestowed upon him
by the London wits.

Not that he cared a jot what such society
fribbles thought of him, nor that many wagers had been laid at
White's betting that, despite all of Ravenel's assets, the fair
Belinda would never have him Likely she would choose his nearest
rival, the Earl of Smardon, a golden-haired Corinthian of the first
stare of elegance. A swaggering, muscled dolt with more brawn than
brains, Ravenel thought scornfully, but his sneer faded to a
frown.

He fared ill by comparison to Smardon. The
baron knew that he had not the least reason to be conceited over
any of his personal attributes. He deplored the swarthy cast of his
complexion that made him look more like some rascally buccaneer
than a gentleman. But he also knew his own worth in terms of lands
and the position he had to offer a lady, All during the London
Season, Belinda had afforded him every encouragement, giving him
reason to think his addresses would be acceptable to her until Lord
Smardon, the only other eligible bachelor whose holdings rivaled
his, had appeared on the scene.

Although Ravenel was loath to admit it, Miss
Vickers had been right when she had accused him of worrying that he
would be cut out by Lord Smardon. His anxiety on that score had,
had led him to commit the first breach of propriety in his life,
proposing to Belinda at a common inn. And only see what humiliation
that had brought him.

So unnecessary, too, for it seemed his rival
was not Smardon but a soldier long dead. Odd. Never once had
Belinda mentioned any such thing as being haunted by memories of a
fiancé killed in the war. But, of course, a gentleman did not
question the word of a lady, so Ravenel quelled all of his
suspicions that Belinda was merely keeping him dangling, making a
fool of him.

But he had made up his mind to have Miss
Carruthers for a wife, and have her he would. The Ravenels were
excessively stubborn when it came to obtaining what they wanted. He
would renew his addresses with more persistence when Belinda had
finished junketing about with her aunt and arrived in Brighton.

This resolution took some of the edge off his
anger and disappointment, but he still felt in no humor to make
pleasant conversation over luncheon with his other traveling
companions. Their destination was Tunbridge Wells; his was
Brighton. He had only come with them thus far because of Belinda's
presence in the party. But it would do the lady no harm to fret and
fear she had displeased him.

Ravenel saw no reason why he should not
continue on with his journey immediately. It was merely a question
of collecting his elderly valet, Jarvis, from the coffee room and
ordering his groom to have the phaeton brought round at once.

But his anger flared anew when he espied his
new carriage' drawn up before the stables, his prime pair of
blooded bays pawing in the traces, completely unattended. With a
low growl in his throat, which boded ill for the negligent Dalton,
the baron hastened in that direction, barely avoiding being knocked
down by a curricle departing from the inn yard.

Ignoring the driver's curses, Ravenel closed
the distance between himself and his own rig. Not that he was that
particular about the phaeton, but he took fierce pride in his
cattle. He never trusted his bays to an ostler, no matter how high
the inn's reputation His groom, Dalton, was paid a handsome wage to
see to the horses and make certain they were not so much as touched
by any clumsy stable boy. The man had only been in Ravenel's employ
a month, but he had given complete sastisfaction up until now. The
baron trusted that Dalton would have some good excuse to offer for
his neglect.

Unfortunately, when he located Dalton just
inside one of the empty horse stalls, the groom did not seem of a
frame of mind to offer any excuse. From the hazy look in his eyes,
Dalton appeared incapable of even pronouncing his own name.

Backed against the side of the wooden stall,
the short, wiry groom seemed about to go limp at the knees from the
caresses of a petite, dark haired wench with full, pouting red
lips. Dalton stood scarcely over five feet high, and the girl was
about his equal in height. Ravenel felt like a giant bearing down
upon them.

The girl leaned forward until her bosom
brushed against Dalton's thin chest. "Ooh, la, monsieur must be
very brave to drive such wild horses."

Dalton blushed and stared down at the wench's
clinging bodice front. " It is really nothing, miss. It is not like
his lordship owns one of those high-perch phaetons the sporting
gentlemen drive. Something of a slow-top his lordship is."

As the girl giggled, Ravenel felt his cheeks
burn.

"The slow-top?" she repeated. "C'est drole.
Monsieur is so clever."

"So clever," Ravenel bit out, startling the
couple into leaping apart, "I hope monsieur has no difficulty in
finding himself a new position."

"Lord R-Ravenel." Dalton's eyes grew wide
with guilt and dismay. He started to stammer out an apology, but
the baron had already turned to stride out of the stables. Dalton
followed after him, whining excuses.

Ravenel, although an exacting master, was
usually generous about giving erring servants a fair hearing and a
second chance. But he had borne enough insults this day. By God, he
was not going to start tolerating insolence from his own
hirelings.

Although it nigh killed him to do so, he
ordered one of the ostlers to see to his bays. He cut off Dalton's
blistering protest by drawing forth his purse and stuffing some
pound notes into the groom's leathery hand.

"Your wages, sir," Ravenel said, eyeing the
groom in a fierce manner that had cowed men far braver and more
importunate than Dalton, "You may keep the boots, but, of course,
you will return the livery."

"Aye, my lord," the groom said sullenly,
scuffing his toe in the dirt.

The baron thrust a few more coins at the man.
"And here is a little extra to cover your expenses back to London.
I will even furnish a reference as to your skill in handling
horses, but as to your reliability---"

He left the sentence incomplete, his scornful
tone making it clear what he thought. Although Dalton pocketed the
money, he did not trouble himself to conceal a look of
resentment.

