A Commercial Enterprise Page 2

  This town house was said to be one of the most luxurious in London, having recently been completely refurbished. It was said to be so modern and exquisite a mansion that even the Prince Regent envied it. She wondered what it would be like to live in such a house, and then she smiled a little wryly, for it was hardly likely that her proud kinsmen would ever afford her the opportunity of finding out, her cousin Dominic least of all.

  He was the new Earl of Lexham, the thirteenth of the line, and he seemed to her to be the most arrogant and prideful of the whole family. He it was who had returned her thoughtful letter of condolence on the death of his mother, the twelfth countess, three years earlier. With it he had enclosed a curt note, instructing her never to communicate with the rest of the family again.

  She would willingly have abided by this had it not been for the letter from her late uncle’s lawyer, Mr. Jordan of Maitland Court. It wasn’t that she expected a bequest, far from it, it was more that she felt it right that she should attend, right for Philip Lexham’s only daughter to be there when his brother’s will was read. Absentmindedly she toyed with her grandmother’s necklace—her grandmother, the eleventh Countess of Lexham.

  The chaise drove on, seeming to take an age to travel the ten miles to the White Boar. The clouds had taken on that yellow-gray hue that heralds snow, and even as she noticed, the first flakes began to dance and spin through the freezing air. Charlie urged the tired team along the deserted highway, glancing in dismay at the worsening weather.

  The old chaise bumped and swayed alarmingly over the ruts and hidden stones, and as Caroline instinctively reached for something with which to steady herself, there was an ominous splintering sound from somewhere beneath the vehicle. Charlie drew the horses to a standstill and dismounted wearily, cursing to himself, for he recognized the sound and knew that the axle had been damaged. That would mean it would be even longer now before he toasted himself in front of a warm fire!

  As he bent to inspect the damage, Caroline leaned out. “What’s happened?”

  “The axle’s almost gone.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “We’ll be able to go on,” he said, straightening and looking slyly at her, hoping that this would deter her from thought of continuing to the White Boar. “But we’ll have to go very slowly indeed.”

  “How slowly?”

  “No more than a snail’s pace.”

  “But I have to meet the mail!”

  “I daren’t take risks, Miss Lexham, for we could get stranded altogether, and what with the weather closing in and the danger of highwaymen ...” He allowed his voice to fade meaningfully away, intending to frighten her as much as possible with such dreadful thoughts.

  But she knew Charlie Hargreaves and his love of his creature comforts. “Continue as best you can,” she said. “For if it is possible to reach the inn in time, then I wish to do so.”

  He scowled. “Yes, ma’am.” Muttering beneath his breath, he remounted and urged the chaise on its way again, but very definitely at the promised snail’s pace. The axle made alarming grinding sounds at each jolt, but it did not give completely.

  The White Boar was a busy hostelry, used by the mails and stages which regularly plied this route between London and the west country. It was also busy with the considerable trade produced by the posting side of the business, although today it seemed inordinately quiet.

  It was built in a sheltered combe, protected from the worst of the winter weather by the surrounding heights of Dartmoor and by a copse of large trees. The breeze tore wisps of smoke from the chimneys, and there were lights in the windows in spite of the early hour. The weather had closed in still more and the snow was beginning to fall heavily. Caroline could no longer see the high tors, which were shrouded in mist and cloud.

  The chaise passed slowly beneath an arch into a galleried courtyard, where the smell of roast beef hung appetizingly in the air. Ivy twined up toward the roof, the shiny, dark green leaves shivering a little as the wind caught them. The only other vehicles were the yellow curricle that had passed the chaise on the highway, and the Plymouth mail, which was preparing to leave. The guard made a final check, the mail-bags were loaded, and the lids slammed. With a loud blast of the post horn, the coach drew away, emerging from the shelter of the inn and turning west into the snowstorm.

