# Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady

Isabelle Goddard

London, early morning. One woman, one man, two escapes!Amelie Silverdale is fleeing her betrothal to a vicious, degenerate man. Dressed as a maidservant, she climbs out of her bedroom window. Gareth Denville, wrongly accused of cheating at cards, is also contemplating escape. The scandal that once drove him from London is about to erupt again.Coming across Amelie, Gareth recognises a kindred spirit wanting to break free and offers to help. While they are on the run together the attraction builds, but both are hiding secret identities… What will happen when their old lives catch up with them?

‘A maidservant who speaks French as well as having a French name! It becomes more and more intriguing.’ Gareth looked searchingly at Amelie.

‘I’d hardly say that I spoke French,’ she said, desperately seeking a way of moving the conversation onto less dangerous ground.

‘Still, it’s an unusual maid who knows any French. And you are an unusual maid, aren’t you? You’re proud and independent, you speak genteelly and hold yourself like a lady. If it weren’t for your clothes I would take you for a lady.’

## About the Author

ISABELLE GODDARD was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.

The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.

REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY is Isabelle Goddard’s debut novel for Mills & Boon® Historical.

REPROBATE LORD,

RUNAWAY LADY

Isabelle Goddard


www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the friends who listened.

## Chapter One


London, 1817

‘Amelie, you will do this for me, for the family.’ It was a command rather than a question.

The young woman held her head high and blinked back the tears. Despite her resolution, there was a stricken look in the soft brown eyes.

‘Papa, I cannot. Ask anything else of me, but I cannot marry that man.’

Her father, pacing agitatedly back and forth across the worn library carpet, stopped suddenly opposite her and raked her with a piercing glare. ‘Sir Rufus Glyde is a respected nobleman, one who will give you an elegant home and a secure future. And one who will save this family from disaster.’

She looked past her father to the open window, but hardly saw the mass of roses filling the garden with a riot of colour in the late afternoon sun.

‘Surely, Papa,’ she pleaded, ‘the situation cannot be that desperate.’

Lord Silverdale was silent. His face, though still handsome, appeared haggard and drawn. He carefully brushed the snuff from a velvet sleeve and spoke quietly but insistently.

‘The family is virtually ruined. Over the past few months I have had to sell my entire stable of horses and rent out Nethercott Place to a wealthy cit. Generations of Silverdales dishonoured by the taint of city money! And now Robert’s addiction to gambling is likely to lose us our last piece of security—our house here in Grosvenor Square.’

‘In that case,’ she responded sharply, ‘why doesn’t Robert find a way of repaying what he owes?’ Her brother’s decadent lifestyle was something she could not forgive. ‘Why doesn’t he marry for money?’

Lord Silverdale looked at his daughter, breathtakingly lovely even in simple sprig muslin, and said gently, ‘Amelie, you know that it isn’t possible. What does he have to offer except debt and unsteadiness? Certainly nothing the matchmaking mamas at Almack’s want. You, on the other hand, have youth, beauty and a steadfast character. Rufus Glyde admires you and wants to make you his wife.’

‘But he is nearly twice my age.’

‘He is no more than fourteen years older than you. That is no great age. It is well for a husband to be more experienced than his wife. Then he may teach her how to go on in society.’

An image of Rufus Glyde’s dissolute eyes and thin, sneering lips swam into her vision and made her shudder. She would not wish to be taught anything by such a man. In her revulsion she twisted the cambric handkerchief she held into a vicious knot.

‘I can never care for him,’ she declared hotly.

‘But do you care for anyone else? You have had an entire Season to find someone to your taste, a Season I could ill afford. And look what has happened. You have been distant and unapproachable to the young men you’ve met. Only one was willing to brave your coldness and actually offer for you, and you dismissed his proposal out of hand. So what do you want?’

‘I want to remain single, Papa. I’m grateful for my introduction to society, but the men I’ve met have been either shallow or profligate. I shall never marry unless I find a man I truly love and respect—and that seems unlikely.’

‘You will be lucky to find any man in the future. There will be no more Seasons—and no home, either, if Sir Rufus forecloses on our mortgage,’ her father added bitterly.

She caught her breath. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I had not meant to tell you, but you should know the truth of the situation. Your brother has lost this house to Rufus Glyde. In a fit of madness he used it as a stake for his gambling. Either you marry Sir Rufus or we are homeless.’

‘How can you allow him to threaten us like this?’

‘Come, come, child, the man is willing to make a generous settlement on you, apart from returning the mortgage. He will, I am sure, always treat you with respect and you will have ample money and time to pursue your own interests. Such marriages of convenience are common among our class. You know that.’ Lord Silverdale paused, thinking of his own love marriage, its first intoxicating passion barely surviving a year. ‘They can often work far better than marrying for love.’

Amelie turned away, unwilling to show the disgust she felt.

‘I have no choice,’ her father said heavily. ‘This is a debt of honour and must be paid, one way or another.’

‘And I am to pay the debt,’ she cried, her anger bursting forth. ‘I am to be the family sacrifice, am I?’ She strode furiously up and down the room between the dusty book-filled shelves, chestnut curls tumbling free and framing her lovely face.

With an exasperated mutter, Lord Silverdale walked swiftly towards her and grasped her hands. ‘Enough. You forget yourself. You are beautiful and clever, my dear, but you are far too independent. It puts men off and those it doesn’t, you will not have. Think yourself lucky that Sir Rufus values high spirits as well as being a connoisseur of beauty. He has very properly asked me for permission to pay his addresses to you, and I have agreed.’

‘No, no, I cannot do it,’ she uttered a strangled cry.‘Anything but that! I’ll go out and earn my own bread rather.’

‘Earn your own bread? What is this? Your taste for the dramatic is regrettable and too reminiscent of your French relations,’ he said disdainfully, walking away from her towards the tall windows.

When he turned again, his face wore an implacable expression and he spoke in a voice that brooked no further disagreement.

‘You have been made a highly advantageous offer, Amelie, which will secure this family’s future and your own. You will go to your room immediately and stay there. In the morning you will make yourself presentable. Sir Rufus will be with us at noon and you will accept his offer. Do I make myself clear?’

The interview was at an end. Lord Silverdale sank wearily down at his desk, and began listlessly to leaf through his scattered papers. His daughter, overcome with angry tears, turned on her heel and noisily banged the oak-panelled door behind her.

Once in her room, she cast herself down on to the damask bedspread and wept. Her grief was intense and though her tears soon subsided, her fury remained. To be forced into a repugnant marriage because of her brother’s stupidity! And by her own father! She knew him to be autocratic, but never so unfeeling that he would contemplate selling her to the highest bidder. He might try to wrap it up in clean linen, but that’s what it came down to. When she was a child he’d been an indulgent parent, reading with her, schooling her on her first pony, bringing surprises each birthday. Yet, if crossed, he could be unrelenting.

Until now she’d been spared this side of his character, but she knew the suffering it had caused his wife. Her heart ached for her dead mother. Louise St Clair’s life had not been a happy one: an émigrée from France, an unhappy marriage to an English aristocrat and then an early death.

Lord Miles Silverdale must have seemed like a white knight when Louise first met him, just months after her dangerous journey from the outskirts of Paris to exile in England. The Bastille would not be stormed for another year, but revolution was already in the air. Signs of dissent and rebellion were everywhere and when the St Clair family home was ransacked without any attempt by the servants to prevent it, Brielle St Clair had decided it was no longer safe for the family to stay. She and her eighteen-year-old daughter, disguised as servants themselves, were forced to steal away under cover of darkness and embark on a slow and tortuous journey to the Channel coast. They had travelled by night, resting beneath hedges in the daytime, and ever fearful of discovery.

To a refugee in a foreign land, Lord Silverdale’s offer of marriage must have seemed like a miracle. He promised happiness and security, a new future for the young, homeless girl. Happiness, though, had lasted only a year until the birth of Robert. Louise was sickly for months afterwards, needing constant nursing, and unable to share in the social flurry of her husband’s life. Miles Silverdale, having fallen violently in love with a youthful form and a beautiful face, found himself without either as a companion.

The constant miscarriages that followed year after year pushed them yet further apart. Amelie’s birth and her unexpected survival had brought a brief reconciliation only. Even as a child she’d understood the pain written on her mother’s face, as her husband left for yet another lengthy stay at a friend’s country house, knowing that most of his time would be spent enjoying the company of other women.

But that was not going to happen to her! She had her mother’s beauty, certainly, but also her grandmother’s spirit. Louise might have been scared half out of her wits by that flight across France, but Brielle St Clair had exalted in it. Her tales of their adventures had enthralled Amelie as a child. Brielle’s subsequent life would always be a shadow of the excitement she’d known. Understanding this, it seemed, she had deliberately made her new home amid the dull gentility of Bath. Amelie smiled wryly as she imagined her mettlesome grandmother exchanging vapid gossip at the Pump Room every day. She’d visited Bath as a young child, but the last time she’d seen Brielle was five years ago at her mother’s funeral, a sombre and painful affair.

She stiffened. That was it. She would go to her grandmother. Brielle would be her refuge and would be sure to defend her from the man she blamed for her own daughter’s decline and early death. She had warned Louise not to marry Lord Silverdale, but, desperate for stability, her daughter had not listened.

Amelie got to her feet and straightened the green satin ribbons that encircled her waist. Her grandmother would be her champion, she was certain. But how to get to her, how to get to Bath? Deep in thought, she didn’t hear the bedroom door open until a tentative voice disturbed her meditations. Her maidservant, pale and concerned, white cap slightly askew, hovered in the doorway.

‘Oh, miss, is it true? Are you really going to marry Sir Rufus Glyde?’

‘No, Fanny, it’s not true.’ Her voice was sharp but adamant. ‘I’ve no intention of marrying. And I detest Rufus Glyde. He’s twice my age and not a fit husband.’

‘But, miss, he’s very wealthy, or so Cook says, and moves in the best circles.’

Amelie shook her head in frustration. ‘He may be invited everywhere, but there are whispers that he is a vicious and degenerate man. He repels me.’

