Mary Balogh - The Secret Mistress

He turned to Edward, who stood out of the way of the door.

“And likewise for you, fellow,” he said. “It will be a distinct pleasure.”

Edward inclined his head curtly to him, and Windrow left the inn and closed the door behind him.

That left Edward and the lady in the taproom together again. But this time she knew he was there and so the impropriety could not be ignored or even silently fumed over. He was freshly annoyed with her—and with himself for having become embroiled in such an undignified episode.

She was gazing at him, the regal demeanor vanished, her hands clasped at her bosom again.

Edward inclined his head curtly to her and made his way outside. He half expected to find Windrow lying in wait for him in the yard and was almost disappointed to see no sign of the man.

Less than five minutes later he was inside his carriage again and on his way toward London. Ten minutes after that, the carriage passed a far smarter one—of course, it would have been difficult to find one shabbier—traveling with reckless speed in the opposite direction. He caught a glimpse of the coat of arms emblazoned on the door: the Duke of Tresham’s. He breathed a sigh of relief that at least he had been spared having to encounter that particular gentleman at the Rose and Crown in addition to Windrow. It would have been the final straw.

Tresham was not his favorite person in the world. And, to be fair, he did not doubt that he was not Tresham’s either. The duke had been another of Maurice’s friends. It was in a curricle race against him that Maurice had overturned his own and killed himself. And then Tresham had had the effrontery to turn up at Maurice’s funeral. Edward had made his opinion known to him there.

He wished anew that he could have stayed at Wimsbury Abbey. But duty called in London. And there was consolation, for Eunice was there too. She was staying with Lady Sanford, her aunt, and he would see her again.

It struck him suddenly that Tresham was driving in the opposite direction from London. Perhaps he was on his way to Acton Park. Perhaps he was going to remain there throughout the spring. It was something to be hoped for.

Who the devil was that lady back at the inn? Someone needed to take her in hand and teach her a thing or two about what was what.

But devil take it, she was a rare beauty.

He frowned as he shifted position in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

Beauty was no excuse for impropriety. Indeed, beauty called for more than usual discretion.

He still felt entirely out of charity with her, whoever she was. Unlike Windrow, he did not look forward to making her official acquaintance. He hoped rather that he would never see her again. He hoped she was traveling away from London rather than toward it.

Preferably to the highlands of Scotland.

ANGELINE STOOD STARING at the inside of the taproom door, her hands clasped to her bosom.

She did not even know his name. He had gone away before she had a chance to say anything, and he had not spoken to her either. But of course, he was a perfect gentleman. His words and actions had proved that. It would have been improper for him to speak, for they had not been formally introduced and ought not even to have been in a room alone together. She ought not to be here at all.

She did not know who he was. She did not even know whether he was traveling toward London or away from it. It was altogether possible that she would never see him again.

By the time she had noticed the other man striding toward the taproom door earlier, it had been too late to withdraw to her room. So she had stayed where she was, hoping not to be noticed. There was no reason why she should be. None of the stagecoach passengers had noticed her, after all, and she was standing with her back to the room, minding her own business.

When he had spoken—oh, how her heart had leapt with alarm and indignation!—she had pretended not to hear and hoped he would go away. And then another voice had spoken up, and she had realized that there was more than one man in the taproom, that the other man must have been there even before the new arrival.

How dreadfully mortifying!

But his words …

I doubt you know the lady. Calling her sweetheart, then, would be inappropriately impertinent.

So pleasantly, courteously spoken in low, cultured accents.

He had been championing her cause.

Angeline had changed position, cupping her face in her hands in an attempt to keep it hidden from the two gentlemen—she sincerely hoped there were only two. And she had gazed intently at the gateway arch leading out to the street, for the first time willing Tresham not to come just yet. He would probably punch the teeth of both gentlemen straight down their throats, which would be a simple overreaction in the one case and a gross miscarriage of justice in the other. He would then blister her all over, without using anything more lethal than his tongue. His tongue, when he waxed eloquent, could be very lethal.

And then the newcomer had become even more impertinent, and the other one had defended her again. And the newcomer—so typically male—had wanted to make a fight of it.

Angeline had been unable either to disappear or to make herself invisible. Nor could she pretend any longer that what was happening in the room behind her had nothing to do with her. Besides, she had not wanted to ignore the contretemps. Indignation had long ago replaced fright—she did not frighten easily or for long. And besides again, she had wanted to see these two men.

And so she had turned. There were only two, one at each end of the counter, like bookends. Not identical bookends, though. And before either had spoken a word more, she had identified which was which. It was really quite easy.

The one slouched back with casual elegance against the counter, supported on his forearms, his riding boots crossed nonchalantly at the ankles, was the impertinent one. Every line of his tall, athletic body, every garment he wore, spoke of a man who was confident and arrogant and fearless and contemptuous of all who were beneath him in consequence—a number that would of course include all women. His face, beneath a shock of dark red hair, was handsome enough if one discounted the fact that he affected world-weariness by keeping his eyelids half drooped over his eyes.

