Betty gave a brisk nod of satisfaction, then stuck her head out the door and let out a piercing whistle. “That’s to let the lads know to come and fetch away that water. Then I reckon you’ll be ready for your dinner, won’t you, miss?”
Lily was about to respond when her stomach did it for her, rumbling noisily. Betty laughed. “I reckon you are, and all. You keep drying your hair by the fire, miss, and I’ll let everyone know you’re ready for your dinner.”
• • •
Ned sat on a bench in the stone-flagged taproom, sipping the landlord’s very decent dark ale. He’d written a note to Cal Rutherford but, not knowing the messenger, had taken the precaution of writing, if not in code, then in a manner Cal would understand. After their wartime experiences, such discretion was second nature to both of them. It might not be wartime, but the potential for scandal was real. If it reached Cal, he’d be reassured, but if the note fell into the wrong hands it would appear innocuous, and no harm done.
He’d share the unsavory details with Rutherford later; no need to distress him or his family any more than necessary. The girl was safe and would be home late tomorrow night, God and the state of the roads willing. That was all they needed to know.
He spoke to Baines, the landlord, who produced what he claimed was a reliable man to deliver the message to London. Hoping the fellow was indeed reliable, he handed over the letter and enough money to cover the cost of hiring horses to enable him to ride through the night. He promised him a handsome sum on delivery and told him the receiver would pay him a bonus if he delivered it by the morning. He’d added a postscript to Cal to that effect.
It was all he could do. Even if the messenger proved feckless, or irresponsible, knowing he’d sent a message would at least relieve some of the worry in Lily’s mind. In any case, barring any unforeseen circumstances, she’d be back in the bosom of her family by tomorrow night.
He was sipping his ale when a light, affected voice came from behind. “Excuse the interruption, my good fellow, but I would ask a small fav—good gad, it’s Galbraith, isn’t it?” the man exclaimed as Ned turned. “Last fellow I expected to see in this poky little place.”
Swearing silently, Ned inclined his head. “Elphingstone.” What the hell was Cyril Elphingstone, of all people, doing in this little out-of-the-way town?
The veriest Pink of the Ton, Elphingstone was dressed in dove-gray skintight breeches, gleaming gold-tasseled boots that Ned would swear had never met a horse, a high collar with a neckcloth arranged in such a complicated knot he could barely turn his head and a lavishly embroidered pink satin waistcoat. His red-brown hair—surely not its natural color—was elaborately curled and pomaded. He stood out in the smoke-stained little country taproom like a flamingo in a foundry.
Without being invited, he seated himself at Ned’s table. He snapped his fingers in the air, which caused a liveried minion to scurry forward with a glass of port. “Carriage problems too, eh, Galbraith? My demmed chaise cracked a wheel and the blasted wheelwright says he can’t fix it until tomorrow.” He leaned forward confidingly. “Understand you’ve secured the only bedchamber in the house. Don’t suppose you’d let an old pal share?”
“No,” Ned said with uncompromising bluntness. Elphingstone was not and never had been an old pal, nor even a friend of any sort. He was, however, one of the biggest gossips in the ton, and right now Ned wished him at the farthest end of the country.
“Dash it all, you can’t expect me to sleep”—Elphingstone gestured distastefully around the taproom—“down here among the rabble and riffraff.”
Ned drained his tankard and stood. “Frankly, Elphingstone, I don’t care where you sleep.”
“I meant, of course, on a trundle bed. Surely—”
“No.”
“What about the sitting room? I gather you’ve reserved that too.”
“No. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”
Ned turned to leave, just as the young maidservant bounced in, saying, “Your sister is ready for her dinner now, sir. I’ve let Ma know and the boys will be bringing it up to your room in a minute.”
“Your ‘sister,’ eh?” Elphingstone quirked a salacious eyebrow.
Ned swore under his breath. Elphingstone knew perfectly well he had no sister, no other siblings at all.
Elphingstone chuckled and said with a leer, “Now I know why you’re so reluctant to share—and I don’t blame you. Cozy armful, is she?”
Ned’s fingers curled into a fist. He shoved it in his pocket. “Nothing of the sort,” he said in a bored voice. “I’m escorting a young relative—well, more of a ward—to London, that’s all.”
“And sharing her bed, eh?”
There was a sudden cold silence. His gaze bored into Elphingstone until the man dropped his eyes, flushing.
“I don’t care for your insinuations, Elphingstone.” His voice was soft, icy.
The leer slid from the dandy’s face. “Meant nothing by it, dear fellow. Nothing at all.”
Ned paused a long moment as if considering the man’s apology. Elphingstone swallowed convulsively.
“Take care what that idle tongue of yours suggests. The young lady’s maid will sleep on a trundle in her bedchamber. I shall sleep elsewhere. Not that it is any business of yours.”
Ned mounted the stairs, swearing under his breath. He’d been planning to sleep on the settee in the adjoining room—purely for her protection and with the door firmly closed between them—but now with Elphingstone sniffing around, he’d have to make other arrangements.
He was doing his best to ensure that there were no further repercussions from Lily’s abduction, but if the dandy got the slightest whiff of her identity, she—no, they were done for.
Chapter Six
“The pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.”
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Edward—every inch of