Fanny shut the door carefully behind her and said in a conspiratorial voice, ‘Mr Simmonds told Cook that Sir Rufus was coming here tomorrow to make you an offer of marriage.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Amelie chided her. ‘He may be coming to the house, but I shan’t be meeting him.’

‘But, Miss Amelie, how can this be?’ In her abstraction the maid picked up a stray hairbrush and began to rearrange her mistress’s locks.

‘I’m going to escape—I’m going to Bath to my grandmother. But mind, not a word to anyone.’

Her maid, brushing Amelie’s chestnut curls in long, rhythmic strokes, gaped at her open-mouthed. ‘However will you get there?’

‘I’m not sure at the moment. How would you get there, Fanny?’

‘On the stage, I suppose, miss, though I wouldn’t want to travel all that way on my own. It’s sure to take a whole day. Master’s old valet used to visit his daughter in Bath sometimes and there was always a fuss about how long he was away.’

‘Do you know where he caught the stagecoach?’

‘It was an inn in Fetter Lane. The White Horse, I believe. He used to leave first thing in the morning.’

‘Then that’s what I shall do. You’ll need to call me early.’

‘You’re never thinking of taking the common stage, Miss Amelie?’

‘Why ever not, it’s a public conveyance. What harm can I come to?’

‘But it’s not right. All sorts of vulgar people take the stage—you’ll be squashed in with the likes of clerks and pedlars and I don’t know what. And I’ve heard it’s dangerous. There are highwaymen on Hounslow Heath and they’ll slit your throat for a necklace. And if they don’t get you, then the coachman will get drunk and land you in a ditch.’ Fanny shook her head ominously.

‘Nonsense. If other people travel on the stage, I can, too.’

‘But, miss, you’re Quality,’ Fanny maintained stubbornly. ‘Quality don’t travel on the stage. And you mustn’t go alone.’

‘I have to, and no one must know where I’ve gone. I need time to reach Lady St Clair and explain the situation to her before my father realises where I am.’

‘But you can’t have thought.’ Fanny’s voice sank low. ‘You’ll be unchaperoned, you’ll receive Unwanted Attentions,’ she whispered in a horrified voice, emphasising the last two words.

‘Well then, I must do something to blend into my surroundings,’ her mistress said practically.

She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Who wouldn’t be noticed on a stagecoach, I wonder? A maidservant such as yourself? I’ll go as a maidservant and you can lend me the clothes.’

‘No, miss, that I won’t.’

‘Fanny, you’re the only friend I have in this house. You must help me. No one will know and once I’m established at my grandmother’s, I’ll send for you. Now, we must plan. First we need a ticket.’

She went to the bottom drawer of the walnut chest that had been her mother’s and brought out a small tin box. How lucky it was she still had most of her quarterly allowance. She pulled out a roll of bills and thrust them into Fanny’s reluctant hand.

‘Here, use this to buy a ticket for the stage tomorrow.’

‘But, miss, even if I can buy a ticket, how will you find your way to Fetter Lane?’

‘I’m sure I’ll manage. I’ll walk until I find a hackney carriage. That can take me to the inn, and once there I’ll take care to stay concealed until the coach is ready to leave. There’s bound to be crowds of people and a lot of activity—I imagine the Bath stage isn’t the only one leaving the White Horse in the morning. It should be easy to find a hiding place.’

Her maid still looked unconvinced and Amelie put her arms around her and sought to soothe her worries. ‘Don’t fret, it’s going to work. When you return, get some suitable clothes ready for me, but keep them in your own room. And then stay away from me for the rest of the day so that no one will suspect anything.’

Fanny seemed rooted to the spot. ‘Go on,’ her mistress urged, ‘do it quickly before supper and then you won’t be missed. Bring me the clothes and ticket at dawn tomorrow. I wouldn’t ask you to do this for me, Fanny, if I were not truly desperate. But I must escape this nightmare.’

In the City some miles from Grosvenor Square, Gareth Denville was also contemplating escape. He sat uncomfortably in the shabby offices which housed Messrs Harben, Wrigley and Spence, solicitors, and wished himself elsewhere. But his demeanour betrayed nothing of his emotions. His straight black brows and hard blue eyes kept the world at bay. He could be accounted a handsome man, thought Mr Spence, who sat opposite him, but for the harshness of that gaze. And the decided lack of fashion he exhibited. He was a well-built man slightly above average height with good shoulders and an excellent form for the prevailing fashion of skin-tight pantaloons. But instead he wore buckskins, his coat fitted far too easily across his broad shoulders to be modish and his necktie was negligently arranged. Rather than the gleaming Hessians of tonnish fashion, he wore topboots, still dusty from his long journey.

Mr Spence gathered together the papers scattered across the huge oak desk and sighed inwardly. The new Lord Denville was likely to find it difficult to adjust to life in the capital. He looked up and encountered Gareth’s austere gaze and quickly began the task at hand. Over the next quarter of an hour, Mr Spence carefully enumerated the full extent of Gareth Denville’s inheritance while the beneficiary remained unnervingly silent.

The news of his grandfather’s death several weeks ago had been accompanied by a polite request from the solicitors for his immediate return to England. His first reaction to their letter had been to shrug indifferently and carry on with his life, but his grandfather’s man of business was nothing if not persistent, and after several summons of increasing urgency, he had bowed to the inevitable. He had been travelling a night and a day now without pause, but his powerful frame appeared not greatly fatigued and his air of cool detachment never left him.

The situation was not without its humour, of course, but that did not prevent a slow burning anger eating him from within. He’d known as he travelled to England after seven years’ absence that he was now the Earl of Denville whether he wished it or not. But as Mr Spence drily read the pages of his grandfather’s will, the size of his inheritance astounded him. Infuriated him, too, when he recalled the shifts he’d been forced to adopt simply to maintain the appearance of a gentleman. Charles Denville had husbanded his estate well. How ironic that such care and duty should ultimately benefit him, the black sheep, the grandson who could never be spoken of again. His grandfather could not deny him the title, but he must have tried and failed to leave his estate elsewhere. Gareth could imagine the old man’s fury that such an unworthy successor was about to be crowned.

‘Are you sure, Mr Spence, that there are no other legitimate heirs to the estate?’ he asked crisply.

‘None whatsoever, Lord Denville. We have done our searches very carefully, particularly …’ and here he coughed delicately ‘.in the light of the peculiar circumstances surrounding your lordship’s inheritance.’

The solicitor was far too circumspect to mention details, but Gareth knew well that Mr Spence referred to his banishment as a young man for the gravest of sins in ton circles. He had cheated at cards, or so it was alleged, a transgression that had brought instant shame to him and to his family. His grandfather had bundled him out of the country overnight, refusing to listen to his version of events.

‘Like father, like son,’ Lord Denville had said grimly. ‘I was stupid enough to let your father stay in the hope that he would reform his way of life, but he died in the gutter where he belonged. I’ll make sure that you at least cannot disgrace the family name further.’ And what, thought Gareth, had the family name come to after all?

It had all once been so different. He’d been everything to his grandfather, an unexpected light after the black years of his own father’s ruin. He remembered his childhood at Wendover Hall, his grandfather teaching him to ride and to shoot, watching over his progress to manhood with pleasure and anticipation. And then disaster, just three months on the town and accused of marking his cards.

That night was etched on his brain. The heat of the room, the guttering candles, the disarray of empty glasses. And the four other men who sat round the table: his dearest friend, Lucas Avery, General Tilney, an old ally of his grandfather’s, the languid form of Lord Petersham, whose customary lethargy belied a sharp intelligence, and Rufus Glyde, playing recklessly that night, his spiteful tongue unusually stilled. It was the General who had first seen the mark on the card and raised the alarm. He remembered the incredulous stares of his companions as it became obvious to all who had cheated.

But he hadn’t cheated. Someone there had done so, but why and how remained impenetrable. The men he played with were wealthy and had no need to cheat. But he was on a tight allowance and awaiting the next quarter’s in some desperation. It was common knowledge that he was short of money. He had vehemently protested his innocence, but his grandfather had been deaf to him and to Lucas’s staunch pleas that his friend was an honourable man; Lord Denville had listened in stiff silence and remained unmoved. General Tilney’s embarrassed account of the evening was the only one his grandfather was willing to countenance. Gareth’s disgrace was instant and so was banishment.

‘My lord, if you would be so kind, we will need to go through a number of documents for which I need signatures.’

The solicitor was trying to regain his attention. His mind left that shadowed room in Watier’s, and returned to the attorney’s untidy office. He felt he was suffocating, yet the window was wide open.

‘I need to take a walk,’ he said. ‘I need to clear my head.’

‘Of course, your lordship.’ The solicitor rose and bowed politely. ‘I will await your lordship’s pleasure.’

‘I’m staying at Crillon’s. I’ll send from there when I’m ready to go through the papers.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

He walked quickly out of the room and down the stairs. The fresh air hit him with welcome relief. Waving away the proffered services of a jarvey, he began to make his way towards the West End of the city. He walked swiftly, street after street, hardly heeding where he went. Inside, he was seething with anger. His fortunes had changed, but his sense of betrayal remained acute. He had no wish to inherit anything that had belonged to his grandfather. Pride made it impossible that he would ever accustom himself to being the Earl of Denville or ever seek to become part of a society he deemed rotten to the core.

Without a glance, he passed the turning for St James’s, a thoroughfare housing some of the most famous gentlemen’s clubs in London, and continued as if by instinct towards Piccadilly. He came to a halt outside No. 81, Watier’s, the Great-Go as it was fondly known to its members. Somehow he’d returned to the scene of his disgrace. He walked slowly up the stairs and prepared to confront his demons.

The doorman, resplendent in black grosgrain and scarlet silk sash, bowed low.

‘Good evening, Lord Denville,’ he intoned, ‘on behalf of Watier’s, may I offer you sincere condolences on your grandfather’s death, and say how very glad we are to see you again.’

