know perfectly well I’m quite capable of forcing you to.’
The glittering green eyes widened slightly. There had been no change in his tone and she felt no direct menace, as she had before. Then, looking into his eyes, she gave up the unequal struggle. She took the glass and, shivering slightly, raised it to her lips and sipped. Hazelmere waited patiently until she drained the glass, then removed it from her hands and dropped it into one of his cloak pockets.
As she looked up he remembered her unfinished errand. ‘I take it you’re travelling to London?’
She nodded. His face had softened, the harshly arrogant lines of ten minutes before had receded, leaving the charmingly polite mask she suspected he showed the world. She felt as if he had, in some subtle way, withdrawn from her.
‘What’s the name of your coachman?’
‘Lang. I’d thought to leave at eight.’
‘Very sensible. I’ll see he gets the message. I suggest you enter your chamber, lock the door and don’t open it to anyone other than the landlord’s people.’ The tone was calm, with no hint of any emotion whatever.
‘Yes. Very well.’ She was completely bemused. Her head was whirling-shock, fury, brandy and the Marquis of Hazelmere combining to make her distinctly befuddled. She pressed the fingers of one hand to her temple, forcing her mind to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘Good! Try to get some sleep. And one more thing: tell Lady Merion I’ll call on her the day after tomorrow.’
She nodded and moved to the door, then turned back. Still angry, she knew she was beholden to him, and pride forbade her to leave without thanking him, however little inclined she was to do so. She drew a deep breath and, head held high, began. ‘My lord, I must thank you for your help in releasing me from those gentlemen.’ Lifting her eyes to his, she found that this bland statement had brought the most devastatingly attractive smile to his face.
Wholly appreciative of the effort the words had cost, he replied, his voice light, ‘Yes, you must, I’m afraid. But never mind. Once you’re in London, I’m sure you’ll find opportunities aplenty to make me sorry for my subsequent odiously overbearing behaviour.’ One dark brow rose at the end of this outrageous speech, the hazel eyes, gently and not unkindly, quizzing her. The answering blaze of green fire made him laugh. Hearing voices below, he reached out a finger to caress her cheek gently, saying more pointedly, ‘Goodnight, Miss Darent!’
Speechless, she whirled away from him and knocked on the door. ‘Betsy, it’s me. Dorothea.’
Hazelmere, lips curving in a smile that, had she seen it, would have reduced Dorothea to a state of quivering uncertainty, drew back into the shadows as the door opened with an alacrity which spoke louder than words of the fears of those inside.
‘Heavens, miss! Come you in quick; you look white as a sheet, you do!’ Dorothea was drawn into the room and the door shut.
Hazelmere waited until he heard the bolts shot home, then made his way, pensively, downstairs. At the back door, he encountered Simms.
‘Simms, I have a problem.’
‘M’lord?’
‘I want to make sure those ladies are not disturbed tonight. You don’t perchance have a large burly cousin lying about, who could take up sentry duty on that stair?’
Simms grinned as he saw the gold sovereign in his lordship’s long fingers. ‘Well, as it happens, m’lord, my oldest boy has the most dreadful toothache. He’s been mooning about in the kitchen all day. I’m sure he could do sentry duty, seeing as you ask.’
‘Excellent.’ The coin changed hands. ‘And Simms?’
‘Yes, m’lord?’
‘I’d like to be sure those ladies get the very best of treatment.’
‘Of course, m’lord. My wife’s about to take their supper up to them now.’
Hazelmere nodded and wandered out to the middle of the coachyard, looking up at the stars, twinkling now that the clouds had cleared. He paused, apparently lost in thought. Jim Hitchin, his groom, stood a few yards away, waiting until his master acknowledged him. He had been Hazelmere’s personal groom ever since the young Lord had required one. Well acquainted with his employer’s foibles, he waited patiently. Hazelmere stretched and turned. ‘Jim?’
‘M’lord?’
‘I want you to find a coachman staying here, name of Lang, coachman to the Misses Darent. Miss Darent wishes to leave at eight tomorrow, to avoid the inevitable action around here. She obviously cannot deliver the message in person.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘And Jim?’
‘Yes, m’lord?’
‘Tomorrow morning the Darent party is to leave here by eight. If there’s any difficulty in achieving that departure I want you to see I’m summoned. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘Wonderful. Goodnight, Jim.’
Jim departed, not the least averse to an early morning if it led to a clear sight of this Miss Darent. He had witnessed, distantly, the exchange in the coachyard. To his mind, his lordship was not behaving in his usual manner. Losing his temper with young ladies was definitely not his style. Jim was burning to see what the lady who could throw his master off balance looked like.
Hazelmere, fortunately oblivious to the speculations of his underling, strolled back through the main entrance of the inn and paused outside the open taproom door. Noise, like a cloud, rolled out over the threshold to greet him. Through a bluish haze of tobacco smoke he saw the group of young blades from whom he had rescued Dorothea standing at the end of the bar. It took him longer to locate the last of their number, seated at a small table in the corner, deep in conversation with Sir Barnaby Ruscombe. After considering the scene for a moment, he walked on to the private parlour he always had when staying at the Feathers. Entering, he saw Fanshawe, feet up on the table, carefully peeling an apple.
Fanshawe looked up with a grin. ‘Ho! So there you are! I was wondering whether it’d be prudent to come and rescue you.’
A ghost of a smile greeted this sally. ‘I had a few errands to attend to after returning Miss Darent to her room.’ Hazelmere removed his driving cloak, remembering to extract the glass from the pocket before he threw it on a chair. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine.
‘And who the hell is this mysterious Miss Darent?’
The Marquis raised his black brows. ‘No mystery. She lives at the Grange, which borders Moreton Park. She and her sister are travelling to London to stay with their grandmother, Lady Merion.’
‘I see. How is it, I ask myself, that I’ve never heard of the girl, much less set eyes on her?’
‘Simple. She’s lived all her life in the country and hasn’t moved in the circles we frequent.’
Fanshawe finished his apple and swung his feet down from the table as the door opened to admit Simms, bearing trays loaded with food. ‘At last!’ he cried. ‘I’m famished.’
Simms placed the platters on the table and, checking that all was in order, turned to Hazelmere.
‘Everything’s taken care of, m’lord, as you requested.’
Hazelmere nodded his thanks, and Simms retired. Fanshawe looked up from heaping his plate, but said nothing.
The friends took their meal in companionable silence. They had quite literally grown up together, being born on neighbouring estates within a month of each other, and had shared their schooldays at Eton and, later, Oxford. During their past ten years on the town the bond between the Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe had become almost a byword. Over the years there had been few secrets between them, yet, for reasons he did not care to examine, Hazelmere had omitted to mention his acquaintance with Dorothea Darent to his closest friend.
Once the platters were cleared and they had pushed their chairs back from the table, savouring the special claret brought up from the depths of Simms’s cellar, Fanshawe, dishevelled brown locks falling picturesquely over his brow, returned to the offensive. ‘It’s all too smoky by half.’
Resigned to the inevitable, Hazelmere nevertheless countered with an innocent, ‘What’s too smoky by
