Page 8 of The Lady’s No Angel

An odd little glow of pleasure warmed Hart at her words. “You owe me nothing at all. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance.”

“Except we are not acquainted,” Miss Baxter pointed out. “We do not yet know your name.”

Hart blinked at her. Really, he was the most ramshackle fellow. No wonder Blake accused him of having the manners of a farmhand, and yet… he did not wish for them to know who he was. The moment they heard his title, the easy atmosphere about them would disappear in a puff of smoke and he did not want that. He’d best stick to Leo, but Leo Cleveland was still a bit too distinctive.

“Leo,” he said, reaching for his tankard. “Leo, er… Clee-ever. Leo Cleaver,” he repeated with more assurance.

Miss Baxter gazed at him doubtfully. “We are pleased to meet you, Mr Cleaver.”

“Likewise,” Leo replied, feeling a weight drop away along with the title.

Well, the day might have begun badly, but it was turning out to be quite splendid. Yet Miss Baxter was watching him, her expression thoughtful, and Leo wondered if he’d been entirely convincing. Only time would tell.

Chapter 3

Farewells and Other Lies

Benenden, Kent, 6th April 1816

It was amazing what a hot meal could do for one’s spirits, Angel thought as Mr Cleaver helped her up into the gig. She was more than a little sorry to say goodbye to him, but it wasn’t as if she could confide in a man she didn’t know. For all she knew, he might be a cutthroat or a murderer, though she couldn’t believe that. He exuded honesty and warmth; even sitting beside him had been like sitting beside a warm fire. It was a comforting sensation, as if no harm could come to one if such a fellow was about.

Yet she would not impose upon him either, not when he had already been so kind. Paying for their meal and for the care of their pony was more than they could have hoped for and would stretch their funds a little further.

“I understand you are headed for Eynsford,” Mr Cleaver remarked, as he offered Milly his hand.

Angel caught Toby’s eye, glaring at him for tattling. The boy reddened and darted behind the gig to climb up on the box.

“Yes, to visit my aunt,” Angel said, improvising. After all, there was nothing inherently suspicious about going to Eynsford.

“Ah, your aunt,” he replied, nodding gravely. “I’ve got an excess of aunts. Young, pretty aunts, maiden aunts, fussy, irritating aunts, great aunts. They’re a dashed odd lot on the whole, but one cannot escape them.”

Angel swallowed a giggle. “You have a large family, I collect, Mr Cleaver.”

He nodded, his expression so gloomy that the urge to laugh was hard to resist. “A dreadful lot of them. I’ve two sisters, as well.”

“And aunts,” she reminded him.

His mouth kicked up at the corners, his smile crooked and boyish and so dreadfully charming she felt her foolish heart quiver with pleasure. “And aunts, several uncles, and don’t get me started on the cousins. And you, Miss Baxter? You come from a large family?”

Angel’s smile dimmed, and she shook her head. “No. Just me, and my mother and father. That’s all.”

“And your aunt.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Oh! Yes, and my aunt, of course. Aunt M…M—”

“Maevis, Miss Baxter. Your Aunt Maevis,” Milly cut in with a nervous giggle. “Dear me, my young lady would forget her head if it weren’t screwed on.”

Mr Cleaver’s eyes danced with amusement and Angel occupied herself with the reins, hoping he did not think her a complete henwit. “Well, then,” she said, doing her utmost to compose herself as she offered him her hand. “Thank you once again, Mr Cleaver, you have been most kind.”

“Good day to you, Miss Baxter, Miss Milly, Toby.” He went to lift his hat, realised it wasn’t there, and laughed. Bowing deeply, he walked away from them.

Angel swallowed, the urge to turn around and find some pretext for keeping him talking a moment longer hard to resist. But her future, not to mention Milly’s and Toby’s, hung in the balance, and there was no time for flirting, no matter how strong the temptation.

They had been travelling for a good half an hour when the sound of enthusiastic singing reached their ears. A lively baritone carried the words of John Barleycorn to them.

“There were three men came out of the west, their fortunes for to try, and these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn should die.”

“It’s Mr Cleaver!” Toby exclaimed excitedly from his position on the box.