Gareth made no reply, reflecting cynically that commerce knew no moral shades. The doorman handed him on to a footman hovering by the doorway of the salon. He remembered the room immediately. The Aubusson carpet, the straw-coloured silk hangings and the endless line of chandeliers blazing light had not changed.

A group of men nearest the door looked up. They were engaged in a companionable game of faro, but at the sight of him the game stopped and for an instant their conversation withered. A man he did not know, and who was evidently in charge of the day’s bank, said something in an undervoice which caused a ripple of amusement around the table. Lord Petersham, looking a little thinner and older now, hushed the man and play continued. The incident was over in a moment, but to Gareth it was as though time had stood still. His newly acquired title and wealth might open the doors of society to him, but he would never be allowed to forget the scandal. His grim reluctance to return to England, even for a few weeks, had been prescient. He had no place here and wanted none.

He blundered down the steps and headed towards the river. The grey waters flowed bleakly by the embankment, an echo of his harsh mood. Defiantly, he decided to drink to the day he would shake the soil of England from his feet for ever and sought out a boozing-ken in a poor area of Vauxhall, known to him from his days of youthful indiscretion. He ordered a brandy and the drink was rough but fiery. He ordered another and tossed it back quickly. He wanted to sink into oblivion. Over the next hours he drank steadily, as though each drink took him one step further from a hated homeland. It was just short of dawn when he finally lurched to his feet and sought his hotel room. His brain, befuddled by brandy, was treacherous and led him in the wrong direction. Very soon he was lost in a labyrinth of unknown streets.

Fanny woke her mistress at four in the morning. She carried in her arms a set of her own clothes and clutched the stagecoach ticket tightly. She appeared nervous, her hands trembling as she gently shook her mistress awake. Her agitation was soon explained.

‘Miss Amelie, I don’t think you can go. Mr Simmonds is in the hall and he’s been sitting there all night. I was so worried I’d oversleep that I woke really early and crept downstairs to see the time. And there he was. You’ll have to stay, miss, you’ll have to meet Sir Rufus. But maybe it won’t be too bad. You’ll be rich and have your own house to manage and plenty of fine clothes and carriages and—’

‘Do you mean my father has actually set the butler to spy on me?’ Amelie was now sitting bolt upright.

‘Not exactly spy, miss. But he’s there in the hall as right as ninepence and there’s no way you’re going to get past him unseen.’

‘I have to get that coach, Fanny. I must find another way out—the back door?’

‘The scullery maids are already up and working in the kitchen. They would be bound to report it to Cook and she’ll carry it to Mr Simmonds. You’d have to get over the garden wall into the alley behind and they would know of your escape before you’d even got halfway.’

‘Then I must go out of the front—maybe you can distract Simmonds?’

Fanny looked doubtful.

‘I have it, I’ll go out of the window—we’re only on the first floor and we should be able to fashion a ladder from the sheets, long enough for me to reach the ground.’

‘You’ll never climb out of the window on sheets, Miss Amelie. It’s too dangerous. They could give way at any moment.’

‘Not if we knot them very carefully. In any case, it’s far more dangerous for me to stay. Quick, let’s hurry.’

With that she hastily dressed herself in the clothes Fanny had brought. Then, sweeping the sheets from the bed, she began to knot them urgently, calling on the maid to help. More sheets were pulled from the large linen chest, which lined the bedroom wall, and very soon they had put together an impressive rope.

‘We must make sure we’ve knotted the sheets as tightly as possible. I don’t weigh much, but it’s quite a way down.’

‘It’s as safe as I can make it.’ Fanny paused in her labours and looked anxiously at her mistress ‘ … safer than for you to be travelling alone all the way to Bath.’

‘I don’t have a choice. I have to get to my grandmother’s. I promise I’ll take care. Don’t forget,’ Amelie tried to reassure her, ‘I’ll be travelling in disguise and nobody will think of looking twice at a maidservant.’

‘But you’ll still be a very beautiful maidservant, miss, and people are bound to look at you. You must wear my cloak and make sure you pull the hood over your head whenever you’re in public.’

Her mistress fingered the black velvet robe. ‘This is your best cloak, Fanny, I can’t take it.’

‘You must, it will make people think you’re a very superior lady’s maid and they won’t bother you! And it will keep you warm. You’ve never travelled in a stagecoach before, Miss Amelie, but I’m told they’re the draughtiest vehicles out and you’ll be travelling for hours.’

‘Fanny, you’re the best friend anyone ever had.’ The maid blushed with pleasure. ‘As soon as I get to Lady St Clair’s, I’ll make sure she sends for you. Then we’ll both be safe. My father will never dare to follow us there.’

She quickly slipped the cloak over the borrowed dress, pulling the hood well down over her tangled curls. A small cloak bag lay ready with just a few of her most treasured possessions. She could take hardly anything with her, but she had no regrets. Once this room had been a beloved haven, but now it was a prison, a prison leading only to betrothal with a detested man. Sir Rufus Glyde would arrive at noon, but by then she would be miles away and her family confounded. She knew that Fanny would keep her secret, even on pain of dismissal.

She turned quickly to her. ‘I must be gone. Give me the ticket for the stage.’

‘When you get to the inn, miss, be sure to hide yourself away until it’s time for the coach to leave.’

‘I will. Once I’ve gone, you must go back to your room immediately and don’t discover my absence until the last possible moment. Please God they won’t find out that it was you who helped me.’

‘You’re not to worry, Miss Amelie. I’ll make sure they won’t know from me where you’ve gone.’ Fanny was suffused with tears, her voice cracking. ‘Now go, quickly, miss.’

She deftly tied one end of the sheet ladder to the bedpost and opened the window wide. The sash cord groaned ominously and they both held their breath. But the house was silent except for the distant sounds from the kitchen. They breathed again. Fanny played out the sheets over the window sill and helped her mistress on to the ledge. The dawn was spreading a grey light over the quiet streets. A fresh breeze fanned Amelie’s cheeks as she climbed nimbly over the ledge and began lowering herself down the improvised ladder. The descent wasn’t easy. She had to lower herself one movement at a time and the cloak bag, though light, impeded her progress. She wondered if she dared to throw it down into the cellar area below the railings. But Simmonds might well hear the noise and come to see what had caused it. So she continued to edge her way carefully downwards, the bag slung over one arm.

Fanny’s pale face was at the open window, whispering encouragement. ‘You’re doing fine, miss. Don’t look down, not far to go now.’

But her estimation proved to be optimistic. The sheets, which had seemed so prolific in the bedroom, suddenly appeared scanty and far too short. They had both forgotten the deep well below the front door steps and had calculated only to the pavement. Amelie was now at the bottom of the ladder, but still at least fifteen feet above solid ground.

She looked up at the imposing Georgian facade and then down to the terrifying black-and-gold railings that marched along the pavement. What a horrible fate that would be. She suddenly felt very sick. How on earth was she going to reach the ground? She could jump into the well, but she was more than likely to break a leg or worse. Then all chance of escape would be gone. She would have to endure her father’s fierce recriminations. She could see him now, his brow creased in red furrows and his prominent eyes glowering.

As she hung there, her light form bracing itself against the cream stucco of the house, the noise of whistling broke the stillness. Tuneless and somewhat melancholy, the whistling was coming nearer. A late reveller, perhaps, on his way home? He was almost sure to see her. Fanny had heard the noise too and began desperately to try to haul in the sheets.

‘It’s no good,’ Amelie whispered hoarsely, ‘you’ll never have the strength to get me back.’

She could only hope that the unknown figure meandering towards her would be too inebriated to notice a young female hanging from a window. That was wishful thinking. The reveller drew near and stood gazing at her for some time, seemingly trying to work out just what he was viewing.

Amelie looked down and pulled her cloak tighter. She didn’t recognise him and he didn’t look like any of the fashionable bloods who often ended a riotous evening by staggering home at dawn. But he had an indefinable air of authority about him and she worried that by chance he might remember seeing her at one of the many gatherings of the ton this Season. She must avoid discovery at all costs.

Despite having drunk far too much, he seemed alert. His face slowly broke into a derisive smile.

‘What have we here then? A mystery indeed. Plainly an escape, but what are you escaping from? What do maidservants escape from before the household is awake? Have you been stealing and now you’re trying to make off with your ill-gotten gains? Should I knock and instantly let your employers know of your wickedness?’

‘No, sir, indeed I am no thief.’

‘Well, if you’re not a thief, what are you doing climbing out of the window? The house has a door, you know.’

She answered with as much dignity as she could muster, ‘There are circumstances that make it vital for me to escape in this manner. I must not be seen.’

She hoped that he would ask no more questions and be on his way. But the brandy fumes still wreathed around Gareth Denville’s brain. He was indifferent to the fact that he was miles from his hotel and had no idea in which direction it lay. He felt reckless and pleasurably detached from a world he hated. He had no intention of walking away—he was in the mood to enjoy this ridiculous imbroglio.

‘But why must you leave unseen? It seems unnecessarily dramatic,’ he offered provocatively.

‘I have my reasons,’ she replied stiffly. ‘Please leave me.’

‘By all means, but is that wise? It might be more sensible to ask for a little help. Of course I would need to know just who I’m aiding and why.’

‘My name is Amelie and I’m maid to the young mistress of this house. I’m escaping to avoid the attentions of her brother.’

Gareth caught sight of a chestnut curl and looked intently at the heart-shaped face trying to cower deeper into the enveloping cloak. ‘He has good taste,’ he admitted. ‘But then so do I.’

He swayed slightly on his heels and finally pronounced, ‘We’ll make a bargain, shall we? I’ll rescue you on one condition.’

‘Anything, sir,’ she said recklessly. Her arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets and she knew she would not be able to hold on much longer. The sharp sword points of the railings seemed already to be coming nearer.

‘A rather rash promise, but one I shall keep you to. I’ll help you to the ground, but in exchange you’ll come with me—as entertainment, shall we say.’

‘Dear sir, I cannot. I have a journey to make. I’m on my way to—Bristol,’ she amended, thinking it best not to reveal her plans in their entirety. ‘I have to get to the White Horse Inn in Fetter Lane to catch the stage.’

