Page 32 of The Lady’s No Angel

Mr Cleaver gave a bark of laughter. “Are you quite sure he didn’t marry her? I could believe such a woman was your grandmama, Miss Baxter.”

If any other man had said it, she would have slapped his face and given him a dressing down, for the implication she was the granddaughter of a woman hanged for highway robbery would have been an insult. But Mr Cleaver said it with such an admiring glint in his eyes, his tone so friendly and approving that she could not find the slightest hint of disapproval or condemnation.

So, Angel smiled back at him, a rueful smile as she wondered what he would think if he ever discovered she was the granddaughter of one of the most notorious pirates who ever lived. She suspected he would not be the least bit surprised.

Mr Cleaver rode on for a moment, contemplating what she’d told him. “Well, then. I suggest we have a bite to eat when we get to Eynsford. There’s bound to be folk who remember a woman who died in such circumstances. I’ll see what I can find out for you, and if that doesn’t bear fruit, we’ll try the parish church. How does that sound, Miss Baxter? Do you approve, or do you have a better suggestion?” Before Angel could open her mouth to reply, he held up his hand to forestall any complaints. “And before you eat me for being a presumptuous devil, you must realise that asking questions about such a woman in a public bar will raise far fewer eyebrows if I do it.”

“I do realise it,” Angel said, a little tartly. “I’m not a fool, Mr Cleaver. It is a sound plan and exactly what I would have suggested myself. Still, I thank you for asking me my opinion instead of telling me what we shall do. It was a good effort.”

He grinned at her, such a boyish, good-natured grin that she could not help but laugh in response and shake her head. They rode on, the heavily charged atmosphere easier now as Mr Cleaver’s rich baritone rose, singing the words of a naughty old folk song, The Trooper and the Maid.

Though Angel had never heard it before, it appeared Toby had, his higher pitched voice joining in with Mr Cleaver’s. Angel wondered if the lad had the least notion of what he was singing.

“Good gracious,” Milly exclaimed, hiding her face behind one hand, cheeks pink as she realised what the song was about.

Angel giggled, delighting in the story about a boisterous soldier and the maid who warmed his bed on the night before battle, until the drums announced it was time to leave.

Though it was quite beyond the bounds of propriety, all of them sang along, their voices rising together as Mr Cleaver led them.

“It’s up up up our colonel cried, it’s up up up and away, then. It’s up up up our colonel cried, the morn’ our battle day then.”

Hart led his little band as the land narrowed, the chalky downs rising on either side of them. The road followed the River Darent. The Darent was a wide, shallow chalk stream, which made the water as clear as crystal, sparkling even on an indifferently grey day. Graceful willows trailed their delicate green fingers into the merrily tumbling stream, the water burbling as brown trout leapt, making Hart wish he had a fishing rod at hand.

But he was not here to pass the time, and he suspected the two brutes who had tried to finish him last night would not give up so easily. They wanted something, and they’d not got it, whatever it was. He’d been looking over his shoulder since morning, with no sign of anything amiss, but he could not shake the feeling they were being followed.

Eynsford appeared before them with the appearance of a welcoming inn whose painted sign proclaimed, ‘The Plough’ and beckoned them to stop and rest. The bridge and a ford, which gave the ancient village its name, lay ahead. Though the day was not warm, children played at the edges of the water, skirts tucked up and trousers rolled as they fished for minnows.

The ragstone bridge comprised two stone arches, with a weathered carved figure on one side. The ancient church, with its narrow, pointed spire, reached heavenward, and the village huddled comfortably around it.

“So, this is where your grandfather’s Jenny Preston was born,” he said, turning to address Miss Baxter, who was regarding the bucolic scene with interest. He wondered what she was thinking, what it was that had made her come on this reckless journey. Not the desire to put roses upon the grave of her grandfather’s beloved, he’d wager. At least, not only that.

Miss Baxter was a mystery, and one he was itching to uncover in more ways than one. Yet despite his dishonourable but hard to refute desire to get her into his bed, he could not deny that it was more than that. She fascinated him, with a strange mixture of boldness and innocence that called to something inside him. He longed to protect her, yet judging from the way she had neatly shot the fellow who had been trying to stab him—and in the arm, no less—it wasn’t she who needed protecting.

How had she learned to handle a pistol, and why? And what the devil else could she do? The thought made him go hot and cold and he didn’t dare ponder the question in any detail.

Eynsford, it appeared, was a small place, the kind where everyone knew everybody’s business, and Hart felt eyes upon them as they made their way into the inn’s yard. He wondered if Jenny had been well liked, or if they were about to resurrect unwelcome ghosts.

Having handed the pony and his mount into the hands of the ostlers, they made their way inside.

The innkeeper, a wiry fellow with white hair that puffed about his balding pate like the seeds of a dandelion, greeted them with lively interest. His blue eyes lit upon seeing Hart, whom he correctly pegged as quality. His gaze wandered then to Miss Baxter and her maid, with Toby lagging behind, and Hart marked the speculation there.

The inn was silent where before they had entered, he had noticed the convivial chatter. They were outsiders, not unwelcome, but subjects of curiosity.

“Good day to you. A private parlour for my sister and her maid, if one be available,” Hart said, placing a small stack of coins on the well-worn counter as the fellow relaxed and nodded.

“At once, sir. And might I offer you and your companions a bite to eat? My missus is a fine cook, a wonderful light hand with pastry. There’s a chicken and ham pie, some cold roast beef, bread and cheese and pickles. Good, honest grub. Our ale is the best around, too, I reckon.”

“That sounds perfect,” Hart agreed at once. “Bring small beer for the ladies, and a glass of milk for the lad. I’ll have an ale.”

The fellow nodded his approval, grinning and turning to speak to the young woman who had been cleaning down the counter with more vigour than it required and listening in.

“Ruth, take the gentleman and his companions through, lass, while I see to the order.”

Ruth, a ruddy-cheeked, sturdy girl of perhaps two and twenty, hurried forward, eyeing Hart with interest. She bobbed a curtsey that made her ample breasts bounce and shot him a smile from under her lashes. “This way, if it pleases you, sir.”

“I imagine it does,” Miss Baxter murmured under her breath, catching the direction in which Hart’s admiring gaze had followed.

He shrugged, returning a rueful smile. “They were right there,” he protested.