He was a type she recognized instantly. Her father had been such a man. Tresham was such a man. So was Ferdinand, her other brother. So were all their friends whom she had met. They were often lovable and essentially harmless despite all the silliness. Angeline could never take such men too seriously. She was quite impervious to their charms. She would never even dream of marrying one of them.

The second man was entirely different, even though he was almost as tall as the other and was well and solidly built. He was dressed neatly and fashionably but without any flair or ostentation or any suggestion of dandyism. His brown hair was cut short and neatly styled. His face was neither handsome nor plain. Although he had an elbow on the counter, he was not leaning on it.

He was … an ordinary man. Which was by no means an insult or even a dismissal of his claim to be noticed. Angeline had noticed him. And she was as sure as she could be that he was her defender, while the other was her tormentor.

Her guess was soon proved correct.

I have never felt any burning desire to enforce gentility or simple civility with my fists, he had said. It seems something of a contradiction in terms.

And yet he was not a coward, though that was what the other man accused him of. He would have fought if he had had to. His actions at the end had proved that. Instead of accepting partial victory when the almost-handsome redhead was leaving, he had stepped over to the door to block the man’s exit and insisted quietly and courteously that he apologize.

He would have fought. And though common sense told Angeline that he would very soon have been outsized, outclassed, and out cold if the other man had forced him into it, she would not have wagered against him. Quite the contrary.

How could one not fall instantly in love with such a man, Angeline asked herself as she stared at the door after they had both left. In a few short minutes he had shown himself to be her ideal of manhood. Of gentlemanhood. He seemed perfectly content and comfortable with his ordinariness. He seemed not to feel the need to posture and prove his masculinity at every turn, preferably with his fists, as most men did in Angeline’s admittedly rather limited experience.

He was, in fact, more than ordinary. He was an extraordinary man.

And she had fallen head over ears in love with him.

Indeed, she was going to marry him—despite the fact that she would probably never see him again.

Love would find a way.

With which decidedly muddled form of logic she returned to reality and the distinct possibility that if she remained in the taproom any longer she might well be assailed by the comings and goings of yet more travelers—all undoubtedly male. The room was not, alas, nearly as deserted and private as it had appeared when she came down here. And if Tresham caught her here …

Well … it was best not to put the matter to the test. She would return to her room and listen for his arrival. If he ever came.

The gentleman’s eyes were blue, she remembered as she climbed the stairs. She was certain of it, though she had not seen them from close to. They were not that nondescript sort of gray that often passes for blue. They were as clear as the summer sky. They were his most outstanding feature, in fact.

Oh, she hoped she would see him again.

How could she possibly marry him if she did not?

ALMOST AS SOON as Edward arrived in London, he was besieged by female relatives who adored him and had nothing but his best interests and his future happiness at heart and were determined to have a hand in securing that happiness for him.

They were a plague.

His mother had been staying with her parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Beckingham, for the past few months while she recovered as best she could from the sudden death of her elder son. Edward’s grandparents had now come to town, and his mother, who had traveled with them—in a new carriage that she had found atrociously uncomfortable—had moved into Ailsbury House on Portman Square to be with her younger son, now her only son.

Lorraine, Maurice’s widow, who had retreated to her father’s house in the country following his death, had now returned to town with Susan, her daughter, and had also taken up residence at Ailsbury House, as of course she had every right to do. She still held the title Countess of Heyward, after all, Edward being as yet unmarried. Besides, he had always been fond of Lorraine and sorry for the fact that she had been in an unsatisfactory marriage with his brother. He was more than happy to offer her and his niece the shelter of his own roof for as long as they needed it.

Both of Edward’s sisters were in town for the Season. Alma, the elder, was there with her husband, Augustine Lynd, a prominent government minister, and Melissa, their young daughter. Their two boys were away at school. Juliana was there with her husband, Christopher Gilbert, Viscount Overmyer. They also had three children, all below the age of ten, though Edward often thought that in reality Juliana had four, since Christopher was perennially indisposed with some malady or other and it seemed that no one could nurse him back to health—or rather nurse him on to the next illness—half as well as his wife.

All five ladies—grandmother, mother, two sisters, one sister-in-law—had taken upon themselves the identical project to be accomplished during the course of the Season. They had set their collective hearts and energies upon finding Edward a bride. A bride was necessary, of course. If he were to die without a son, the title and property and fortune would pass to Cousin Alfie—never in his life had Edward ever heard him referred to as Alfred—who lived in the far north of England with his mother and who, all were agreed, was more than a little daft in the head.

It was pointless for Edward to put forward the name of Eunice Goddard at this juncture. She was the daughter of a gentleman, it was true—a Cambridge don whom Edward had greatly admired during his years as a student there—and the niece of Lady Sanford, who had had the good fortune to meet and attach the interest of a wealthy baron at the tender age of seventeen. Eunice might have been considered unexceptionable as the bride of Edward Ailsbury, younger brother of the Earl of Heyward, especially if Maurice and Lorraine had produced a son or two. It would be trickier, though, to convince his female relations that she was the ideal wife of that same Edward Ailsbury now that he was himself the earl.