‘Excellent. Bristol, why not? There are boats aplenty there,’ he added obscurely. ‘We’ll go together.’

He needed to get away and he was intrigued by the glimpse of the beautiful face beneath the cloak. Mr Spence would have to wait for his papers to be signed. Perhaps he would never sign them, never avail himself of his newfound wealth. If so, he would manage—he had for the last seven years.

‘A perfect solution, then,’ he said swiftly. ‘I extricate you from your difficulties and we travel to Bristol together.’

He saw her dismayed face. ‘You won’t have to know me very long—a few hours only. You might even get to like me,’ he added harshly. ‘I’ll bespeak a private parlour when we get to the inn. You can have a good breakfast and I can have—well, let’s say, I can have the pleasure of your company.’

Amelie heard her maid moan. Fanny had her head below the window sill, but could hear all that was being said. This was her worst fear come true, but she was powerless to intervene. If she made herself known, the man, whoever he was, would discover Amelie’s deception. He might spread rumours about her mistress and Amelie would be shunned by society. Then she would never find a husband, not even a degenerate twice her age. As Fanny fidgeted in despair, the decision was made for her.

Her arms breaking, Amelie gasped out, ‘Yes, I’ll come with you. Just get me down from here, please, immediately!’

‘At your service, madam.’ Her knight errant leapt over the railings and down the stairs to the cellar area. Amelie, her hands now nerveless, fell into his arms. He held her to his chest, enjoying for a moment the softness of her young body.

‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said, putting her down abruptly, and quickly casting around in his mind for a name. ‘I am Gareth Wendover.’

## Chapter Two


She allowed herself to be led up the area steps and away from the house. Instead of letting her go once they reached the pavement, her rescuer kept a tight grip on her arm as if to prevent any flight. She noticed that his hands were strong and shapely, but tanned as though they were used to outdoor work. He appeared an enigma, a gentleman, presumably, but one acquainted with manual labour. His earlier nonchalance had disappeared and with it his good humour. Glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes, she saw that his expression had grown forbidding. A black mood seemed to have descended on him as he strode rapidly along the street, pulling her along in his wake. His chin jutted aggressively and his black hair fell across his brow. When he finally turned to her, his eyes were blue steel.

‘Why are you dawdling?’ he demanded brusquely. ‘I thought you were desperate to escape.’

‘I am,’ she countered indignantly. ‘I’m walking as fast as I can and you’re hurting my arm. I’m not a sack to be dragged along the street.’

Ignoring her complaint, he continued to tow her along the road at breakneck speed. ‘Come on, Amelia—that was your name?—try harder. We need to move more quickly.’

He must be drunker than I supposed, she thought ruefully. His voice was cultured and his clothes, though shabby, were genteel. But his conduct was erratic. One minute he appeared to find her situation a source of laughter, the next he behaved in this surly fashion. He thought she was a maidservant and had doubtless helped her to escape because of her pretty face. But he’d hardly glanced at her since that unfortunate moment when she’d landed in his arms and now he was sweeping her away from the house as if his life depended on it, propelling her along the pavement until she was breathless.

Incensed by this treatment, she came to an abrupt halt, almost tripping him up. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said. I cannot walk any faster than I’m doing already. And,’ she added coldly, ‘my name is Amelie, not Amelia.’

‘However fancy your name, you’re still a fugitive,’ he responded drily, ‘and a fugitive under my command. And my command is to make haste.’

‘I will certainly make haste, but at a more seemly rate.’

‘Seemly—that’s a strange word for a girl who escapes through windows.’

She looked mutinous, but was too tired to argue any further and submitted again to being led at a spanking pace through a maze of streets until they came across a hackney carriage waiting for business.

‘In you go,’ her persecutor said shortly and pushed her into the ill-smelling interior. He uttered a few words to the jarvey and they were off.

Keeping company with a drunken man, who looked as though he’d known better days, was not part of her plans, but she decided that she would not try to escape just yet. She would stay with this Mr Wendover while it suited her purpose. He’d been useful so far and if he could deliver her to the White Horse Inn, then she would be set for her journey to Bath. Once in the inn’s courtyard, it should be easy to give him the slip and hide away until the stage departed.

They sat opposite in the dingy cab, silently weighing each other up. It was the first time she’d been able fully to see her rescuer. He was a powerfully built man, carelessly dressed, but exuding strength. She was acutely conscious of his form as he lay back against the worn swabs. She had no idea who he was, other than the name he’d given, and he was evidently not going to volunteer further information. Instead, he sat silently, gazing at her, assessing her almost as though she were a piece of merchandise he’d just purchased, she thought wrathfully. But he would discover that she had other plans; she would leave him as soon as she was able. Doubtless he would start to drink again at the inn and, once fuddled, would not care what happened to her.

In this she was wrong. Despite his dazed state, Gareth had been watching her closely and had seen her recoil as she sat down on the stained seat of the cab. A trifle fastidious for a maidservant, he thought. The hood of her cloak obscured much of her face, but what he could see was very beautiful, from the glinting chestnut curls to the fine cheekbones and flawless complexion. A strange maidservant, indeed, and a strange situation.

As the brandy fumes began to dissolve, he was left with an aching head and a confused mind. What on earth was he doing miles from his hotel, his solicitor and legal papers all but forgotten? How had he embarked on this mad adventure with a woman he didn’t know and one who could well be a thief? Perhaps the hue and cry to apprehend her had already started. And he’d been the one to make sure she escaped pursuit, rushing her along the streets away from any possible danger. He must be very drunk. He would need to keep her close until he worked out what to do. In the meantime there must be a few hours before the Bristol stage left, and he would remind her of her promise. She’d provide a pleasant interlude.

The hackney bounced over the cobbles at considerable speed. There was little traffic at this time of the morning and they were soon at the White Horse. He helped her down with one hand while paying the jarvey with the other. No escape, she reflected. Never mind, her opportunity would come, she would just have to be a little cleverer.

‘I suggest we repair indoors and find some breakfast.A private parlour should give us some respite from this din.’

He had to bend down and speak directly into her ear, the noise coming from the inn courtyard was so great. She could hardly believe how many people were gathered into such a small space. There was luggage scattered everywhere: trunks, cloak bags, sacks of produce, bird cages heaped up pell-mell. Ostlers ran back and forth leading out teams of fresh horses, coachmen took final draughts of their beer before blowing the horn for departure. Everywhere people shouted instructions and were not heard. It was bedlam, and the relative quiet of the inn taproom seemed like sanctuary.

The landlord came bustling out, rubbing his hands with pleasure as there was normally little hope of trade at this time of the morning. All anyone usually bought was a quick cup of scalding coffee. But here was a gentleman and his companion, surely more substantial customers, even if the man did look a little the worse for wear and the woman kept her face shrouded.

‘A beautiful morning.’ The landlord beamed ingratiatingly. ‘And how can I help you, sir?’

Gareth frowned. ‘Prepare a private parlour for myself and the lady,’ he said curtly. ‘We leave on the Bristol coach, but wish to take some breakfast first.’

‘Of course, sir. Right away. If you would care to come with me.’

The room the landlord led them to was small and poky with a low window that looked out over the back garden, but it was mercifully quiet. The curtains were grimy and the furniture looked faded and uninviting. Amelie plumped one of the chair cushions and sent up a cloud of dust. Her rescuer glanced across at her, his expression mocking. ‘The housekeeping can wait.’

She glared at him. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Wendover, I would prefer to be outside.’

‘I’m sure you would, but here we’ll stay. I can keep an eye on you and we can eat breakfast together. Won’t that be companionable?’

His voice was light and his tone ironic, but somehow he made the phrase sound like a caress. Yet the look on his face was calculating. Weighing me up again, she thought, deciding whether or not he made a good bargain when he rescued me. She was beginning to feel unusually vulnerable, confined to this isolated room with an unknown and unpredictable man. But indignation at her imprisonment gave her courage.

‘I’m unsure what you mean by companionable, Mr Wendover. I certainly thank you for the service you’ve rendered me this morning, but I’ve no need of food and would prefer to wait for my coach in the courtyard. If you allow me to pass, you may enjoy your meal undisturbed.’

‘Not so fast. I have no wish to be left undisturbed. On the contrary, I very much desire to be disturbed.’

He smiled derisively as he spoke, but his eyes were hard and measuring. ‘You are mighty proud for a maidservant, are you not?’ he asked. ‘But then a challenge is always welcome.’

She made no reply, for the first time conscious of a shadowy fear. The ancient clock in the corner of the room ticked out the minutes loudly in the gulf of silence that stretched between them. She felt bruised by his scrutiny. Then, without warning, he began to walk slowly towards her, his dark blue eyes intent. He no longer seemed a harmless reveller. She was very aware of his close physical presence and the way he was looking at her was disquieting. His hard gaze seemed to drink her in. She was angry that he dared to stare at her so, but at the same time the pit of her stomach fluttered uncomfortably.

Desperately she strove to exert control over the situation. ‘I don’t understand what exactly you want of me.’ Even to her ears, she sounded faint and foolish.

‘Really? I’m surprised. Do they make maidservants that innocent these days? Perhaps I should remind you that we had a bargain. I helped you from your predicament and you promised to stay with me until your—sorry, our—coach left the inn.’

‘But why?’

‘Come, you can’t be that naive. Why would any man want a beautiful young woman to stay with him?’

She stepped back hurriedly and collided with the threadbare sofa. ‘You surely cannot pretend any feelings for me.’ Her voice was hoarse with alarm. ‘You know nothing of me.’

‘True, but do I have to? You’ll be a charming diversion just when I need one. Here, pull your hood back.’

Before she could stop him, Gareth had flung her cloak back to reveal her face fully. He looked at her wonderingly. A tangle of silken curls tumbled down around her shoulders. Her eyes, the colour of autumn, were wide and frightened and the soft cream of her cheeks delicately flushed. It seemed an age that he stood looking at her.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with desire. ‘You are beautiful,’ he said. She flinched and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body.

