Page 21 of The Lady’s No Angel

Angel smothered a yawn and tried to keep her attention on the pony. It wasn’t easy. After giving her an oddly assessing look—one that had made her feel as if he was trying to pry his way into her brain—Mr Cleaver had taken Toby up onto his horse to give him a rest from the box seat. For the moment, they rode ahead, laughing and chatting like old friends. She was glad for Toby, who was clearly on the verge of hero worship. She told herself she was glad, too. It was a relief, she assured herself, to have a few moments alone without his eye upon her, trying to figure her out. Yet every time she looked up, there he was, so big and handsome, and so thoroughly masculine.

He had plagued her through all the long night, devil take the fellow. Every time she closed her eyes, his deep, rumbling voice whispered in her ear, promising wickedness.

Though she was still very much an innocent in the technical sense of the word, Angel did not live up to her name. At the finishing school she’d attended, she’d quickly learned how to get out of her room at night, once everyone else was abed. She had made friends with some of the local girls, not all of whom were respectable, but who were far more fun than the stuffy, spiteful ladies with whom she spent her days. They had shared stories of their beaus, and of their friends and relations, and told her stories of girls who were in the family way, and naughty tales of their own amorous adventures. Because of this, she had a very fine idea of what was on Mr Cleaver’s mind when he looked at her in a certain way, and it had bothered her until she was too hot and agitated to sleep. Every time she banished the voice, the image of him sprawled upon her mattress, would sneak into her sleepy brain, his broad chest splendidly naked, his arms reaching for her, and—somewhere in the far reaches of her brain she was aware of Milly chatting, but Mr Cleaver’s chest was so very splendid she could not make herself attend the conversation.

“How far is it to Sevenoaks? Is it a nice place? I was thinking—Miss Angelica!”

Angel started guiltily. “What?” she asked, trying her best to look innocent.

“Don’t you give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look. You were imagining him naked again, I know,” Milly said, folding her arms tightly across her bosom.

“Milly!” Angel hissed, appalled. “I told you that in private. Not so that you could inform the whole of Kent and Mr Cleaver.”

Admittedly, she had told Milly in the hope that she might take better care of Angel’s morals and reputation with more enthusiasm than Angel herself could currently muster. That didn’t mean she actually wanted her to do the job.

“Well, really. If you don’t have a care, you’ll come out of this little adventure with more than the treasure your Pops left you.” Milly elbowed her and waggled her eyebrows, staring pointedly at Angel’s belly.

“I know, I know,” Angel insisted crossly, sitting straighter. “I’ll be good,” she promised, though the words made something inside her shrivel up and die.

They made excellent time, reaching Sevenoaks a little after one. Angel chose the inn. Though the bill for last night’s stay had been a good deal less than she had anticipated—suspiciously so—Angel was not about to let Mr Cleaver’s spendthrift notions eat into their capital.

She could not deny their lodgings last night and the fine meal had been a pleasure, but she had not come upon this journey to be cosseted. Two nights in a barn might have been utterly miserable, but what was an adventure if one did not push at limits of what one was capable of? Mr Cleaver was wonderful and seemed to represent safety and comfort, but she was Black Jack’s granddaughter. Surely, she must take control of this situation before it got away from her?

The Chequers was a somewhat shabby but well-established inn that certainly did not cater to the upper ranks of society. Tradesmen and carriers and clerks seemed to be the mainstay of the clientele, and the ostlers competent enough but caring little for the niceties of polite service as they went about their business.

Mr Cleaver looked less than pleased but he tipped the ostlers generously to ensure the animals were well cared for, and slipped Toby a coin to make sure it was done.

“Would you care for a walk about town?” he offered once their rooms had been dealt with and their goods carefully stowed.

Milly shook her head. “I’m longing for a cup of tea, if it’s all the same to you. Aren’t you, miss?” she suggested, giving Angel a rather pointed look.

Angel knew she ought to agree and sit meekly beside Milly, but knowing what she ought to do and sitting meekly had never been in her nature. “I’d love to take a walk with you. I’m so stiff after sitting on the gig all day I feel like a marionette.”

“Excellent,” Mr Cleaver replied cheerfully. “Mrs Pettigrew, please order yourself tea and whatever else you fancy. My treat. Come, Miss Baxter, let us see what Sevenoaks has to offer us.”

Hart offered Miss Baxter his arm, which she refused. He grinned, not entirely surprised. She had been doing her best to keep him at a distance, replying to his questions politely but keeping their interactions to a minimum. Yet he had felt her eyes upon him more than once, though she was always looking elsewhere if he turned to check.

He had expected her to refuse to walk with him too, however, so that was a step in the right direction. They walked together towards the narrow entry to the yard, and Hart reached out, grasping her arm and tugging her out of the path of a young man driving a curricle which came around the corner far too fast.

“The bottle-headed gudgeon!” Hart growled crossly, turning back to the yard to give the fool a piece of his mind.

“No, don’t,” Angel said, taking hold of his arm. “I’m quite all right. I should have paid more attention. Come along. Don’t spoil our walk with a silly argument.”

As she had kept hold of his arm, Hart only made a small show of reluctance before going along with her. Things were looking up.

They made it out of the yard in one piece and out onto the street. Opposite the inn, two men lounged against the wall of a building that appeared to be a professional office of some kind, perhaps a land agent. The building seemed to be closed for the day, or else whoever owned the business would have told them to move on, for they looked thoroughly disreputable. Though they were built like farm labourers, their rather ill-fitting but somehow swaggering mode of dress spoke of city life and, Hart suspected, of a manner of earning a living that was less than respectable.

One stood picking his teeth nonchalantly, but the other watched them from under heavy-lidded eyes. Hart’s instincts prickled, for they looked like ruffians ripe for trouble, but he told himself last night’s upset had put him all on edge. You found rough sorts everywhere and, despite his advice, Miss Baxter had insisted upon staying at The Chequers rather than somewhere more upmarket.

Still, he met the inquisitive fellow’s eye, intending to warn him off, but the man’s gaze slid smoothly away, and he turned to speak to the fellow beside him.

“You know him?”

Hart glanced down at Miss Baxter to find her regarding him with interest.

“Certainly not. I just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, insolent hound.”

One black eyebrow quirked. “Is that not the way you look at me?”