Tangled Reins. Stephanie Laurens

be back in two shakes, ma’am.’

      Five minutes later Hannah was back with a jug of steaming water and a truckle-bed in bits. While she and Betsy struggled with this contraption Dorothea and Cecily washed the dust of the road from their faces and felt considerably better. Finally conquering the recalcitrant truckle-bed, Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and addressed Dorothea. ‘I’ll be back in half’n hour with your dinner, miss. Be you sure to lock the door after me.’

      Dorothea murmured her thanks as the bolts slid to behind the helpful Hannah. Cecily, drowsy, curled up on the bed. Betsy sat by the fire, working on some sewing she had brought with her to while away the time.

      Now that her immediate needs were satisfied, Dorothea prowled the room, restless and cramped. After a day spent in the carriage, she longed to get just one breath of fresh air before a night spent within the airless cocoon of the bedchamber. Suddenly she remembered Lang. With Cecily as passenger, they would normally leave mid-morning. However, her limited knowledge of prize-fights and their aftermath suggested that an early departure might be preferable. She looked out of the window, but this faced the back of the inn. She could hear no noise or ruckus to suggest that the audience from the fight had arrived.

      Quickly she crossed to Betsy’s side. ‘I’m just going down to see Lang. We should make an early start tomorrow to avoid the crush.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘You stay here and watch over Cecily. I’ll only be a moment.’

      Before Betsy could protest she picked up her old travelling cloak and whisked herself out of the door. She paused on the landing to fasten the cloak. Sounds of ribald laughter came, muted, from where she supposed the taproom to be. She made her way quietly down the stairs and along the corridor in the opposite direction, eventually reaching the door giving on to the coaching yard. Here she found a mêlée of ostlers and horses. Pausing in the shadows, she scanned the area, trying to locate Lang. He was nowhere to be seen. Remembering that private grooms often helped the ostlers at times like these, she ventured to the archway and peeked into the main stableyard.

      ‘My, my! What have we here? A pretty young thing, come to help us celebrate!’

      She gasped. The sensation of an arm slipping around her waist made her heart stand still, but instead of hazel eyes lazily regarding her she found herself looking into a vacuous face with cherubic blue eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing. The man holding her had been drinking but he was not altogether drunk.

      He dragged her, struggling furiously, around the corner to fetch up within a riotous group of seven semi-drunk gentlemen, intent on a night of carousing, having watched their favourite win the fight. Dorothea realised her mistake too late. The main yard of the inn was full to overflowing. One of the men reached out and flicked her hood back, and the light from the inn’s main door fell full on her face. She tried desperately to pull free, but the young man had a good grip on her arm. She winced as it tightened.

      Immediately a drawling voice cut through the clamour. ‘Do let the lady go, Tremlow. She is known to me and I really cannot let you embarrass her further.’

      Recognising the voice, Dorothea wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

      The effect of the statement was instantaneous. The hold on her arm was immediately withdrawn as the dark shadow of the Marquis of Hazelmere materialised at the edge of the group.

      ‘Oh! Sorry, Hazelmere! No idea she was a lady.’

      This last sentence, uttered sotto voce, made Dorothea’s cheeks burn. She pulled up her hood as the men in the group peered to see which lady could thus claim Hazelmere’s protection.

      The Marquis, unhurriedly strolling across the group to her side, largely obscured her from view. Arriving beside her, he turned to the group and continued in the same languid tone, ‘I feel sure you would all like to offer your apologies for any embarrassment you have, however unwittingly, caused the lady.’

      A chorus of, ‘Oh, yes! Definitely! Apologies, ma’am! No offence intended, y’know!’ greeted this bald statement.

      Simms, having noticed the problem rather late in the day, now hung on the fringe of the group, waiting to render any assistance at all to one of his most valued customers. The Marquis’s eye alighted on him. ‘Ah, Simms! A round of ale for these gentlemen after this slight misunderstanding, don’t you think?’

      Simms took the hint. ‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly! If you gentlemen would like to come this way I’ve a hogshead of a new brew I’d much appreciate your comments on.’ With this treat on offer, he had little difficulty in herding the group towards the taproom.

      As they moved away Anthony, Lord Fanshawe appeared at his friend’s side, a questioning lift to his brows. One moment he had been walking across the stableyard beside Hazelmere, heading towards a hot dinner, when Marc had suddenly stopped, uttered one furious oath and then plunged through the crowd towards a small group of revellers near the coachyard. Although nearly as tall as his friend, with Marc ahead of him, he had had no chance to see what had attracted his attention. As he drew closer he heard Marc at his most languid. He assumed there was a lady in it somewhere, but it was only when Hazelmere turned to address some remark behind him that he realised he was effectively protecting her from the eyes of the stableyard.

      Hazelmere turned to him. ‘Check they’re all in, will you, Tony? I’ll join you in the parlour in a few minutes.’

      Fanshawe nodded and without a word turned back towards the inn. The languid tones had disappeared entirely, replaced by Hazelmere’s normal speech with the consonants somewhat clipped. That single glimpse of his childhood friend’s face had confirmed his suspicion. The Marquis of Hazelmere was in a towering rage.

      As he had reached her side Hazelmere had unobtrusively taken Dorothea’s arm, initially holding her beside him. When the group had made their apologies and moved away he drew her back so that she was shielded by his height and the voluminous driving cloak which hung in many tiers of capes from his broad shoulders. Conscious only of a desperate need to quit the scene, she tried to retreat into the coachyard. He turned but did not release her. With the light behind him, his face was unreadable. ‘One moment and I’ll escort you indoors. I’d like a word with you.’

      Even to Dorothea, unwise in the ways of the Marquis, the words had an ominous ring. She was furious with herself for falling into this scrape and mortified that, of all men, it should be Hazelmere who had rescued her from it. And in such a way!

      He turned back to speak briefly with another tall man who came up. Then, much to her relief, as her legs felt strangely weak, he ushered her into the coachyard.

      Once in the comparative privacy of the rapidly clearing inner yard, he stopped and drew her around to face him. She almost gasped as the light from the inn door lit his face. The hazel eyes were hard and reflected the light from the inn; his lips were set in an uncompromising line. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was furious, and equally obvious that she was the object of his wrath. ‘And what, may I ask, were you attempting to accomplish out there?’ The sarcastic tones stung like a whip.

      Far from being cowed, Dorothea immediately took umbrage. She flung up her head and her eyes snapped back. ‘I was seeking my coachman, if you must know, to tell him I wish to leave this inn very early tomorrow, to avoid precisely the sort of attention that I was most regrettably unable to avoid tonight!’ She was slightly breathless by the end of this speech, but continued to give the odious Marquis back look for look.

      His eyes narrowed. After a slight pause he continued in less harsh tones, ‘It seems very remiss of Simms not to have warned you to keep to your chamber with your door locked.’

      She had to swallow before she was able to answer, but she managed to return his hard gaze. ‘He did tell me.’

      The expression on his face became even stonier. ‘I can only marvel at your lack of care for your own reputation. I’ve already warned you that your hoydenish ways will not do in wider society.’ He had grasped both her arms just above the elbow in a far from gentle grip. For one appalled moment she thought he was going to shake her. Instead,