In the morning light the bruise on Lily’s cheekbone was dark and livid against her creamy skin, and there were faint lilac shadows beneath her eyes. But her eyes were clear and bright and lovely, with no shadow of a drug in them and for that he was thankful.
“How did you sleep?” he asked her while Betty bustled about in the next room.
“Surprisingly well, thank you.”
“No nightmares or other problems sleeping?” It would be perfectly understandable if she did suffer a reaction to her ordeal.
She shook her head. “No, it’s odd. I thought I might have bad dreams or wake up with night terrors of some sort, but I didn’t.”
“Perhaps the drug helped blot it from your mind.”
She considered the suggestion. “You know, that might be it. Thinking back, it’s almost as if that part of the journey—the part when I was shut in that horrid box—it’s almost as if that were the dream. The nightmare. The bit that’s clearest in my mind is when I was out of the coach, in the cold air, hiding in the ditch, running away from Mr. Nixon, and . . . and . . .”
“And fighting him off very bravely,” he finished for her. Not to mention being hit across the face by the filthy brute.
She blushed at his praise. “You’re the one that fought him. But, if the drug has helped me forget it, and allows me to sleep through the night without nightmares, well, that’s something to be grateful for, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.” Again he was impressed by her quiet courage. Most ladies of his acquaintance would be milking the situation for all it was worth, not trying to shrug it off. “Now, breakfast will be here in a few minutes. You’re clear on what to do when you go downstairs?”
She nodded, and Betty, coming back into the room, added, “Yep. I’m goin’ to enjoy this.”
As he went downstairs he ran into Elphingstone. As he expected. He’d swear the fellow was usually the type to snore the morning away, but this morning he was up bright and early in order to sniff out the mystery.
“Morning, Elphingstone. Sleep well?”
“Not in the least. I passed a very disturbed night,” he snapped. “I’m sure there were fleas in my bed!” Either his valet had not yet attended him—which seemed unlikely—or he was displeased with his master: Elphingstone’s hair had lost a good deal of its puff and was distinctly lopsided.
“Join me for breakfast in the taproom?”
Elphingstone hesitated, and glanced up to the landing outside Lily’s room, but Ned left him no choice. “I’ll order for us both. Meet you in the taproom in five minutes.”
Ned ordered breakfast for two and, while he was at it, quietly informed Mrs. Baines that Elphingstone was a notorious London gossip, out to make trouble for himself and his sister. He told her he planned to smuggle Lily out of the inn as soon as possible after breakfast.
“A nasty gossip, is he? I thought as much,” Mrs. Baines said in a voice that boded no good for Elphingstone. “Driven us all mad, he has, with his finicking ways and fussing about this and that—nothing is ever good enough for Lord Fancypants. Well, who asked him to stop here, I ask you?”
Ned added fuel to her already smoldering fire. “He told me there were fleas in his bed.”
“Fleas!” Mrs. Baines’s already impressive bosom swelled mightily. “How dare he! I’ll give him fleas! Don’t you worry, sir, I’ll make sure he stays well away from your sister. Fleas indeed!” She marched away.
After a large and sustaining breakfast, Ned sent for his carriage to be brought around. “Leaving, eh?” Elphingstone said.
“Yes, you’ll be able to rent the room tonight.”
Elphingstone snorted. “Not if I can help it. Demmed wheelwright ought to have my carriage ready by now. Sent my man around to check.” He remained loitering in the hotel entryway, feigning interest in a collection of horse brasses displayed on a wall and peeping curiously up the stairs from time to time.
Waiting for Ned’s “young relative” to appear, no doubt.
A few moments later a female figure, enveloped in a faded blue cloak, appeared at the top of the stairs, peered out from beneath the capacious hood as if to check that the coast was clear and then hurried downstairs.
Elphingstone sprang forward. “Let me help you, my dear. My name is Elphing— Oh!” he exclaimed as Betty pulled back the hood.
She grinned. “Mornin’, sir, I hope I’ll be gettin’ my bed back tonight.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered crossly. “Get along with you, girl.” He returned to demonstrate further fascination with the horse brasses and ignored Betty as she collected a large knotted bundle from her mother and went outside.
A moment later another cloaked and hooded figure tiptoed cautiously downstairs.
Again Elphingstone sprang forward. “May I assist you, my dear?” He seized an arm.
The hood fell back and Betty’s younger brother Jimmy glared up at Elphingstone. “I ain’t nobody’s dear, and certainly not yourn.” He wrenched his arm from Elphingstone’s grasp and stepped away. “That basket for me, Ma?” he said, and collected a large covered basket from his mother.
“Very considerate of you to be so helpful toward the inn’s staff, Elphingstone,” Ned commented casually. “Though I’m not sure the landlord will take to you roughing up his son. Or his daughter, for that matter.”
“I wasn’t—I—oh, forget it,” Elphingstone muttered, just as another young woman came down the stairs, half buried beneath a large bundle of laundry.
“Want me to strip your bed, sir?” she asked Elphingstone as she passed. Her soft Yorkshire burr was muffled by the load she carried.
“No, no, get along with you,” he snapped, stepping back ostentatiously to let her pass.
“I’ll be off now,” Ned told him after the young woman had disappeared. “Good luck with getting your wheel fixed.”
“Eh, what?” Elphingstone glanced around. “But where’s your—” He broke