‘There’s no need to be scared,’ he murmured smoothly. ‘I’m sure we’ll deal well together.’

‘Indeed, no, sir, we will not,’ she protested. ‘I’m an honest woman and you shall not touch me.’

‘Honest,’ he mused. ‘An interesting word. Honest women hardly choose to escape from their homes at four in the morning. Nor do they come away with men they don’t know. Don’t play your tricks off on me. Instead, let’s be truthful with each other. I’m in need of amusement and you, I imagine, are a little adventuress who will take whatever comes her way.’

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him. In a moment his arms were round her waist, a gesture shocking in its intimacy. She shrank from him, but his nearness was making her senses falter. He pressed closer and she felt her body begin to tingle. For a moment they stayed body to body, then quickly she sprang away.

Her face was pink with vexation. ‘How dare you touch me!’

‘Very easily, I’ll think you’ll find. Women are made for pleasure and you’ll provide it amply.’

He made as if to recapture her in his arms, but was interrupted by the door opening. The landlord arrived bearing a ham, eggs, some devilled kidneys and toast. A servant followed with a large pot of steaming coffee.

‘There we are, sir,’ the innkeeper sang out, determinedly ignoring what he had seen as he came in the door. ‘Just the job for a chilly May morning. But good travelling weather, I’ll be bound.’ He continued to spill out words while Amelie retreated to a corner of the room, trying hard to quell her jumping heart.

When the landlord had left, Gareth sat down at the table and began calmly to carve slices of ham and place them carefully on the two plates.

‘Come to the table, Amelie, you must eat,’ he coaxed. ‘No point in starving yourself—you have a long road ahead.’

The glorious sense of irresponsibility that he’d known earlier had gone, but he was still enjoying himself. He had no idea who he was with or what would happen. But this beautiful girl had felt warm and tremulous when he pulled her close and he looked forward to repeating the sensation. It was escape that he needed right now and she had literally dropped into his arms, ready to furnish it.

Amelie resolutely refused even to look at the food.

‘Come to the table!’ His tone was now peremptory.

She remained sitting in the corner of the room. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said in a freezing voice.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re hungry. Come, I wish to eat the ham, not you. Sit down—or I’ll make you.’

Alarmed at any further physical contact, she abandoned her station and went with as much dignity as she could muster towards the table. Perching at the corner, as far away as possible, she nibbled at the ham and a slice of bread. The coffee was mercifully strong and hot and she gratefully downed two cups. He ate more leisurely as though he had the entire morning to finish his breakfast. And when he’s eaten his fill, she thought, I’ll be next on the menu.

She was going to have to make her getaway fast if she were to avoid another dreadful scene. She couldn’t rely on the landlord to come in so opportunely again. Indeed, he’d had an unpleasantly knowing look in his eye as he’d laid the food down in front of his patron. He would do nothing to help her; she would have to save herself.

She cleared her throat. ‘Why do you wish to go to Bristol, Mr Wendover?’

‘Why should that concern you?’

‘If we are to be travelling companions today, it might be sensible to get to know each other a little.’ She wondered anxiously if he would take the bait and relax his guard.

‘A change of tune? When I tried to get to know you, you weren’t too keen,’ Gareth said caustically.

‘I’m sorry for that, but I find this room a little overheated and when you pulled me towards you …’ her voice wavered at the thought ‘.I felt faint.’

‘Ah, that’s how it was. Well, I certainly don’t want a fainting woman on my hands, so I’ll open this window a little and then we can be comfortable. Come here, Amelie, and let me look at my prize.’

Steeling herself, she walked slowly towards him. He stood up, facing her, and smiled. She realised with a jolt that when he smiled, his whole face was transformed from a threatening harshness to engaging warmth. His blue eyes had lost their steeliness and smiled, too, suggesting humour and good nature. His white teeth were even and his lips full. She stared at him, enjoying the picture he presented.

‘I’m not surprised you’ve had trouble from your employers,’ he broke into her rapt contemplation. ‘You’re far too lovely ever to be let near the average young man.’ He laughed softly. ‘But I’m hardly the average man, so we need have no fears on that score.’

She woke abruptly from her dreamlike state and realised the danger she was in. Picking up her reticule, she fanned herself energetically. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m still very warm in here. And I wonder if the ham was all it should be?’

‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’ he exploded. The moment was gone.

‘Just that the ham had a slight taint, I thought. But ham never really agrees with me, so perhaps it was fine.’

‘If it doesn’t agree with you, what the devil do you mean by eating it?’

‘You insisted, Mr Wendover. I was scared of you, so I ate it. But now I don’t feel at all well.’ She pressed her handkerchief artistically to her mouth and closed her eyes. ‘I think I might really faint this time.’

Gareth cursed under his breath and shouted for the landlord, who came suspiciously quickly. She was sure the salacious old man had been lurking outside the door, waiting to see what would occur.

‘My companion is unwell, landlord, your ham seems to be to blame,’ Gareth said tersely.

‘That can’t be right, sir, the ham was freshly cured. Mrs Fawley would be very upset to think that aspersions had been cast on her ham. It’s the best in the city. You won’t get better anywhere.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Gareth irascibly, ‘that’s as may be. My friend here is feeling ill and needs to lie down. Do you have a bedchamber where she can be accommodated?’

‘Yes, sir, of course, I’ll call my wife immediately.’

Mrs Fawley soon appeared on the doorstep with a martial look in her eyes. It was obvious she had overheard the conversation and was ready to defend her ham. But when she saw Amelie, small and white, and looking decidedly unwell, she took pity on her.

‘I’ve got my own opinion as to what’s made the young miss faint,’ she sniffed, and escorted Amelie to a small but clean bedchamber on the next floor, overlooking the courtyard.

Once on her own, she locked the door and laid herself on the bed. She was exhausted by the morning’s adventures. It seemed that she’d thwarted one persecutor only to fall into the hands of another; she’d only very narrowly eluded her would-be ravisher. It was second nature for her to mistrust any man and she wondered at her stupidity in imagining that Gareth Wendover would be no threat to her.

When she’d first seen him he’d appeared no more harmful than a lively reveller returning from a night of pleasure—untidy and unfashionable and probably a little the worse for drink—but for some reason she’d trusted him. Only after he’d used her so roughly, dragging her along the street, throwing her into the hackney and then—certainly best forgotten—pulling her into his arms, had she realised what a foolish mistake she’d made.

And yet even then, she admitted shamefacedly, there’d been temptation to remain in his embrace, to let those strong arms encircle her. Of course that was simply a reaction to the alarms of the last few days, but thank goodness the landlord had come in when he had. And now her pretence of illness had saved her again, although for a short while only. She was sure that Gareth would be knocking on the door very soon and demanding admittance. And a bedchamber was an even worse place to meet him than the parlour downstairs. She had to be gone by the time he arrived.

She quickly washed her hands and face and tidied her hair in the tarnished mirror, which hung lopsidedly on one wall. She’d noticed as the landlady escorted her up to this floor that there was a second stairway leading downwards. It was much smaller and far less grand, obviously the stair used by the servants. She was sure it would lead out to the garden; if she could reach that, she would easily be able to creep unnoticed to the front courtyard.

She glanced at the clock and could hardly believe the time. The coach for Bath left in just five minutes. Carefully, she unlocked the door and peered out. All was quiet and she tiptoed as swiftly as she could to the head of the small staircase and listened again. The only noise wafting up to her was the convivial banter from the taproom. No strong footsteps mounted towards her door. Gareth Wendover thought she was travelling to Bristol and would not know the Bath stage was about to leave. This was her chance.

Regretfully, she would have to leave her cloak bag behind in the parlour below, but at least she had her reticule and in it the precious ticket. In a minute she was down the stairs and lifting the latch on the door leading to the garden. A woman servant suddenly appeared from the kitchen quarters and stared at her uncomprehendingly. Amelie whisked through the door and quickly took the path to the front of the inn.

The scene was a little less chaotic than when she’d arrived in the hackney as many of the morning coaches had already departed. She was easily able to identify the coach to Bath, and once she’d shown her ticket to the guard, she was helped aboard. She chose one of the middle seats of the bank of four that lined either side. It was likely to be the most uncomfortable, but it would shield her from anyone looking in from outside. A large burly farmer sat to one side and a rotund country woman with an enormous basket on her lap on the other. There was very little room, but she could almost disappear between them.

It seemed a lifetime before the guard blew the signal to leave and the coach was pulling out of the yard. There was no sign of her tormentor. By now he was sure to have begun drinking again and would hardly miss her absence. Strangely, she didn’t feel as elated at her escape as she should. It was ridiculous, but she almost fancied that she’d let him down in some way. After all, he’d shown some care for her. If it weren’t for him, she would still be dangling on the rope of sheets or, even worse, impaled on the front railings. He’d helped her down, found a cab and escorted her to the inn. He’d offered her shelter and refreshment. He’d pulled her into his arms. He’d held her in a crushing embrace. Her mind stopped. That was an image she must be sure to leave behind.

They were already passing through Belgravia and turning out on to the highway that ran westwards. She hoped her family had no idea yet that she was gone. Fanny would be worrying frantically and the sooner she could let her maidservant know that all was well, the better. And all was well, she convinced herself. She’d had a gruelling experience, but she’d achieved her aim. She would not be there to greet Rufus Glyde this morning. Instead, she was on her way to her grandmother’s and to safety.

Gareth drained the last of the coffee pot and decided to go in search of his reluctant travelling companion.He’d been unsure whether she was telling the truth about the ham, but she’d certainly begun to look very white and he’d not wanted to risk any unpleasantness. Truth to tell, she’d looked so small and vulnerable he’d felt a wish to protect her rather than pursue her. He shook his head at his stupidity. She was as mercenary as the rest of the world, no doubt. Her story about escaping from an importuning son probably had a grain of truth in it, given her undeniable beauty, but he was quite sure there was another tale to tell. Perhaps she really was a thief. Perhaps she’d allowed the son too much licence and was now scared to tell her mistress of the inevitable result.