Ravenel dismissed the man's lowering
expression with as much contempt as he did Dalton himself. Heading
back toward the inn, he nearly collided with the cause of this
recent trouble. The French girl deliberately thrust herself into
his path, her heavy perfume filling his nostrils even above the
odors of the stableyard.

Ravenel's nose crinkled with distaste. He by
far preferred the smell of his horses. When the girl fluttered her
lashes, showing every sign of being prepared to take up with him
where she had left off with Dalton, his lordship gave her a wide
berth.

As the baron stomped toward the inn door, he
could only wonder at what was happening to the White Hart. Once the
most respectable of hostelries, today the place was absolutely
crawling with brazen females. Not that he was so unjust as to
classify a lady such as Miss Vickers with the likes of that French
doxy. But both women had managed to disconcert him in the short
span of an hour and Ravenel looked forward to the prospect of never
setting eyes on either again. He would round up Jarvis at once and
be gone from this infernal place.

Despite the bustling atmosphere of the White
Hart's coffee room, the waiters yet found time to pay Sebastian
Jarvis the same amount of deference as he would have received at
home. As the baron's eldest and most trusted servant, he was
accorded a respect little short of that shown the master, a respect
that his presence seemed to command wherever he went.

He was a distinguished-looking old gentleman
with flowing white hair and keen blue eyes that no amount of years
could dim. The lines upon his profile were finely stitched as
though Time had become a seamstress, her needle gently fashioning
an age-worn face mended with dignity. Jarvis bore more countenance
than did most dukes who traced their ancestry back to the time of
the Conqueror.

"More rum and milk, sir?" The young waiter
hovered respectfully at Jarvis's elbow, ever ready to refill his
mug.

"No, thank you, lad," Jarvis replied in his
soft, courteous voice. Indeed he was not sure he should have had
the first one. He had hoped the toddy might soothe the ache behind
his eyes. What did ladies do when they got the megrims? Jarvis
would have been mortified to ask.

When another waiter hustled forward to set a
sizzling beefsteak before him, Jarvis regarded his meal with little
appetite. He could not believe he had another of those wretched
headaches.

But it seemed he acquired one every time he
rode out in the hot sun with Master Desmond in the open carriage.
Jarvis passed his hand across his brow with a small sigh. And to
think of the way he used to ride on horseback all day, accompanying
the present baron's grandfather in the most blistering summer
weather. He stared mournfully into his empty cup.

"You're getting a little long in the tooth,
Jarvis old man," he murmured. Aye, so he had been doing, these past
ten years and more. His wry smile was reflected back at him in the
cup's bottom.

But this time his discomfort was not entirely
due to the heat of the day. Fretting over his young gentleman had
done little to ease the steady throb behind Jarvis's temples. There
was little about Master Desmond that he didn't know. Hadn't he
acted as valet to the lad ever since he had been left an orphan at
the tender age of nine, when typhus carried off the late Lord and
Lady Ravenel? He was fully aware of all of his lordship's moods and
therefore knew perfectly well why Master Des had disappeared into a
private parlor and that Miss Carruthers hard after him. He ought to
be wishing his young master every success and yet there was
something about that Miss Carruthers, something cold and sly that
kept Jarvis hoping the match would not come off, despite his
master's wishes. The lady simply did not seem right for his Master
Des.

But when Jarvis had ventured to utter even
the slightest criticism of the lady, his lordship had flown up into
the boughs. So, despite the familiarity that his long acquaintance
with Master Desmond gave him, Jarvis had been wise enough not to
offer any more unsolicited opinions, but that did not prevent him
from continuing to worry.

When Ravenel finally made his appearance in
the coffee room, Jarvis anxiously scanned his lordship's
countenance for some sign that his fears had come to pass: Master
Desmond was now engaged to Miss Carruthers.

But the baron's heavy brows were drawn
together like a thundercloud hovering over the stormy darkness of
his eyes. His mouth was set into a hard line. It would be obvious
even to those who did not know Master Desmond well that something
had happened to vex his lordship.

She must have refused him, Jarvis thought.
Intermixed with his relief was a perverse anger at the lady who
could have the bad taste to reject his fine young gentleman.

As Lord Ravenel strode toward his table,
Jarvis pushed back his chair in order to rise. His lordship placed
a restraining hand upon his shoulder. "Sit, Jarvis, and finish your
meal."

Ravenel flung himself into the chair next to
him and sent one of the waiters to fetch him a glass of ale. While
he waited for it to be served, he drummed his fingers impatiently
on the table. "As soon as you have finished eating, we'll be
off."

"Very good, Master Des—" Jarvis broke off.
Even after all these years, he sometimes forgot to call his
gentleman by his proper title. "Very good, my lord," he
amended.

While he picked at his beefsteak, he covertly
studied the baron, hating the unhappy frown that carved deep ridges
into Ravenel's brow. His lordship stared moodily out the window.
Beyond the latticed panes, Jarvis could see the party of the
baron's friends yet making merry beneath the oak tree, Miss
Carruthers the merriest among them.

His master spent too much of his life peering
out windows, Jarvis thought sadly. He was suddenly haunted by the
memory of a much younger Master Desmond, trying conscientiously to
grapple with learning to manage a vast estate, all the while
stealing wistful glances to where his cousins played cricket upon
Ravenel's lawn.