  Caroline alighted. Few snowflakes found their way down to the cobbles, where wisps of straw lay everywhere, and she stepped hastily out of the way as grooms and ostlers hurried about their tasks. The landlord emerged from the taproom, having perceived the chaise’s arrival. His practiced eye took in the shabby vehicle and its only passenger’s plain, unremarkable clothes. He trimmed his manner to suit her apparent station, being civil but not too courteous. “Can I be of service?”

  “I am hoping to travel on the Exeter mail, am I too late?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say, for the Exeter mail hasn’t come through yet, but that’s probably because it can’t manage the floods between here and Plymouth.”

  “But the Plymouth mail has just left!”

  “There’s grave doubts that it will reach its destination. I expect it back here within an hour or so. They’re getting through from the east, but as soon as they reach the floods ... It’s been like this since yesterday, that’s why there’s so little on the roads. You might be lucky and get a stage come through, the Red Glory for instance.”

  “The stagecoach? When?”

  “It should have been through over an hour ago and hasn’t arrived yet. It has two fords to come over, mind, so I reckon it’s had to go around the long way to the north. If so, then it won’t call here at all.”

  “But it might?”

  He nodded. “It might.”

  “I’ll wait then.”

  “As you wish. Will you take some refreshment? We’ve some very fine roast beef.’’

  “Yes, I think I will.”

  He nodded at a nearby maidservant and then walked away, considering that he had given enough attention to a traveler who did not look likely to leave a handsome tip.

  Leaving Charlie Hargreaves to attend to the repair of the damaged chaise, Caroline followed the maid into the hallway of the inn, where bowls of water had been provided, each with a clean towel. The maid added hot water from a steaming kettle and Caroline took off her gloves. She didn’t realize how very cold her fingers were until she sank them into the water and painful feeling began to return.

  When she had washed and tidied herself a little, she was conducted into the dining room, which was very crowded indeed, many travelers having been stranded by the failure of the mails and stages. There were very few places left at the tables, except at one, which was occupied by one dandified gentleman.

  As she was led to one of the crowded tables, she recognized him immediately as the man driving the yellow curricle. She made herself as comfortable as possible in the confined space her chair occupied between a fat farmer and an equally enormous man of the cloth, and as she did so she surreptitiously glanced again at the dandy.

  His crimson coat looked very gaudy and bright in the flickering light from the fireplace, next to which his table stood. The upturned collar of his shirt extended to his ears and his starched muslin cravat was very elaborate indeed. A large bunch of seals was suspended from his fob, and the lower part of his anatomy was attired in a voluminous pair of cossacks, those full trousers made popular by the Czar of Russia and which were pleated at the waist and gathered in with ribbons at the ankles.

  They were a ridiculous fashion, not made any more attractive by the fact that his upper portion was squeezed into a corset that tightened his already narrow waist and puffed out his chest like that of an angry hen. His cheeks were rouged and his golden hair teased into unnatural Apollo curls, thus completing the destruction of his good looks. With a blanched hand he raised a quizzing glass, inspecting her in that rude, deliberate way so often affected by dandies. His manner offended her and she felt her cheeks coloring with annoyance and em
barrassment,

  As the maid brought Caroline’s plate of roast beef, he rose languidly to his feet, his tasseled ebony cane swinging in his pale fingers as he crossed to her table. Hastily the maid put down the hot plate and then hurried away. Conversation died as everyone looked at Caroline and her unwanted admirer, who began to speak in a lisping drawl that closely resembled a bray.

  “I thay, would you care to join me? I vow it would pleathe me immenthely to share my table with you.”

  “I am quite content where I am, sir,” she replied in a tone calculated to spurn him.

  “I’m sure you’d pwefer it clother to the fire,” he persisted, being importunate enough to place his hand familiarly upon her shoulder.

  Icily she moved away. “Thank you, sir, but no.”