Thanks to the very strong coffee, he’d sobered up completely in the hour that she’d been gone. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to get involved with the girl. A sense of the ridiculous, perhaps? Or a whiff of intrigue—a maid with a French name, finicky manners and a keenness to hide her face. He felt too weary to puzzle any further. Two sleepless nights had begun to take their toll and he was now eager to wash his hands of her. He would simply put her on the Bristol coach and go back to his hotel. It had been stupid of him to think that he could flee his obligations. Tomorrow he would send a message to the solicitor and sign whatever papers that worthy presented.

He glanced at the cloak bag Amelie had left on the bench. He’d better restore it to its owner and assure her that she had nothing further to fear from him. He made his way upstairs to the front bedchamber, but it was empty. Thinking he’d got the wrong room, he looked into another and surprised the chambermaid who was making up the bed.

‘I’m looking for a young lady,’ he excused himself, ‘she was feeling unwell and came up to rest.’

The maid looked at him blankly. ‘She’s not ‘ere.’

‘I can see she’s not here,’ Gareth returned shortly, ‘but have you seen her?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ The maid continued smoothing out the bedspread with a bored expression on her face. ‘Not many people come up ‘ere.’ She paused and looked vacantly out of the window. ‘There wus a stranger on the stairs a while ago.’

‘A young woman?’

‘I couldn’t rightly say.’

‘Why ever not?’ he asked impatiently.

“Cos of the cloak.’

‘A black velvet cloak?’ The maid nodded absently.

‘That’s her. Where is she?’

‘How would I know? She went down the stairs and out the door.’

‘What door?’ Gareth was suddenly alert.

‘The back door, of course.’ The maid shook her head at his obtuseness. “Appen she’s in the garden taking the air,’ she said helpfully.

He swore softly to himself and ran down the stairs two at a time. The garden was empty as he knew it would be, but he saw the path that led around the inn and followed it into the courtyard. The yard was also nearly empty. The last coach of the morning had departed and the inn servants were clearing up the mess the passengers and drivers had left behind.

He accosted a thin, gangling youth who was mournfully sweeping the last of the straw from the cobbles.

‘The stage to Bristol?’ he enquired curtly.

‘There ain’t no stages to Bristol today,’ the boy confided happily, leaning on his broom and glad for an excuse to stop work. ‘Bath now, mebbe. And you can allus go on from Bath.’

‘Where’s the stage to Bath?’

‘Where? Somewhere near ‘Ounslow, I reckon.’ The boy grinned cheekily. ‘What d’you think, Jem?’

Jem staggered to a halt, bent double under the weight of the saddle he was carrying. ‘With ole Tranter driving, probably not yet clear of Kensington,’ he jeered.

The other men stopped their work and joined in a chorus of raucous laughter. An elderly ostler leaned lazily against the inn wall and chewed a straw. He smiled widely, enjoying Gareth’s discomfort.

‘Next one’s tomorrow, sir. That’s if you don’t mind a little wait,’ he sniggered.

‘Move yourself and get me a horse immediately,’ Gareth snapped in response and ran back into the inn. He threw money onto the table in payment and snatched up Amelie’s cloak bag. He’d been willing to let her go when he could play the benefactor. But how dare she play him false? A bargain was a bargain and he was going to make her pay.

He stormed back into the inn courtyard and tapped his foot impatiently.

It took nearly fifteen minutes to make the horse ready and by that time he was in a towering rage. He threw the cloak bag across the saddle, then leapt onto the horse’s back and wheeled her round to face the courtyard entrance.

“Appen you might catch ‘em up,’ opined the old ostler, still chewing his straw vigorously, ‘but I ain’t anyways too sure on it.’

Gareth’s reply was to spur his mount forwards and out of the courtyard in one bound.

## Chapter Three


Wedged uncomfortably between her fellow passengers, Amelie endured the miles as they rolled wearily on. By now her escape must have been discovered. Her father would be spreading tempest through the house; he would find it impossible to explain her absence to Rufus Glyde when the latter came calling. For a moment the thought of Glyde’s likely retribution made her feel a little sick, but she resolutely pushed it from her mind. Lord Silverdale would have to find another way of saving the family.

She had no clear idea of the time, but it had to be around noon. Any moment now Sir Rufus would be stepping up to the front door of the house in Grosvenor Square, expecting to have acquired a bride before he left again. A wave of revulsion passed through her. Anything was better than that, even the harassment she’d suffered from Mr Gareth Wendover.

She was glad to be free of him, too, yet she couldn’t quite subdue a twinge of regret. He’d behaved abominably, but then her conduct had hardly been that of a delicately raised young woman. If he’d realised her true situation, he wouldn’t have attempted to make love to her. But that was a nonsense. It would have made no difference to him if she were maid or mistress. From the outset he’d shown a predilection for seizing her in as close an embrace as possible. Whether she was the daughter of Lord Silverdale or the daughter’s maid would be immaterial.

And shamefully, it hadn’t mattered to her either whether he was Mr Wendover, gentleman, or a choice spirit of dubious origins. She’d enjoyed the feeling of being held against his powerful frame. Eyes closed, she thought reminiscently of the strength that had encompassed her, the masculine warmth that promised as much excitement as security. But how foolish! She had no intention of being at the mercy of any man—ever. She’d just escaped from one threatened entanglement and she must preserve herself from any other, particularly with a man who by the look of him could bring her nothing but trouble.

She shifted her position, trying to get more comfortable, but in such a crowded carriage it was difficult. Her feet were already numb from inactivity and her left arm ached with the weight of the portly farmer bunched in beside her. A thin-faced clerk in the corner scowled at her attempts to move, but the country woman smiled in motherly sympathy.

‘There ain’t much room in these coaches, miss, and we large ‘uns don’t make it any easier.’

The farmer snorted at this and shifted his bulk again, trapping Amelie’s arm even more heavily than before. As well as aching from head to toe, she was beginning to feel very hungry. She’d hardly eaten a crumb at the inn, so intent had she been on eluding Gareth. The motherly lady, sensing her thoughts, reached down to the basket, which now nestled on the floor between her feet. She drew out some slices of pie and cheese and apples and smilingly offered to share her fare. Natural politeness would normally have made Amelie refuse, but her hunger was tormenting and the morning’s events had somehow dispensed with normality. She plunged her teeth into the succulent pie just as they left Hounslow Heath.

Her benefactor adjusted her white cotton cap and sighed with relief. ‘I’m certain glad we’ve left that Heath. Terrible things happen there. Just last week my neighbour told me her son was held up in broad daylight and robbed of everything, including his horse. He’d to walk all the way to the City and never a chance of catching the man who robbed him.’

Amelie, too, was relieved, for Fanny’s words still echoed in her mind; that at least was one danger she’d evaded. Once replete with food, it was easy to slip into a doze. She knew it must be another eight hours or so before she reached her destination and if she could catnap at least some of the time, the journey would not be so wearisome. She started to rehearse what she would say to her grandmother when she finally reached her and was in the middle of a masterly speech in which she painted a frightening picture of what her life would be like with Rufus Glyde, when her head began to droop and she drifted gently into a deep sleep. The red-faced farmer beside her also slept, his snores keeping time with the rhythm of the coach, but Amelie heard nothing. Even when the stage came to rest at its designated stops, she remained undisturbed.

She slept on, mile after mile, until suddenly just past the Chippenham turn-off the coach lurched to an abrupt halt. She was jolted awake and thought at first that they must have reached the small town of Wroxhall, which she’d noticed was just twenty miles short of Bath. Hopefully some of the passengers would alight there and leave those remaining a little more room. Craning her neck round the still-sleeping farmer to look out of the window, she received a shock that sent her senses spinning.

Gareth Wendover wrenched open the doorway of the coach. He was smiling grimly and in his hand was her forlorn cloak bag. ‘You seem to have forgotten something, Amelie.’

The coachman at that moment appeared at his shoulder. “Ere, ‘ere, you can’t stop a coach on the King’s ‘Ighway to give back a bag,’ he blustered.

‘Oh, but indeed I can,’ Gareth said smoothly. ‘You see, this isn’t any old cloak bag and I’m not giving it back. In fact, I have every intention of keeping it—it is evidence!’

Her fellow passengers were now all wide awake and taking interested note of the proceedings. She heard the word evidence being bandied around between them and turned to face her pursuer.

Gareth’s smile turned positively fiendish. ‘It contains some very expensive trinkets filched by this young woman from her employers. In her haste to escape justice, she left the bag behind. But I’ll make sure that she answers for her crime. I intend to deliver her immediately to the local magistrate. He is sure to have strong views on dishonest servants.’

There was a gasp from the stout woman who had befriended Amelie. ‘Surely not, sir. This young woman can’t be a thief.’

‘One would not think so, I confess, but appearances can be deceptive. Unfortunately, the young and supposedly innocent may harbour evil impulses.’

‘How dare you,’ spluttered Amelie. ‘You know you’re telling a pack of lies. That bag is certainly mine, but it contains only a few personal items.’

‘Is that so?’ Gareth was maddeningly calm. ‘Then I suggest, ladies and gentlemen,’ addressing the inhabitants of the coach who were now all craning forward, intent on the play being enacted before them, ‘that you decide whether or not a maid is likely to be carrying these particular personal items.’

And with a flourish he emptied the contents of the bag onto the ground. To her embarrassment a few of her garments spilled out, but her consternation was vastly increased when she spied along with them a diamond brooch, a jewelled tiepin and a battered but expensive gentleman’s timepiece.

‘Now what do you think of that?’ her tormentor goaded. ‘Do they look the sort of things a lady’s maid would own? I really don’t think so. They do, however, look the sort of items she might purloin from her employer’s bedroom.’

Amelie found her voice at last. ‘This is all lies. I’ve never seen these things before in my life,’ she cried indignantly.

‘And yet somehow they are in your bag. You did say it was your bag, didn’t you?’

Her fellow passengers were muttering to themselves, the motherly lady still swearing that she was sure there was some mistake, but the acidic clerk in the corner talked darkly about the falling morals of servants these days. Even the farmer had woken up and was giving his pointed opinion that they were wasting time, and if they didn’t get moving soon it would be dark before they could get anywhere near their homes. The rest of the coach nodded in agreement and seemed to lose interest in Amelie’s plight.

