An Unwilling Conquest. Stephanie Laurens
her go alone?”
Turning back to her blooms, Em waved her shears. “Heavens, no—her groom accompanied her.”
“Her groom?” Harry’s voice was soft, urbane, its tone enough to send chills down the most insensitive spine. “The young tow-headed lad who arrived with her?”
He watched as a tell-tale blush spread over his aunt’s high cheekbones.
Disconcerted, Em shrugged. “She’s an independent woman—it doesn’t do to argue overmuch.” She knew perfectly well she should not have let Lucinda go into Newmarket this week without more tangible escort, but there was a definite purpose to her ploy. Turning, she surveyed her nephew. “You could try, of course.”
For an instant, Harry couldn’t believe his ears—surely not Em? His eyes narrowed as he took in her bland expression; this was the last thing he needed—a traitor in his own camp. His lips thinned; with a terse nod, he countered, “Rest assured I will.”
Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room, down the corridor, out of the door and around to the stables. The stableboy was startled to see him; Harry was merely glad the horses were still harnessed.
He grabbed the reins and leapt up to the seat. His whip cracked and the horses took off. The drive back to town established a new record.
Only when he was forced to slow by the press of traffic in the High Street did Harry remember Gerald. He cursed, regretting the loss of another to aid in his search. Taking advantage of the crawling pace, he carefully studied the crowded pavements from behind his habitually unruffled mien. But no dark head could he see.
He did, however, discover a large number of his peers—friends, acquaintances—who, like himself, were too experienced to waste time at the track today. He entertained not the slightest doubt that each and every one would be only too willing to spend that time by the side of a certain delectable dark-haired widow—not one would consider it time wasted.
Reaching the end of the street, Harry swore. Disregarding all hazards, he turned the curricle, missing the gleaming panels of a new phaeton by less than an inch, leaving the slow-top in charge of the reins in the grip of an apoplectic fit.
Ignoring the fuss, Harry drove quickly back to the Barbican Arms and turned the greys into the loving hands of the head-ostler. The man confirmed that Em’s gig was in residence. Harry surreptitiously checked the private parlour and was relieved to find it empty; the Arms was the favourite watering-hole of his set. Striding back to the street, he paused to take stock. And to wonder what “getting her bearings” meant.
There was no lending library. He settled on the church, some way along the street. But no likely looking widow haunted its hallowed precincts, nor trod the paths between the graves. The town’s gardens were a joke—no one came to Newmarket to admire floral borders. Mrs Dobson’s Tea Rooms were doing a brisk trade but no darkly elegant widow graced any of the small tables.
Returning to the pavement, Harry paused, hands on hips, and stared across the street. Where the devil was she?
A glimmer of blue at the edge of his vision had him turning his head. Just in time to identify the dark-haired figure who sailed through the street door of the Green Goose, a tow-headed boy at her back.
Pausing just inside the inn’s door, Lucinda found herself engulfed in dimness. Musty dimness. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she discovered she was in a hall, with the entrance to the tap on her left, two doors which presumably led to private parlours on her right and a counter, an extension of the tap’s bar, directly ahead, a tarnished bell on its scratched surface.
Suppressing the urge to wrinkle her nose, she swept forward. She had spent the last twenty minutes examining the inn from outside, taking due note of the faded and flaking whitewash, the clutter in the yard and the down-at-heel appearance of the two customers who had crossed its threshold. Extending one gloved hand, she picked up the bell and rang it imperiously. At least, that was her intention. But the bell emitted no more than a dull clack. Upending it, Lucinda discovered the clapper had broken.
With a disgusted grimace, she replaced the bell. She was wondering whether to tell Sim, waiting by the door, to raise his voice in summons when a large shadow blocked out what little light penetrated from the inn’s nether regions. A man entered, burly, brawny—very big. His face was heavy-featured but his eyes, sunk in folds of fat, appeared merely uninterested.
“Aye?”
Lucinda blinked. “Are you Mr Blount?”
“Aye.”
Her heart sank. “You’re the innkeeper?”
“Nay.”
When no more was forthcoming, she prompted, “You’re Mr Blount, but you’re not the innkeeper.” There was hope yet. “Where is the Mr Blount who is the innkeeper?”
For a long moment, the burly individual regarded her stoically as if his brain was having difficulty digesting her question. “You want Jake—m’brother,” he eventually offered.
Lucinda heaved an inward sigh of relief. “Precisely—I wish to see Mr Blount, the innkeeper.”
“Wha’for?”
Lucinda opened her eyes wide. “That, my good man, is a matter for your brother and myself.”
The hulking brute eyed her measuringly, then humphed. “Wait ‘ere—I’ll fetch ‘im.” With that, he lumbered off.
Leaving Lucinda praying that his brother took after the other side of the family. Her prayers were not answered. The man who replaced the first was equally burly, equally overweight and, apparently, only fractionally less dim-witted.
“Mr Jake Blount—the keeper of this inn?” Lucinda asked, with no real hope of contradiction.
“Aye.” The man nodded. His small eyes swept her, not insolently but with weary assessment. “But the likes of you don’t want to take rooms ‘ere—try the Barbican or the Rutland up the road.”
He turned away, leaving Lucinda somewhat stunned. “Just a minute, my good man!”
Jake Blount shuffled back to face her but shook his head. “Yer not the sort for this inn, see?”
Lucinda felt the breeze as the inn door opened. She saw Mr Blount’s eyes lift to the newcomer but was determined to retain his attention. “No—I do not see. What on earth do you mean—’not the sort for this inn’?”
Jake Blount heard her but was more concerned with the gentleman who now stood behind her, hard green eyes on him. Gold hair, gently waved at the ends, cut in the latest style, a well-cut coat of light brown worn over buckskin breeches and Hessians so highly polished you could see your face in them, all added up to a persona Blount recognised very well. He didn’t need the many-caped greatcoat that swung from the gentleman’s broad shoulders, nor the patrician features and hooded eyes nor yet the tall, lean and well-muscled frame, to tell him that one of the bloods of the ton had deigned to enter his humble inn. The fact made him instantly nervous. “Aaah…” He blinked and looked back at Lucinda. “Not the sort who takes rooms ‘ere.”
Lucinda stared. “What sort of lady takes rooms here?”
Blount’s features contorted. “That’s wha’ I mean—no ladies. Just that sort.”
Increasingly certain she had wandered into a madhouse, Lucinda stubbornly clung to her question. “What sort is that?”
For an instant, Jake Blount simply stared at her. Then, defeated, he waved a pudgy hand. “Lady—I don’t knows wha’ you want wi’ me but I got business to see to.”
He lifted his gaze pointedly over her shoulder; Lucinda drew in a portentious breath.
And nearly swallowed it when she heard a drawling voice languidly inform the recalcitrant Blount, “You mistake, Blount. My business here is merely to ensure