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“Oh. Certainly.” Darryl did as asked. Except that he nearly tossed the coat straight into the pool. Only a quick, acrobatic snag from Rhys saved it from a watery end.
He exhaled with limited forbearance. “Tewkes, I’m assuming we’re all headed back to the inn. Why don’t you walk around the falls and meet us down here? And bring my boots.”
“Absolutely, my lord.”
The youth disappeared once again, and Rhys took the opportunity to drape his coat securely about Meredith’s shoulders.
When Darryl emerged through the trees, she asked, “So what’s this about? Why are you after us?” Her complexion went to ash in an instant. “It’s not Father?”
“No,” Darryl assured her. “No. But Lord, I’ve been walking all over this moor, looking for the two of you. There’s a man down at the inn. Quite fancy sort, just come in this morning from London.” A twitching eye turned on Rhys. “He’s looking for you, Lord Ashworth.”
When they reached the Three Hounds after another quarter hour of walking, Rhys was fairly certain who they’d meet. So it was no shock to enter the tavern and spy Julian Bellamy occupying the corner table.
What was a surprise, however, was Bellamy’s companion. He had a girl with him. A very pretty girl, who couldn’t be older than twenty. She had curled yellow hair and an innocent blush that seemed at odds with her lush figure. On closer inspection, that blush looked to be painted on.
Strange. Rhys wouldn’t have figured Bellamy to be traveling with a doxy. From all evidence a few weeks ago, the man was in unmitigated, unrequited love with Lady Lily Chatwick, the Stud Club founder’s grieving sister.
When Bellamy caught sight of Rhys, he rose from the table and met him in the center of the room, directing his friend to remain seated. From the table, the girl gave Rhys an uneasy look.
He was used to those looks. And with his still-damp breeches, muddied boots, and bits of moss clinging to his coat, Rhys supposed he must look a fright. Even more so than usual.
“I know I asked you to send my things from London,” he said, greeting Bellamy with a nod. “But I didn’t expect a personal delivery.”
“Arrived not a moment too soon, it would seem.” Bellamy cast a disapproving glance at Rhys’s bedraggled attire. As always, the man himself was turned out in stylish, tailored velvet. “Good Lord, what have they done to you out here?”
“I’ve been working. It’s what we simple country folk do. Not all of us can afford to spend our time swanning about London in the latest fashions.”
“Welcome to the Three Hounds, sir.” Meredith appeared at Rhys’s side, surprising him with her speed. She’d entered by the back way to discreetly change into dry clothing, and she’d certainly done so with haste. She’d woven her damp hair into a single plait hanging down her back, and she wore another of her simple frocks, this one a cinnamon color.
Beneath that dress, her skin would still be cool to the touch. She would taste of spring water, crisp and sweet. Perhaps she was still wet for him, even now.
As if she could hear Rhys’s lascivious thoughts, she cleared her throat in rebuke. To Bellamy she said, “Can I bring you and your lady friend some refreshment?”
“Brandy for me,” Bellamy said. He spoke over his shoulder. “What are you drinking?”
“Oh!” The yellow-haired girl perked, abandoning her examination of her fingernails. “Raspberry shrub would be lovely.”
Meredith choked on a laugh. “As a general habit, we don’t do pink and bubbly in this establishment, but I think I’ve a bottle of cordial somewhere. Will that do?”
“Yes, please.”
Meredith gave Rhys an amused glance as she headed for the bar. “Do have a seat, the three of you.”
By the time Rhys and Bellamy settled themselves at the table, she was back, bearing a tray with a tumbler of brandy, a skinny glass of cordial, and a pint of ale, which she set before Rhys. He loved that she knew what he’d drink without asking. But he hated that she was serving them, when by all rights she ought to be a lady, with a fleet of servants to wait onher.
And damn, what kind of gentleman was he, allowing her to serve him this way? Belatedly, he pushed back from the table and stood. It was a meager gesture of respect, but it was something. As she lingered over the task of distributing drinks, Rhys could tell she was curious just what this conference was about. So was he, for that matter.
“Join us.” Rhys offered the chair next to his. “Mr. Julian Bellamy, this is Mrs. Meredith Maddox. She’s the proprietor of the Three Hounds.”
“We need to speak privately,” Bellamy said. He shot a glance at Meredith. “With all due respect.”
“She’s also my future wife.” Rhys pulled out the chair. “And if this is about Leo Chatwick’s murder, she already knows as much as I do.”
He chanced a look at Meredith. Her eyes had gone the dark gray of thunderclouds, and they were twice as agitated. He shrugged, well aware that he wasn’t playing fair. Now she had a choice: Accept the label of future wife, or abandon all curiosity about the conversation.
He stood there, poised with the empty chair, awaiting her decision.
“It’s my inn,” she said finally, taking the chair from Rhys’s grasp. “I’ll sit where I please.”