Gareth reached into the carriage and grasped her arm. ‘Now, my dear, I think you will come with me.’

He pulled her down from the coach as the driver started to put his horses into motion once more. Smiling, he waved the stage on its way. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure this young woman gets her just deserts.’

It was all over in seconds. One minute the coach was still there, the next she was standing in the middle of a deserted country road, Gareth Wendover at her arm and his horse placidly grazing by the roadside.

‘You are abominable!’ she exploded. ‘What have I ever done to you to serve me so ill?’

‘Desertion, perhaps,’ he queried. ‘Have you never been told it’s dishonourable to make a bargain and not keep it? I thought you needed a lesson.’

‘I need no lesson on how to conduct myself, particularly from you,’ she raged. ‘The last time I had the misfortune to be in your company, you behaved intolerably even for someone who was clearly not in their right senses.’

His smile faded. ‘I may have been a trifle disguised,’ he conceded, ‘but my senses were working fine. You’re a very beautiful young woman, Amelie, but too spirited by far. As a maidservant, you’re in need of some schooling.’

She ignored the implied threat. ‘How dare you make me out to be a thief? Every feeling is offended.’

‘Who’s to say you’re not a thief? You’ve behaved most suspiciously.’

She stood erect and looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘I have never stolen in my life and I have never seen those articles you tipped out of my cloak bag.’

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ he agreed amiably. ‘The watch and tiepin are mine and the brooch is one that belonged to my mother and that happened to be in my pocket.’

She gaped at him. ‘Then why did you make up such a wicked story?’

‘To get you off the coach, of course,’ he replied blandly. ‘What else? I could hardly hold the stage up and request you to dismount. You would have refused and your fellow passengers would have supported you, but thinking you might be a thief, they just wanted to get on their way.’

‘You are insufferable. You’ve stranded me in the middle of nowhere because I didn’t keep some shameful bargain. Rest assured that I still won’t be keeping it.’

‘Now that’s where we might disagree.’ His tone was unyielding. ‘After all, what else can you do? As you so rightly point out, you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere, and the only possible transport looks to be that horse over there, and that horse belongs to me. So I think perhaps you might be persuaded to keep your bargain after all.’

‘Then you think wrongly. I would rather walk for the rest of the day than be anywhere near you.’ With that, she stuffed her few belongings back into her bag and began marching rapidly along the road.

‘It’s at least six miles to the nearest village,’ he called after her.

‘Then I’ll walk six miles,’ she responded angrily.

He swung himself into the saddle and sidled his horse up to her. ‘I always get my way, you know. You might as well give in gracefully and enjoy our splendid isolation together. The shoes you’re wearing hardly seem to be made for rural walking.’ The steel had given way to wry mockery.

She looked down at the dainty pumps she still wore, annoyed that she’d not thought to change them for some of Fanny’s much stouter shoes. With compressed lips, she marched onwards, Gareth Wendover walking his horse just a pace behind. We must look like a carnival show, she reflected bitterly.

‘Come, Amelie, this is stupid. Get up on the horse and I’ll engage to take you to the nearest inn.’

‘Thank you, sir, but your offer is declined. I’m well aware of my likely fate there. I’ve had experience of what you consider fitting conduct for an inn.’

‘You’re an obstinate young woman, but I shall win. You might as well resign yourself to accompanying me and be saved a good deal of discomfort.’

His manner was relaxed and he seemed to have all the time in the world, confident that she would eventually capitulate. Her feet were already pinching badly and she knew that the soles of her shoes would hardly stand up to six miles of rough road, but her anger drove her on. The earlier vision of his smile and the remembered pleasure of his embrace had evaporated without trace. He was a persecutor, there was no doubt. He was as bad in his own way as Rufus Glyde and, just as she’d defeated Glyde, she would defeat him, too.

Still incensed, she trudged on and now both were silent. Gareth saved his breath. He could see it was pointless trying to persuade her otherwise. He’d been seized by fury when he discovered she’d disappeared without a word and had made a snap decision to go after her and wreak his revenge. It was a stupid thing to do, but he was unused to a female besting him. From the moment he’d met her, he’d behaved irrationally; she’d somehow got under his skin and it was a new sensation. Women were for dalliance, passing fancies to be enjoyed lightly before moving on. They were not to be taken seriously. Now he was landed with this ridiculous situation.

He was willing to concede that she had cause to be angry. He’d behaved badly, but her conduct was hardly blameless. She’d been lying to him ever since they met, he was certain. And she’d made use of him when it suited her. He would show her that no one, least of all a chit of a girl, treated him in that way and emerged unscathed. Let her walk off her temper and destroy her shoes. She would be all the more acquiescent when he made his next move.

Musing in this way, he was unaware of the sounds of an approaching coach. Amelie, far more alert, heard in the distance the clatter of wheels before a curricle and four swept round the corner at breakneck speed. She had a terrifying vision of four magnificent greys thundering down on her before she made a dive for cover. Lost in his thoughts, Gareth could only take avoiding action when it was too late. His startled mount reared into the air, and he was flung over the horse’s head, landing heavily in the ditch. The curricle swept by, its driver, clad in a caped overcoat, according them not a glance.

Cowering in the shelter of the grassy bank, Amelie thought she spied a crest on the side of the coach panel. Surely it could not be Rufus Glyde. But she knew that it was. She was all too familiar with that crest. Her flight must have been discovered earlier than she’d hoped and he’d been sent for, or most probably had taken it on himself to hunt her down. Fanny would never have given her away; her father must have guessed that she’d fled to Bath and her grandmother. Terrified that Glyde might turn the coach and come back to inspect his handiwork, she remained in hiding. There she stayed silent and unmoving for a long time before finding the courage to crawl up the bank to the roadside.

Gareth Wendover was nowhere to be seen. His mount was once more quietly cropping the grass, but there was no sign of the master. A perfect opportunity to escape. The horse was close by and looked biddable. If she led him to the nearest field gate she could manage to clamber into the saddle, then ride to Wroxall, and from there catch the next stagecoach westwards wherever it was going. The sooner she was out of this part of the country, the better. She knew Glyde was not travelling here for his own enjoyment. He was searching for her and he would be back.

A groan sounded from the ditch a few yards away. Tiptoeing to the grass edge, she peered downwards. Gareth was lying on his back, but his foot was at a sickening angle. He had his eyes closed and his face was ashen.

‘Are you all right?’ She knew it to be an ill-advised question even as she asked.

He opened his eyes and looked directly up into hers. ‘Does it look like it? No, I’m not all right, but it’s hardly your problem.’

‘What’s happened to your foot?’

‘It appears I may have broken my ankle—I’m not sure. In any case, I can’t move more than a few inches. There’s no way I’ll be able to walk on it.’

She remained silent and he rasped out, ‘Don’t mind me, rejoice all you wish. You’re free to go now. Take the horse and make your escape while you can.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘Do you really care? I can’t imagine so. I shall stay here—I don’t have much choice. Someone will come by sooner or later.’

‘Let me try to help you up.’ She half clambered down the ditch and put her hand under the shoulder that was nearest. At the same time he tried to raise himself to a standing position with his other hand, but the effort was too great. His face turned even whiter.

‘I can’t do it,’ he said, sinking back onto the damp bed of grass once more, ‘but thank you for trying. I probably don’t deserve your help.’

‘No, you don’t,’ she said shortly, ‘and this could be just punishment for your behaviour.’

‘Spare me the lecture on my morals and go.’

She hesitated, but then walked down the road and led the horse forwards to the nearby gate. Gareth’s last glimpse of her was a mass of chestnut curls flying in the breeze as she disappeared into the distance.

She was an accomplished rider and the few miles to the nearest inn took her only a short time to cover. She rode into the deserted courtyard of the George and called out for help. No one came. She had to dismount and walk into the taproom before she found anyone. An angular woman with a sharp-featured countenance confronted her. Her worn pinafore and rolled-up sleeves suggested that this was the landlord’s wife.

She barred Amelie’s passage, her arms folded pugnaciously, and her eyes snapping. ‘And what do you want, missy?’ she asked in an ill-tempered voice as she looked Amelie up and down with a thinly veiled disgust. ‘We ain’t that sort of place. Off with you. The Cross Keys is where you need to be.’

Amelie was startled. She’d never before been spoken to in that fashion. She supposed she must look a fright; she was certainly dishevelled from the long coach journey and her tumble down the bank. The hem of her dress was muddy and her shoes practically falling apart. She rather thought her face was smudged, too. It was true she looked an unlikely member of the ton, but to judge her a lightskirt!

However, she couldn’t afford to alienate the woman further and so pinned on her most appealing smile. ‘Dear, ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m afraid there’s been a riding accident and my present state is due to having been thrown from my horse.’

The landlady’s wife looked unimpressed. Her arms stayed folded and her expression was grim.

‘We, my brother and I, were on a pleasure ride, you see,’ Amelie extemporised wildly, ‘and my horse went lame, so we had to leave her behind at a farm we passed and we decided to continue home on Gareth’s horse. Only then a coach came along at a tremendous speed and the horse reared up and flung us both into the ditch.’

That, at least, was partly truthful. The woman began to look a little more interested, but her arms remained in their fixed position.

‘Gareth, my brother, has hurt his ankle—I fear he may have broken it—and I’ve had to leave him lying in the ditch. I said I would ride to seek help.’ She gave a nervous laugh and finished lamely, ‘And here I am. Yours was the first inn I came to.’

The landlady continued to maintain her unnerving silence and Amelie cast round for something that would penetrate the woman’s iron reserve. Her eye caught the garish design of what looked to be new curtains.

‘Oh, how wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such beautiful curtains. I know my mother has been looking everywhere for colours like these, but hasn’t been able to find just the right shades.’

She prayed fervently for her dead mother’s forgiveness. The praise seemed to be welcome and Mrs Skinner unbent slightly, but it was the thought that she had stolen a march on Amelie’s unknown mother that really sealed the matter.

