The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge
his broad back on her as if she no longer existed.
For goodness’ sake. She wasn’t asking for the moon. All she wanted was a room for the night. She picked up her valise and sidled around him, preparing to argue.
A hand touched her sleeve. ‘If you wish,’ a faintly lyrical voice murmured in her ear, ‘I could guide you to the Hare and Hounds Tavern. It’s not such a bad place. I am sure they have a decent room.’
She swung around and found herself hemmed in by a man of medium height and a wiry frame, who must have entered the entrance hall from one of the passages. His dark green coat had seen better days and the brim of his black hat shadowed all but his lean jaw and a flash of crooked teeth.
She shook his hand off her arm. Another gallant gentleman with less than honourable intentions, no doubt. ‘No, thank you, sir.’
He touched her shoulder. ‘You won’t get any change out of Garge, here. You will no doubt fare better at the Hare.’
In a flurry of capes, Lord Albert strode over and pointed his cane at the newcomer’s chest. ‘Stand aside, sir,’ he lisped. ‘Garge, this young lady is under my protection. I insist you provide us with a room immediately. Isn’t that right, my dear?’
He caught her fingers and pressed them to his moist lips. Sylvia pulled away, but for all his fragile posturing, his grip held firm. He drew her closer.
Nausea rose in her throat and her skin crawled at the touch of his hot, damp fingers. A violent urge to flee, a fear she hadn’t known in years, quickened her pulse. But she needed this room.
‘Unhand me, sir.’ With a jerk, she freed herself. Disguising her panic with a chilly glare, she took a deep breath.
‘The young lady is with me.’ A quiet, but firm voice came from behind her.
Sylvia whirled around. One hand resting on the door-frame, his shoulders filling the entrance to the dining room, Christopher Evernden glowered at Lord Albert.
A warm glow rose up her neck and warmed her cheeks. The shabby man uttered a muffled oath and seemed to fade into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared.
The landlord thrust his jaw and pendulous chins in Mr Evernden’s direction. ‘Now don’t you start, sir. This young person ain’t spending the night at this inn with any of you randy gentlemen.’
Heat raced from the tips of her ears to her toes. An irresistible urge to slap the landlord’s fat face clenched her fist.
Mr Evernden shot out a large hand, grasped her wrist and dragged her out of Lord Albert’s reach.
She gasped and pried at his fingers. She wasn’t a bone to be fought over by men acting like curs. ‘Let me go.’
‘I say, old chap,’ the dandy drawled. ‘I saw her first. Find your own ladybird. Or get to the back of the queue.’
His high-pitched giggle scraped her nerves raw. She prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Or, better yet, for lightning to strike the simpering popinjay.
Merde. How had things come to this pass?
‘The lady is with me.’ Suppressed violence filled Mr Evernden’s tone. All semblance of reserve gone, he radiated anger. Eyes the colour of evergreens in winter, he took a menacing step towards the mincing dandy.
Things were definitely growing worse. How typically, brutally male. She pressed back against the wall.
Cursing, Garge inserted his bulk between the two men eyeing each other like fighting cocks. He placed a heavy hand on each man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll have no brawling in my house, gentlemen.’
Lord Albert recoiled, dusting off his coat as if Garge’s touch had soiled it. ‘I’m sure I don’t care that much for the gel.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘You shouldn’t leave her loitering about in public houses, if you don’t want her accosted.’
‘Exactly,’ Mr Evernden replied with an exasperated glance at Sylvia.
Did he think to blame her because Lord Albert was a despicable rake? She returned stare for stare.
Lord Albert drummed his fingers on the counter’s polished wood.
Mr Evernden glared at his back, then turned to the bristling innkeeper. ‘Now, landlord, a room for Mademoiselle Boisette, if you please.’
Garge grunted. ‘You ain’t welcome here, sir, not you or your bit o’ muslin, not nohow. I’ll have your carriage brought around and your bags brought down.’ He shook his head and muttered, ‘Mademoiselle indeed. Whatever next? This is a respectable house, this is, and Frenchies ain’t welcome, nor their fancy men, neither.’
He turned to Lord Albert and bowed. ‘I apologise for that, my lord. We don’t usually get riff-raff in here. Now we’ve got that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, Lord Albert, I assume it’s your usual room?’
A dull red suffused Mr Evernden’s lean cheeks. He didn’t speak. He grabbed the valise and hatbox from Sylvia’s hand and strode outside.
Head held high, Sylvia trotted after him. No matter what he thought, she had done nothing wrong. If he dared say one word of criticism, she would provide her opinion of the whole male population.
‘Wait here,’ he said.
Long strides carried him across the cobbled yard. Neatly dodging a liveried lackey running at full tilt with a tray of tankards to a waiting tilbury, he disappeared into the stables.
Nonplussed by yet another startling change in her circumstances, Sylvia waited as instructed. Gradually, her thoughts took some order. It seemed she would have to try this Hare and Hounds after all.
Nearby, a gentleman assisted a woman in a red-plumed bonnet into a shiny black barouche. A terrier, chased by two scruffy urchins, barked at the wheels of a departing coach. As it rattled beneath the archway into the street, she thought she glimpsed a figure flat against the wall. She peered into the gloom, but saw nothing but shadows.
More to the point, she needed a plan. She darted a swift glance around the courtyard, seeking inspiration. With nowhere to stay and Mr Evernden once more in command, she seemed to have come full circle.
‘Miss Boisette.’
She stared in astonishment. The voice came from Christopher Evernden, but instead of his comfortable town coach, he perched high on a maroon-bodied curricle pulled by two ebony horses. An ostler dashed up to hold the nervous team and Mr Evernden leaped down.
She backed away. ‘Where’s your carriage?’
‘I sent it back to London with my servant.’
Gallivanting around the countryside in an open carriage with a strange man reeked of danger. ‘I’m not riding in that.’
He stalked to her side. ‘Either you get in or I’ll pick you up and put you in. Your choice, but make it quick.’
The set of his jaw and the angry glitter in his eyes said he would have no compunction about throwing her into the horrible thing. And yet, for all that he towered over her, she felt not the slightest bit afraid.
‘Very well. I will ride with you as far as the Hare and Hounds.’ At least the rain had ceased.
He handed her up. The fragile equipage rocked precariously on its long springs. While she settled herself with care on the seat, she admired the high-priced cattle in the traces. Mr Evernden obviously knew horses.
The team tossed their heads and stamped their feet. The rackety thing lurched. She grabbed for the side. It was worse than any ship.
The moment Mr Evernden climbed into his seat and took up the reins, the groom released the bridles. Solely in charge of the spirited pair, Mr Evernden glanced around him. With a dexterous twist of his strong wrist, he flicked his whip and set his horses in motion.
She’d heard a