  “Oh, come now,” he insisted. “Why ith a pwetty little thing like you twaveling all alone, mm? I’m sure you’d find it much more congenial if you—”

  “Would you please leave me alone, sir?” she interrupted angrily. “I have attempted to be polite to you, but you make that impossible. It is hardly gentlemanly to continue to pester a lady who has made her wishes very plain!” Gasps greeted this hot censure, for everyone knew that it was unwise to cross a gentleman of his obvious character and rank.

  At last he snatched his hand away, his eyes suddenly sharp. “Obviouthly I wath mithtaken ath to your bweeding, madam,” he snapped, “for you are thertainly not fit to join me!” For a moment he remained where he was, thus giving her a last opportunity to see the folly of her ways, but she calmly began to eat, and so he furiously strode away across the red-tiled floor, slamming the door behind him.

  The other diners exchanged glances, but it wasn’t long before conversation broke out again and Caroline was able to finish her meal in peace. Indeed, when later she emerged from the dining room, her fingers crossed for favorable news of the Red Glory, she had put the odious dandy from her mind.

  But the landlord shook his head when she inquired, and he avoided meeting her eyes. “Er—no, there’s no sign of it yet, but it could be through at any time.”

  With a sigh, she went out into the courtyard, which was silent now. Through the rear archway she could see Charlie Hargreaves arguing with the man who was to repair the damage to the chaise, and she could also see the dashing yellow curricle belonging to the man who had so rudely accosted her, but apart from those two vehicles, there was nothing else at all. Seldom could the White Boar have been more quiet. Glancing up at the heavy gray sky, she could see the snowflakes hurrying through the eddying air. They were beginning to find their way into the yard now and a thin layer of white had settled on the wooden steps leading up to the gallery.

  Turning back into the passageway, she found herself face-to-face with the dandy. His eyes were mocking and scornful and there was a disagreeable smile on his lips. He didn’t say a word to her, but he sketched a derisive bow before turning on his heel and vanishing into the inn. His manner should have warned her that he had not let her escape scot-free, but she thought nothing as she sat down on an uncomfortable chair, resigning herself to either a long wait or to the possibility of having to return to Selford after all.

  An hour or more passed as she sat there. Outside the snow still fell and the courtyard was silent. At last she could bear the chair no more, and to stretch her legs she went out into the courtyard again, this time going up the snowy wooden steps to the gallery. Leaning on the rail, she gazed down at the yard. Suddenly, she heard the unmistakable sound of a coach approaching, and she straightened hopefully. It had to be the Red Glory, it simply had to be!

  Chapter 3

  But the elegant carriage which entered the inn yard was not the awaited stagecoach, it was a very costly private drag. In spite of her disappointment, she could not help gazing down at it in admiration, for it was truly the most magnificent traveling carriage she had ever seen. Drawn by a team of perfectly matched bays, it was attended by gold-liveried footmen, and its similarly clad coachman was obviously one of the very best, for he maneuvered the carriage effortlessly in the enclosed yard, gaining maximum response from the team with the minimum of command.

  The coach came to a standstill by the open inn door, its panels gleaming brightly and the heraldic device emblazoned upon it quite easy to see from where she stood. It was a four-headed black swan. She looked at it, her brows drawing together in puzzlement, for somehow that badge was familiar to her. But how could that be so? Her attention was drawn to the occupant of the coach then, for one of the footmen went to open the shining door.

  A gentleman alighted. He was arrestingly handsome and was dressed more finely than any man she had ever seen before. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his hips were slender, and she judged that he was about thirty years old

  His clothes could only have come from London’s finest tailor, for the coat fitted his manly figure to perfection and the gray cloth from which it was made must, in her opinion, have cost a fortune. A silk cravat burgeoned discreetly at his throat, a diamond pin nestling in its folds, and his dark green waistcoat struck just the right note of contrast.

  A heavy Polish greatcoat was flung casually around his shoulders, spurs shone on the heels of his top boots, and his long, well-made legs were encased in breeches that hugged very close indeed. His top hat rested rakishly on his dark hair, and as he glanced around the courtyard, she recognized in him a nonpareil of the first order, a man always to be reckoned with. He needed no rouge to enhance his looks and was the sort of man for whom being immaculate would always come effortlessly.

