Em sat back, watching the houses of Seaton slip by. Studiously ignoring the louring weight in the air, emanating from the gentleman beside her.
She waited for him to say something, what she had no idea.
He waited until Seaton fell behind and they were bowling along at a clipping pace before stating, “I haven’t met your sisters yet.”
Not a question, yet given the tension in the air, she gratefully seized the topic and ran. “I’ve three—Isobel, Issy as we call her, is the eldest. As I believe I mentioned, she’s twenty-three. The younger pair are the twins—Gertrude and Beatrice—Gert and Bea.” She paused for breath, sensed that unnerving tension still there, and went on, “All three, Issy, Gert, and Bea, have blond hair and blue eyes, not like Henry and me. The twins especially look angelic, which is so very far from the truth it can be dangerous—people take them at face value far too readily. And I’m afraid they’ve run wild for too long. Their mother—Issy’s, Henry’s, and my stepmother—didn’t cope well after my father’s death, and she failed to educate them properly, as Issy and I subsequently learned when, after her death, the twins came to live with us. Issy’s presently trying to instill some modicum of ladylike attributes into their unfortunately not always receptive minds.”
She paused, glanced at him.
He nodded, frowning still, but whether it was over checking his horses or what she’d said—or what she’d done—she didn’t know.
After a moment, she looked ahead; looking at his profile, all hard edges and planes currently set in uncompromising lines, wasn’t an occupation likely to soothe her overactive nerves. “We hail from York originally. As I mentioned we’ve traveled quite a bit—we stayed in Leicestershire for some time before I took on those positions for which you saw the references.”
There was a certain challenge—a certain thrill—in successfully skating around the whole truth. “The tavern at Wylands was quite lovely.” She continued to color in her supposed background, inventing freely—filling the time.
Jonas stopped listening. He knew her references were false, ergo the memories she was now relating were fictional, fabrications. But she’d revealed more than he’d expected.
Thinking back over their conversations, he noted she hadn’t reacted to his mention of the Cynsters. She had no knowledge of the family, which suggested she’d never moved among the haut ton. Combined with her father having attended Pembroke College, that gave him a clearer idea of the social strata to which she belonged—and she’d just told him she hailed from York. That, he thought, had been true.
And if she hadn’t known that the twins weren’t being educated, then her father must have died when the twins were quite young—say between seven to ten years ago—and she’d been acting as head of her family ever since. That was plain in the way she spoke of her siblings, in her attitude to Henry and his to her.
He glanced briefly at her; she was still holding forth about the inn at Wylands. Looking forward, he inwardly debated her age—twenty-four or five, at the most twenty-six, given her other sister was twenty-three. It was her maturity that made her seem older, gained no doubt through having to look after her siblings from an early age. That and…she’d definitely had experience of holding gentlemen at bay.
Those barriers she’d erected against him were too practiced; she was too watchful, too aware of the possibilities at all times.
It bothered him that she felt she needed to be so wary, so careful around gentlemen, especially him. It smacked of a loss of innocence, not in the biblical sense but in a practical, day-to-day sense, which in his book was regrettable.
Just how, where, and why she’d been subjected to unwanted attentions he didn’t know—but for some reason he didn’t comprehend, he felt compelled to learn the answers.
Felt compelled to…what? Defend her?
To his considerable surprise, he didn’t—couldn’t—dismiss that idea, much less the feeling behind it.
Which made him feel distinctly wary as well.
He drove on, her voice pleasant, almost musical, in his ears, and wondered what he should do—would do—next.
Wondered what he truly wanted.
Wondered how to achieve that.
By the time the first cottages of Colyton appeared, he’d made up his mind.
He needed to learn a great deal more about Miss Emily Beauregard. He needed to get answers; he needed to learn her secrets.
She would, of course, resist revealing them.
But he knew he could unsettle her by playing on the physical attraction between them.
Against that, he didn’t want to lose her as his innkeeper. Given the strength of her barriers, given what he’d thus far seen of her will, he felt fairly certain that if he pushed too hard, she wouldn’t hesitate to pack her bags and leave.
