Stephanie Laurens: Tangled Reins

Arriving, puffing, on the landing, he threw open a stout door. ‘I’ve put you in this bedchamber here, miss, because it’s out of the way, like. The inn will soon be fair to burstin’ with all the young gentlemen been to see the fight. My missus says to tell ye to stay put in your chamber and lock the door and she’ll see to it that only she and my daughter come up with your meals and suchlike. That road, we’ll all like as not avoid any unpleasantness. I’ll have your bags brought up in a jiffy, miss.’ With these words Simms bowed and retreated, leaving Dorothea, brows flying, and Cecily, pathetically pale, staring at each other in consternation.

‘Oh, my!’ said Betsy, sinking down on one of the chairs by the fire, eyes round with dismay. ‘Maybe we should travel on, Miss Dorothea. I’m sure your grandma wouldn’t like you staying at an inn with all these rowdy, boisterous, ramshackle lads, miss!’

‘I don’t believe there’s any other inn near, Betsy. And after all, as the landlord says, if we keep the door locked and stay in our room, surely we’ll come to no harm?’ Dorothea spoke in her normal calm tones, drawing off her gloves and dropping her travelling cloak over a chair. After her momentary dismay, undoubtedly due to tiredness, she was inclined to dismiss the situation.

‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, Thea, I would much rather stay here than try to go on,’ said Cecily.

The thin, reedy voice clearly conveyed to Dorothea just how unwell her sister was feeling. She walked briskly to the bed and turned down the coverlet. The sheets were dry and clean. She plumped up the pillows invitingly. ‘And so we shall, my love! Why not curl up on the bed until dinner arrives? I must confess, I’m not convinced that removing from here wouldn’t land us in a worse pickle than the one we’re in at present.’

A tentative knock came at the door. ‘Who is it?’ said Betsy, rising.

‘It’s only me, ma’am. Hannah, the landlord’s daughter.’

Betsy opened the door to reveal a stout damsel with a mobcap perched above a comely face. ‘My mum will have the dinner ready shortly, but she was wanting to know if you needed anything else, ma’am?’ Hannah hefted the sisters’ bags into the room and stood looking enquiringly at Dorothea.

‘Why, yes! We’d like some warm water, and could a truckle-bed be put up in here for our maid? I’d rather she spent the night with us.’

The girl nodded. ‘I’ll be back in two shakes, ma’am.’

Five minutes later Hannah was back with a jug of steaming water and a truckle-bed in bits. While she and Betsy struggled with this contraption Dorothea and Cecily washed the dust of the road from their faces and felt considerably better. Finally conquering the recalcitrant truckle-bed, Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and addressed Dorothea. ‘I’ll be back in half’n hour with your dinner, miss. Be you sure to lock the door after me.’

Dorothea murmured her thanks as the bolts slid to behind the helpful Hannah. Cecily, drowsy, curled up on the bed. Betsy sat by the fire, working on some sewing she had brought with her to while away the time.

Now that her immediate needs were satisfied, Dorothea prowled the room, restless and cramped. After a day spent in the carriage, she longed to get just one breath of fresh air before a night spent within the airless cocoon of the bedchamber. Suddenly she remembered Lang. With Cecily as passenger, they would normally leave mid-morning. However, her limited knowledge of prize-fights and their aftermath suggested that an early departure might be preferable. She looked out of the window, but this faced the back of the inn. She could hear no noise or ruckus to suggest that the audience from the fight had arrived.

Quickly she crossed to Betsy’s side. ‘I’m just going down to see Lang. We should make an early start tomorrow to avoid the crush.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘You stay here and watch over Cecily. I’ll only be a moment.’

Before Betsy could protest she picked up her old travelling cloak and whisked herself out of the door. She paused on the landing to fasten the cloak. Sounds of ribald laughter came, muted, from where she supposed the taproom to be. She made her way quietly down the stairs and along the corridor in the opposite direction, eventually reaching the door giving on to the coaching yard. Here she found a mêlée of ostlers and horses. Pausing in the shadows, she scanned the area, trying to locate Lang. He was nowhere to be seen. Remembering that private grooms often helped the ostlers at times like these, she ventured to the archway and peeked into the main stableyard.

‘My, my! What have we here? A pretty young thing, come to help us celebrate!’

She gasped. The sensation of an arm slipping around her waist made her heart stand still, but instead of hazel eyes lazily regarding her she found herself looking into a vacuous face with cherubic blue eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing. The man holding her had been drinking but he was not altogether drunk.

He dragged her, struggling furiously, around the corner to fetch up within a riotous group of seven semi-drunk gentlemen, intent on a night of carousing, having watched their favourite win the fight. Dorothea realised her mistake too late. The main yard of the inn was full to overflowing. One of the men reached out and flicked her hood back, and the light from the inn’s main door fell full on her face. She tried desperately to pull free, but the young man had a good grip on her arm. She winced as it tightened.

Immediately a drawling voice cut through the clamour. ‘Do let the lady go, Tremlow. She is known to me and I really cannot let you embarrass her further.’

Recognising the voice, Dorothea wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

The effect of the statement was instantaneous. The hold on her arm was immediately withdrawn as the dark shadow of the Marquis of Hazelmere materialised at the edge of the group.

‘Oh! Sorry, Hazelmere! No idea she was a lady.’

This last sentence, uttered sotto voce , made Dorothea’s cheeks burn. She pulled up her hood as the men in the group peered to see which lady could thus claim Hazelmere’s protection.

The Marquis, unhurriedly strolling across the group to her side, largely obscured her from view. Arriving beside her, he turned to the group and continued in the same languid tone, ‘I feel sure you would all like to offer your apologies for any embarrassment you have, however unwittingly, caused the lady.’

A chorus of, ‘Oh, yes! Definitely! Apologies, ma’am! No offence intended, y’know!’ greeted this bald statement.

Simms, having noticed the problem rather late in the day, now hung on the fringe of the group, waiting to render any assistance at all to one of his most valued customers. The Marquis’s eye alighted on him. ‘Ah, Simms! A round of ale for these gentlemen after this slight misunderstanding, don’t you think?’

Simms took the hint. ‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly! If you gentlemen would like to come this way I’ve a hogshead of a new brew I’d much appreciate your comments on.’ With this treat on offer, he had little difficulty in herding the group towards the taproom.

As they moved away Anthony, Lord Fanshawe appeared at his friend’s side, a questioning lift to his brows. One moment he had been walking across the stableyard beside Hazelmere, heading towards a hot dinner, when Marc had suddenly stopped, uttered one furious oath and then plunged through the crowd towards a small group of revellers near the coachyard. Although nearly as tall as his friend, with Marc ahead of him, he had had no chance to see what had attracted his attention. As he drew closer he heard Marc at his most languid. He assumed there was a lady in it somewhere, but it was only when Hazelmere turned to address some remark behind him that he realised he was effectively protecting her from the eyes of the stableyard.