Page 33 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

He knew her scent because it had been branded on his senses. He’d known her by her intake of breath when the brute grabbed her, that little gasp she made when she was surprised.

By now the gentleman had recovered command of himself and arranged his bulk on his feet. His piggy face screwed into the rage of vengeance. “I’ll have you arrested,” he shouted. Spittle flew from his mouth. “I’ll have you hung! Who do you think you are?”

A silence prevailed, since every gaze in the room was fixed on the altercation, including that of the innkeep, who clutched a wad of wet cloth against his apron. A new voice carried across the room.

“Sir Joseph Illingworth,” the voice said with command. “I’m looking for the baronet.”

“Yes.” Joseph turned with a sigh. “Can it wait?” He swung a hand in the air between him and the man who had assailed Inez, who was seemingly choking for air. “We’re just finishing up here.”

“Don’t think a title can protect you,” his opponent whined. “I’ll call the constable. I’ll have the watch⁠—”

“You’re the baronet?” said the man at the door. “The one as is brother to the Duchess of Hunsdon?”

The piggy face of his opponent paled to pink. He held out his hands.

“I didn’t touch ’im. I didn’t say nuthin’ to ’im. It was an accident. A misunderstanding.”

“Her,” Joseph snapped. “Did you even know you were propositioning a woman?”

The florid face of his opponent paled further. “I—what? Your woman, see? Swear to me mother’s rib I didn’t touch ’er. Now, no ’arm done, is there?”

“If you pay for the broken glassware, there won’t be,” Joseph said pleasantly, flexing his bruised hand. The man complied, all too aware that if Joseph made accusations that he had propositioned a boy, the tone of the quarrel would go in a far different direction.

Joseph recognized the man at the door. He was small in stature, the wiry stretch of his upper body out of proportion to the crooked legs propped between two wooden crutches. He wore the saffron breeches and brick-red coat of the Hunsdon livery with, incongruously, a pair of well-worn leather gloves.

“I thought you were in the service of the Earl of Renwick,” Joseph said as he neared the newcomer.

He’d seen this groom many times accompanying the Earl’s wife, who was the duchess of some obscure Continental duchy and also a school chum of Amaranthe’s. Apparently the two duchesses had wed and birthed babies around the same time, and this, along with the sudden social elevation experienced by both, had cemented their reliance on one another.

“’Ad to leave Renwick House of a sudden. Took a job for yer sister. Name’s Jock.” The groom flicked the brim of his cocked hat. “Duchess sent me t’tell you she’s arranged a post chaise and horses. Knew you’d be too cheap to stand the expense yerself.”

“Henry Jock.” Inez stared at the man as if he were a map to buried treasure. “My father bet on you every time.”

The man’s face twisted. “Not th’ last time, I hope.”

Inez spotted Joseph’s puzzled expression. “They called him the King of Newmarket, he won the prize plate so many times. My father wept when he read of your accident.”

“What happened?” asked Joseph, who was only vaguely aware that Newmarket was a place to do with horses and racing, activities he couldn’t afford and had no interest in.

“Lost,” Jock said briefly. “The rig’s in the stableyard, horses fresh. We can leave when you wish. Change at the usual posting stops, but she said I’m to take you the whole way through.”

Amaranthe again, ruling his life as if he were part of her duchessing duties. Trying to manage him as she had from the age of six. Joseph looked from Jock to Inez to the door to the stableyard, a blur of movement and noise.

He focused his gaze on the woman. The disguise wouldn’t have held for an instant if he’d seen her face earlier. No other woman had that gracious slope to her nose, that luscious lilt of cheekbone, those pillowy lips. No other woman—well, very few—would be so daft and determined to plague him.

“When?” he asked. “Were you there before me?”

“Followed you.” She pulled her hat brim closer around her face, aware of the many curious stares upon them. “I didn’t know quite where you were going.”

“And where is your luggage?”

With a sullen hunch to her shoulders, she pulled her ragged work bag across her body. He ached to see how little she had in the world to call her own.

Nevertheless she met his gaze with a defiant lilt to her chin. He couldn’t meet her eyes and the longing laid bare as she searched his face for signs of softening. He steeled himself against any. He had to do what was best for her, whether she agreed with him or not.

“How far did you pay your fare?”

“To Basingstoke.”