Leave him as well as Colyton, and that definitely wouldn’t do.
He turned into the forecourt before the Red Bells and drew his horses to a halt. He stepped down, pinning her with a glance—defying her to try to jump down again.
She waited, not happily; that she was steeling herself to weather his touch without reacting was, to him, obvious.
She rose as he neared. He reached for her, grasped her waist, and swung her down.
And didn’t let her go.
Not immediately.
Couldn’t resist, despite his best intentions, taking just a moment to look into her bright eyes, and see her response, sense her locked breath.
And know that she was no more immune to the moment, to the closeness, to the sudden flaring heat, than he.
Drawing in a slow breath, he forced himself to let her go, forced himself to take a step back.
His eyes still locked on hers, he bowed. “I hope you enjoyed the drive. Good day, Miss Beauregard.”
She tried to speak, had to clear her throat. Nodded. “Yes, thank you—the drive was pleasant. Good day, Mr. Tallent.”
With another nod, she turned and walked to the inn door.
He watched until her figure was swallowed up by the gloom inside, then turned, strode around his horses, and leapt back into the curricle’s seat.
Turning the equipage, he set off at a spanking trot for the Grange.
If he couldn’t risk overly pressuring Miss Emily Beauregard for answers to his numerous questions, then he’d just have to be subtle and not step over her line.
W
hich was an excellent resolution as resolutions went, except that he had to, of necessity, first discover where her line—that point beyond which she would recoil and take flight—lay.
In pursuit of that goal—and hoping for more incidental revelations—Jonas walked to the Red Bells early that evening.
He stepped through the front door and, somewhat taken aback by the crowd, halted just inside to take stock.
That there was a crowd wasn’t such a great surprise, but its composition and extent exceeded his expectations. Noise rose up and rolled over him in waves; laughter echoed from the rafters. And that wasn’t all that was different.
The place
looked
different, yet he couldn’t see anything—furniture or decorations—that hadn’t been there before. The difference, which was quite remarkable, appeared to have been achieved by a thorough cleaning—was that lavender he smelled?—combined with better placement of cushions and the reappearance of doilies and table runners he hadn’t seen in decades.
He glanced around again, dredged his memories. Decided the transformation had already been under way when he’d fetched Emily early that afternoon; he’d been distracted and hadn’t paid close attention. And the change wasn’t, he suspected, as glaringly obvious in the light of day as it was in the warm glow of brilliantly clean and polished lamps.
Scanning the tap-side of the room, he wasn’t surprised to see that the occasional regulars were all there—among others, Thompson, the blacksmith, and his brother, Oscar, and from Colyton Manor there was Covey and Dodswell, Lucifer’s groom. But in addition there was a solid representation of estate workers, farmers, gardeners, and household staff—some from even further afield than the houses he’d named for his new innkeeper.
Quite a few owners of said houses were present, too; Jonas spotted Henry Grisby and Cedric Fortemain talking animatedly, while Basil Smollet sipped an ale and chatted with Pommeroy Fortemain, Cedric’s younger brother.
The cottages in the village were represented by Silas Coombe, Mr. Weatherspoon, and a sprinkling of other older males. What was notable was that many had their respective spouses perched at their elbows, women who hadn’t darkened the inn’s door since early in the late unlamented Juggs’s tenure.
Even more remarkable was the throng, mostly feminine, to the left of the door. Every one of the more comfortable chairs was taken. Miss Sweet, Phyllida’s old governess, was there, along with Miss Hellebore, almost an invalid but not to be outdone in the curiosity stakes. Both had noticed him and were watching him avidly, but he was accustomed to being the target of their bird-bright eyes.
The ladies from Highgate and others from Dottswood Farm were scattered in groups, chattering like magpies.
Jonas looked, but Phyllida wasn’t among the throng. It was Aidan’s and Evan’s dinnertime, so that wasn’t to be wondered at. He felt certain his twin would have looked in during the afternoon, but as Miss Beauregard had been with him, Phyllida might well have missed her mark.
