Page 10 of The Lady’s No Angel

Angel wished she didn’t want an excuse to keep him around. It was impossibly difficult to second guess her own motives. If he was everything he appeared to be, it would be good to have such a strong, amiable fellow about. But how could she be sure? She looked away from the road ahead, glancing up at him. “And where is it you are going?”

He shrugged, giving her a rueful smile. “It’s more where I’m not going.”

“Home to all the aunts?” Angel suggested.

His laugh, loud and rumbling, made her smile. He laughed often and easily, she realised.

“Something like that,” he admitted.

“And what about your wife?”

He slid her a sideway glance, his broad grin showing even white teeth. “Oh, I don’t have a wife, Miss Baxter. Not a single, solitary one.”

The George Inn, Cranbrook, Kent, 6th April 1816

They reached Cranbrook late in the afternoon. Angel was glad of it, despite her anxiety at staying in such a busy place. Still, having Mr Cleaver with them—who had proposed posing as her guardian—might put anyone trying to find her off the scent.

The George, on Stone Street, stood close to the church. It was a handsome building. Long, with red brick on the lower floor and decorative tile hanging to the upper storey, it was obviously ancient. Cranbrook had once been a prosperous town, its fortunes built on cloth, the success of which had diminished steadily since the last century.

Inside, the scent of wood smoke and ale, ancient dusty beams and roast meat mingled pleasantly as the weary travellers sought refuge. The weather had closed in over the past hour, an angry, bruised sky smothering them with fine drizzle that had quickly turned to a more unforgiving shower of rain.

A fine establishment which, according to the innkeeper, had once accommodated Elizabeth I on her progress through the country, The George was nonetheless free of frills. Behind a heavy wood counter, pewter tankards and earthenware jugs were neatly arranged, and a smiling innkeeper hurried forward to greet them.

Mr Cleaver arranged everything. A room for himself with an annex for Toby, and the same arrangement for Angel and Milly. Dinner in a private parlour was ordered, plus hot water in their rooms so they might wash off the travel dust before they ate.

Angel and Milly found their bed chamber up a narrow staircase. It was clean, and Milly pronounced the linen to be freshly laundered and aired.

“Bearing in mind I spent the last two nights in a barn, I’m in no state to complain if it isn’t,” Angel said, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet and casting it aside.

She stared down at the hem of her muddy gown in dismay.

“Never mind that, Miss Angelica. I’ll brush the mud off once it’s dry. I trust you brought a change?” Milly asked, having completed her inspection of their accommodation.

Angel nodded as Milly went to her carpetbag and took out a green gown. It was one of her simplest dresses, warm and practical rather than fashionable. She had left her mourning black at home. Black Jack would not have approved.

Milly did her best to shake out the wrinkles. She helped Angel to dress before unpinning her hair and combing out the worst of the tangles.

“Do you trust him, miss?” Milly asked around a mouthful of pins as she expertly twisted Angel’s hair into order.

“I do,” Angel admitted, hesitating a moment before asking, “Why? Don’t you?”

“Aye.” Milly sighed, shaking her head as she secured the last of the pins. “But I’m worried all the same. You ain’t married, and travelling with an unmarried gent… well, that’s your reputation gone if anyone should hear of it.”

“Well, and who would?” Angel asked, turning on the chair to look up at Milly.

Milly shrugged but still appeared troubled so Angel caught hold of her hand and squeezed.

“I’m Miss Everdene from a tiny seaside village in Sussex, not Lady So-and-So from Mayfair. No one cares what I do. So long as Papa, or someone working for him, does not catch up with us, we’ll do well enough. That’s why I brought you and Toby, after all. So, I looked respectable.”

“I suppose.” Milly nodded and sat down, unpinning her straight fair hair and dragging the comb through it.

“Here,” Angel said, taking it from her. “Let me.”

“Miss Angelica!” Milly protested, trying to snatch the comb back. “It ain’t proper.”

“Pooh!” Angel said in disgust, batting Milly’s hands away. “Who cares about being proper?”

“Not you,” Milly said, resigned to her fate as Angel set to work.