‘Where d’you say your brother wus?’ she enquired roughly.

‘Just a few miles along the road going west,’ Amelie said hopefully. ‘If we could send an able-bodied man with a horse and cart, we could carry him back here.’

‘We,’ said the landlady with emphasis, ‘can’t do nuthin’. You’ll ‘ave to wait till Mr Skinner gets back from Wroxhall, then we’ll see.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Amelie said placatingly, wondering with anxiety just how long that would be.

In the event it was two very long hours before she heard the horse and cart pull up in the yard. Two hours of nervously keeping watch at the parlour window, ready to run should Rufus Glyde reappear. And two hours of thinking of Gareth, alone and cold, lying in that ditch. He might be spotted by a labourer returning home from work, but it was unlikely that a passer-by would search the gully without reason. And by now he probably lacked the strength to attract attention. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left him? What if he caught a fever or, even worse, died? It would be all her fault. No, that isn’t fair, she countered angrily—it would be his fault. If he hadn’t stopped the coach, told such appalling lies about her and forced her to go with him, the accident would never have happened. He wouldn’t be lying badly injured and she’d be safe with her grandmother instead of stranded in this dreary inn.

‘I heerd you had an accident.’ Mr Skinner was as stout as his wife was thin and by good fortune lacked her chronic ill temper. He smiled pleasantly at Amelie, ‘I’m sorry I weren’t home to help, but I’ve told Will to pack up the cart with blankets and brandy and then go arsk the doctor to come quickly. When the horse is fed, Will and me will be off sharp to look for your brother.’

‘Thank you truly, Mr Skinner. I’m very worried about him.’ And to her own astonishment, she shed genuine tears.

‘Don’t you fret, miss. It’ll be all right. It’s May and the weather ain’t too bad. Happen he’ll be a little cold and mebbe in pain, but he’ll come off fine.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘No, m’dear—best stay here. It’s getting dark and we don’t want another accident.’

She had docilely to agree. But now that dusk had fallen, she thought it would prove difficult to locate the injured man by lantern light. If she’d been allowed to accompany the rescuers, she was sure she would have found the place easily. Instead she was forced to remain at her post by the window, scanning the darkness with such intensity that it seemed she might cut a path to Gareth through the gloom and herself bring help.

In the first hour after Amelie left, Gareth remained cheerful. She’d had the chance to break free and he’d expected her to desert him. He was surprised that she’d even hesitated. He thought of her attempts to help him. It had been excruciatingly painful, but he’d borne with it because she’d cared enough to try and because she was near. What was it about this girl that led him to behave so rashly? She seemed to exercise a malignant charm over him. By rights he should be at ease in his London hotel, sending a message to his lawyer and planning his escape to the Continent. He supposed wryly that this was a kind of escape although hardly one he would have chosen.

The minutes ticked slowly by and he grew colder as the sun waned and the chill of dusk settled around him. He began to fall into a troubled dream in which a card table and a chandelier swam around the periphery of his vision while a beautiful, chestnut-haired girl danced in front of him. Gradually, he lapsed into a feverish state, the dreams becoming more vivid and frightening. The girl had disappeared and the chandelier was burning his eyes. The cards rose from the table and smacked him hard around the face. Blearily he swam back into consciousness as a hand gently slapped his cheek and a homely country voice encouraged him. ‘Come on, sir, time to go. We’ll have you in the cart in a twinkling and get you back to a warm bed.’

Mr Skinner’s plump build belied a strength that was needed to raise Gareth from the depths of the gully. Only then could Will reach down to help them both up the steep bank. Gareth was now as weak as a kitten; though he tried manfully to aid their struggle, he had to allow himself to be pulled, pushed and finally lifted from his mossy bed onto the rough boards of the cart. A twinkling had been an exaggeration, he thought, in the throes of extreme pain. At some point he must have passed out. He came to, choking on the brandy that Mr Skinner trickled down his throat. The blankets wrapping him smelt slightly fetid and the jolting of the cart sent shock pains through his leg. At last when he felt he could bear it no longer, they turned into the yard of the George Inn.

The first face he saw was Amelie’s. He could hardly believe she was there. He’d been too dazed to think how his rescuers had found him, but now he saw he had her to thank.

‘You’ve found my brother,’ cried Amelie, running forwards and gratefully squeezing Mr Skinner by the hand. She hoped that Gareth was alert enough to grasp his supposed relationship. The innkeeper lifted him carefully down from the cart and, with Will’s help, carried him up to the spare room. Gareth was no lightweight and Will could only gasp between breaths that the doctor would be with them presently. Once in the room, Gareth sank, pallid-faced, onto the bed.

With difficulty, he turned to Mr Skinner, and murmured in a faint voice, ‘My sister and I are most grateful for your kindness in coming to our aid.’

She was thankful for his quick thinking. If he’d repudiated the relationship, she was sure that Mrs Skinner would have instantly ejected her from the inn, darkness or no darkness.

After the doctor had visited his new patient and made his examination, she crept quietly back into Gareth’s room.

‘What’s the verdict?’ she asked anxiously.

He looked up slowly and smiled. It was the warm smile she’d seen in the London inn. That seemed a million miles away now.

‘I haven’t broken the ankle, thank the lord, but I’ve sprained it badly and I’m likely to be laid up for a good few days. The doctor’s left me a draught for the pain and he’ll come back the day after tomorrow to change the bandages.’

She could only smile in response. She felt tongue tied, badly shaken by how intense her relief had been when Gareth was carried into the inn courtyard and how sharp her distress at seeing him in pain. Powerful feelings had surfaced despite her effort to control them. There was an awkward silence. The painkilling draught was already having its effects and Gareth lay dozing. She was about to tiptoe out of the room, when his voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘I should say thank-you.’

‘There’s no need,’ she said quickly.

‘You could have taken your revenge by leaving me to my fate.’

‘I am not dishonest,’ she said squarely, ‘and neither am I heartless. You’d suffered a misfortune and needed help. I would have done the same for anyone.’

‘You could have told them here of the accident and then gone on your way. You need not have stayed.’

His smile had vanished and his voice was almost brusque. It was as if he resented her help, resented being put in a situation where he was beholden.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be staying long,’ she said in a cool voice, ‘just tonight and then I’ll be gone.’

‘Where will you sleep? This seems to be the only spare room.’

‘I’m to share a chamber with Betsy—the kitchen maid.’

‘Good,’ he said mysteriously.

She couldn’t see anything good about it. She’d never shared a bedroom in her life and a kitchen maid would not have been her chosen companion. A more worldly-wise Gareth was satisfied. If she were indeed the innocent young woman she claimed to be, then Betsy’s chaperonage would be invaluable.

‘No doubt I’ll see you in the morning before you leave?’ His tone was indifferent; it was clear that he was dismissing her and preferred to be alone.

‘If you wish,’ she replied distantly.

He closed his eyes in weariness, looking so ill and worn that she instantly regretted her coldness. She would have to leave on the morrow as she’d promised, but a small inner voice was urging her to stay and make sure that he recovered fully. The thought was dismissed even as it occurred. It was impossible to remain at the inn; she’d spent the entire day evading his unwelcome attentions, so what on earth would he think if she continued by his bedside?

## Chapter Four


She stirred restlessly as the bedroom door shut. There was a thin streak of daylight showing between the badly hung curtain and the window sill, but otherwise the attic room remained dark. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to read the battered clock face on the table beside her and saw that it was only five-thirty. She must have been woken by the maid, leaving for her unenviable duties downstairs. She supposed she ought to rise herself and be on the road to Wroxall as early as possible. There’d be no way of getting to the town at this time of day other than by walking and it would take many hours. She’d have to beg a strong pair of shoes from Betsy.

She tried to work out what time she would reach Wroxhall and if it would be possible to board a coach that afternoon for Bath. It might be that mail coaches also stopped in the town. They were much faster than the lumbering stage and would get her to Bath before nightfall. But the cost of a ticket was also much higher and her remaining funds were modest. She might even miss whatever coaches were passing through the town and be forced to spend a night there. That was something she dared not contemplate.

She’d embarked on this adventure nervous, but confident, that she would succeed in reaching her grandmother within hours. Complications such as Gareth Wendover had never entered her head. And he was a complication. By any measure he’d treated her callously and yet she felt a strong thread connecting them, a thread she was finding difficult to break. But there was no doubt he’d brought added danger into her life and she was well advised to be leaving him. Between them, the landlord and the doctor would do all that was necessary to guarantee his well-being; such a vigorous man would not be laid low for long. And if she left the inn this early in the morning, she could forgo a farewell visit. It would be unmannerly, but much easier to walk out of the door right now. If she saw him again, she might be tempted to stay. Her thoughts went round and round in circles until her tired brain gave up the struggle and she once more slept.

‘Miss Wendover, can you hear me?’ The landlord’s voice penetrated her slumbers. It had a note of urgency and she wondered for an instant who he was calling and why, when she realised it must be herself. She was the mysterious Miss Wendover!

‘Miss Wendover, can you come quickly, please?’

She hurried out of bed and hastily donned her travelling clothes from yesterday. At the door Mr Skinner looked apologetic, but very worried.

‘Sorry to wake you betimes, miss, but Mr Wendover do seem bad. He’s feverish for sure and don’t respond. Will and me have tried to give him the doctor’s medicine, but he won’t let us near.’

She forgot her resolution to leave the inn as soon as possible and ran down the stairs to Gareth’s bedroom. The scene before her struck her with dismay. A smoky candle still spluttered on the bedside table, but the curtains remained drawn. In the half-light she could see the bedcovers in disarray, half of them trailing on the floor and the other half heaped untidily on the bed. As for the patient, he was tossing and turning constantly, unable to get comfortable, first throwing off the sheets and then grabbing at them with hot dry hands while all the time muttering incoherently. She went forwards to the bed and laid her hand fleetingly on his forehead. It was burning to the touch and his eyes, glancing unrecognisingly at her, were blurred with fever.