  And yet he was not haughty or inordinately grand, for there was no mistaking the glint of wry humor in his hazel eyes as the obsequious landlord came scurrying out, bowing and smiling in a way which contrasted rather too greatly with the greeting he had accorded Caroline earlier.

  “Sir Henry! Welcome to my humble hostelry! Welcome to the White Boar!”

  Sir Henry! Of course, now she understood the familiarity of the four-headed swan. Her cousin Richard’s almost obsessive following of all matters concerning the turf allowed her to recognize the badge as the one worn by jockeys riding Sir Henry Seymour’s famous racehorses. Sir Henry was known almost universally by his nickname, Hal, and he was revered throughout the land by every lover of horse racing. He was also well known as a leading light of the beau monde and as a close friend of the hero of Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington. Caroline had read much about him, but as she looked down now she thought that what she had read had not done him justice, for he was at least twice as handsome as any journalist had hinted.

  The landlord’s servile smile was almost unbearable. “May I be of any assistance to you, Sir Henry?”

  “You can inform me if Lord Fynehurst has arrived.”

  “He has indeed, Sir Henry, and he awaits you within.”

  “Excellent.” Hal turned back to the carriage, and it was then that Caroline realized that he was not traveling alone, for he held out his hand and a lady emerged, stepping daintily down to the cobbles.

  She was very lovely, although her beauty was marred by a certain hardness. She was dressed very much á la mode, for her mauve traveling pelisse was adorned with military epaulets and black frogging, and she wore a miniature of the Iron Duke upon her curving bosom. Her auburn hair was twisted up expertly beneath a little hat bedecked with tassels and braid, and she looked very London, a vision from the engravings in La Belle Assemblée. Hal smiled at her. “Your brother has arrived,” he said,

  Marcia, Lady Chaddington—for it was she if Lord Fynehurst was her brother—did not look well pleased with this information; indeed she was positively disappointed.

  “What a pity,” she murmured a little petulantly, “For I was hoping he would be his usual tardy self so that I could be on my own with you for a little longer.”

  “I promise I will visit Petwell again soon.”

  “I still do not understand why you must hurry back to Town. What on earth did that messenger tell you?”

&nb
sp; “Come now, Marcia, a lady does not ask such things of a gentleman,” he replied teasingly.

  “This lady does. Oh, Hal, there cannot be anything that pressing, especially as you’ve only recently returned from rushing off to Brussels and the Duke of Wellington! It cannot be anything to do with your racehorses, or you would have said so, and surely it cannot be that wretched banquet you’ve somehow become involved with for the duke.”

  She searched his face for a moment. “Dear God, it is the banquet, isn’t it? Now I feel more miffed than ever with you, for it seems that I must play second fiddle to a mere gastronomic exercise!”

  “It is hardly to be spoken of so disparagingly,” he protested, laughing.

  “I could be even more rude about it if I so chose. I don’t understand you, Hal Seymour, for why are you, of all men, involved with arranging a banquet. Even if it is on account of the Duke of Wellington, I still find it very mysterious.”

  “Perhaps I am more of an eccentric than you have hitherto guessed.”

  “My brother prides himself on being an eccentric, Hal, and you are certainly not even slightly in the same mold.”

  He smiled. “Then put it down to my desire and willingness to come to the aid of a friend. Reggie Bannister was to have arranged the whole diversion, but now he is ill and has asked me to step in for him.”

  She was doubtful. “That is plausible, I suppose, except that I can think of any number of gentlemen Reggie would have approached before you for such a task.”

  “Meaning that you suspect me of fibbing?”

  “Meaning that you are not telling the whole truth, which is a different thing entirely. There is obviously a great deal more to this banquet than meets the eye. I don’t profess to know yet what it is, but I do know that it is not what it appears to be.”