That everyone had dropped by to see—and for the females at least, to if possible converse with—their new innkeeper went without saying. At that very moment, Lady Fortemain, Cedric’s mother, held the floor. She’d captured Emily Beauregard and—Jonas knew her ladyship well—wasn’t yet inclined to let her go.
Emily glanced up and saw him, but Lady Fortemain reached out and shackled a clawlike hand about Emily’s wrist, reclaiming her attention.
Judging that his new innkeeper might require assistance in breaking free, Jonas strolled in their direction.
Em knew without looking that Tallent was approaching, and was disgusted at the inward dithering that knowledge provoked. One segment of her wits—or was it her instincts?—were prompting her to break off her interaction with Lady Fortemain—of Ballyclose Manor, no less—and seek safety in her office, or better yet in the female-stocked environment of the kitchen.
Another part of her mind—luckily the better part—was adamantly opposed to any show of weakness. She should stand her ground, refuse to be flustered or react in any way to his presence, at least not outwardly. And more important than all else, she should
listen
to what Lady Fortemain was saying. From all she’d learned that evening, Ballyclose Manor was at the top of the list to be their “house of the highest.”
But with elegant danger approaching with near lethal grace, focusing on her ladyship wasn’t all that easy.
Lady Fortemain, her birdlike claw still locked about Em’s wrist, fixed her eyes on Em’s face. “My dear, I know it’s short notice, but I would be thrilled if you and your sister—I believe someone mentioned she’s twenty-three—would consent to attend the parish afternoon tea at Ballyclose tomorrow afternoon.”
Releasing Em, Lady Fortemain smiled encouragingly. “It’s always been Ballyclose’s duty to host the afternoon teas, and while my daughter-in-law as the current lady of the manor
ought
to be in charge, as she’s so caught up in her burgeoning family, I still help out as I can.” There was a hint of determination in her ladyship’s eyes as they locked once more with Em’s. “I really would take it as a
personal
favor if you would both attend.”
Em kept her polite, noncommittal expression in place while her mind raced. Attending afternoon teas—even parish afternoon teas—wasn’t, she suspected, something innkeepers normally did. More, she’d intended their presence in the neighborhood to be, if not a secret, then an unremarkable occurrence—but apparently becoming the local innkeeper wasn’t compatible with being unremarked.
And while she held no illusions about why she and Issy were being invited—
they
would be the central attraction, at least until all those attending had looked their curious fill—there was, weighing against all the drawbacks, the undeniable fact that from all she’d gleaned, both from Tallent and from various patrons, Ballyclose Manor was most likely the hiding place of the Colyton treasure.
She needed to determine if they had cellars—she felt sure the house would—and then she would need to find some way to search them.
The informal nature of an afternoon tea might well afford the perfect opportunity for taking the next step in their still very necessary treasure hunt.
Letting her expression lighten, brighten, she returned Lady Fortemain’s smile. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sure I speak for my sister Isobel in saying we’d be delighted to attend your event.”
“Excellent!” Sitting back, Lady Fortemain beamed. “Three o’clock then—anyone in the village can show you where we are.” Her ladyship’s gaze shifted to Em’s left. “Jonas, my boy!” She held out her hand. “I’m hosting the parish afternoon tea, dear. I know it’s no use asking gentlemen to attend, but if you should feel so inclined, we’d be delighted to welcome you.”
Smiling his practiced, entirely noncommittal smile, Jonas half-bowed over her ladyship’s beringed fingers. “I’ll bear that in mind, ma’am.”
Especially if, as it seemed, his innkeeper would be there.
“If you’ll excuse me?” With a polite nod for Lady Fortemain and an even briefer one for him, said innkeeper moved away.
After a few smiling words with her ladyship, Jonas followed.
Of course, she tried to discourage him, constantly flitting from group to group among the women; with her burnished brown hair and hazel eyes, and the brown gown she now had on, she reminded him of a sparrow—which, he supposed, cast him as a hawk.
Smiling to himself, he ambled in her wake. Given he owned the inn, she could hardly escape him, but if she thought to catch him flat-footed and awkward in this milieu, she would need to think again. This was his village, where he’d been born and had spent most of his life; every female around knew him, and his having recently returned from years in London only lent added interest—at least for the ladies. They were more than ready to chat with him as he did the rounds.
Between their own careful behavior and the size of the crowd, he doubted his pursuit of Emily was obvious, even to dedicated observers like Sweetie and Miss Hellebore. There was too much chatter, too much distraction, too many other things going on, for any to bother watching them for more than a few minutes.
Nine o’clock rolled around, and while some customers had left, more had arrived. The common room, much to Em’s cautious satisfaction, was close to full.
Her nemesis finally ambled across to the tap-side of the room; he moved through the crowd as if he owned the place—which, of course, he did. With a combination of relief and damning disappointment—her emotions had clearly disengaged from her wits—she seized the opportunity to whisk through the kitchen, checking with Issy and Henry that all was well and the twins were safely abed, before slipping into the little hallway outside the office to cast an assessing eye over the crowd before the bar.
When she’d returned from Seaton, Issy had informed her of their afternoon’s success. She and Hilda had decided to trial scones as an offering for the afternoon trade. They’d made plain scones—to be offered with raspberry jam and clotted cream—and raisin scones, and put them on show at two o’clock.
By four o’clock they’d sold out. The woman who did for the rectory had looked in, and bought half a dozen raisin scones for Mr. Filing, and a dozen for her own family. Others passing in the lane had sniffed, and looked in to buy two here, three there. Miss Hellebore’s maid had come running in to buy some for her mistress’s tea; apparently the delicious smells wafting from the inn’s kitchen along the backs of the cottages had made Miss Hellebore’s mouth water.
“Pies,” Em had declared when they’d told her. “For lunch.” It was the obvious conclusion, one with which Issy and Hilda had concurred.
Em looked out over the males strung along the bar and sitting or standing propped all about the tap. The small army in the kitchen had made smaller pastries and sandwiches, both substantial and delicate, for the evening drinkers, but it was difficult to tell which had been more popular as all had vanished some time ago.
Despite the size of the village, the inn could easily support a proper dining menu.
She was considering the balance of dishes that might suit while idly surveying the crowd, when she realized there was one head she couldn’t see. She scanned again, then, confident she was well hidden in the shadows, stretched up on her toes…but she couldn’t see him anywhere.
He must have left.
A deadening sense of deflation washed over her. She hadn’t wanted him to pay her any attention—not as herself—but he might at least have commented favorably on the changes to the inn, let alone the significant increase in patronage, which both Edgar and John Ostler had informed her was remarkable.
He, apparently, hadn’t thought to remark.
“Privately wallowing in your triumph?”
The words whispered across one ear; warmth slid across her nape and made her inwardly shiver.
She whirled. He was standing in the doorway to her office, shoulder propped against the frame.
All of six inches away.
She glared at him.
He smiled lazily down at her through the dimness.
“You’re to be congratulated, Miss Beauregard.” He glanced past her toward the packed tap. “The inn hasn’t seen a crowd like this for more than a decade.”
His gaze returned to her face. The sincerity in his voice left her scrambling for words, for some intelligent reply.
Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell my staff
was what she should have said. But her eyes had locked with his, and she’d somehow got wrapped in the warm richness of his gaze, and his murmured words seemed too personal, too private, to be returned with formal phrases.
It took a moment before she realized she couldn’t breathe. Before she realized that they were standing together, mere inches apart in the dark—mere feet away from the crowd in the tap, yet for all intents and purposes they were private and alone, unobserved and unobservable.
That his attention had focused solely on her.
That her senses had drawn in to encompass only him.
That her lips felt warm, almost throbbing.
His lids grew heavy. His gaze lowered to her lips.
They throbbed even more.
She could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, feel something within her stretch…
Heard him give a soft, almost inaudible sigh, then he straightened, slowly, his gaze slowly rising to her eyes.
His lips twisted in a gently rueful smile. “Good night, Miss Beauregard.”
His deep voice was faintly gravelly.
He stepped back, easing away from the doorway, back toward the kitchen.
The darkness closed about him. “Sweet dreams.”