One Night with a Regency Lord. Lucy Ashford

d’you want the new barrels put?’

      ‘Where d’you think, you numbskull?’ was Mrs Skinner’s pleasant reply.

      ‘There’s not enough room behind the old barrels,’ Will bravely continued.

      ‘Dratted men,’ she muttered, ‘can’t be relied on to do anythin’.’ Giving Glyde a last withering glance, she disappeared back down the cellar steps.

      Her head had hardly faded from view before he made his move. In a few seconds he’d reached the stairway leading to the top of the house and made ready to search out Mr Wendover and his mysterious sister for himself.

      Gareth stared blankly through the window at the curricle as it disappeared towards the stables. From the rear it looked to be a nobleman’s carriage, but he had no idea who it belonged to or why it was at the George. Amelie had evidently gained a better view and she had recognised it. The thought came to him that this might be her previous employer, enraged by her dubious departure. He realised with a jolt that his initial suspicions had been completely lulled and now his mind could no longer consider the possibility that she was a deceiver. He dismissed the idea even as it came into his head. And common sense soon reasserted itself. If she were a dishonest maidservant, whatever she might have done and however furious her noble employer, the possibility of his seeking her out in a rundown country inn was extremely unlikely.

      Annoyance at Amelie’s abrupt departure mingled with feelings of self-reproach. He’d spoiled the warm companionship of the morning. One minute they’d been laughing, joking, funning with each other. And then everything had changed. He’d touched her and he shouldn’t have. She was irresistible, but he should have resisted. God knew he’d had enough experience in escaping amorous situations, so why was this so different? He couldn’t account for it. Indignation at the notion of sacrificing herself to family duty had rendered her beauty overwhelming, her eyes a molten brown and the sheen of her skin glowing fire. But it was more than physical beauty that had shattered his restraint. In that moment it seemed her very soul had been laid bare and spoken unmistakably to his. He gave himself a mental shake: such fanciful nonsense! Whatever the reason, he’d not been able to stop himself. Even now he could feel her mouth, soft but eager, opening delicately to his.

      When he heard the bedroom door open he turned, a contrite expression on his face, but instead of Amelie he was confronted by Rufus Glyde, a man he’d not seen for seven long years. Both men stared at each other in amazement. Glyde was the first to find his voice.

      ‘Surely,’ he jeered, ‘it cannot be Gareth Denville. Aren’t you supposed to be resting on the Continent? Surely you haven’t returned to claim the earldom? Even the blackest sheep might be expected to do the decent thing and stay away.’

      Gareth stayed silent, his face impassive and his darkened eyes unreadable. For years unfounded suspicions had plagued his mind over Glyde’s role in that ill-fated card game.

      ‘Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down, Mr Wendover?’ Glyde tormented. ‘I’m presuming it is Mr Wendover? Why the false name, I wonder? A silly question no doubt. I imagine you would prefer to keep your identity hidden for all kinds of reasons. And staying in a place like this!’ The smirk became more pronounced.

      Gareth remained standing. His voice was cold and curt. ‘State your business. Mine is none of yours,’ he rapped out.

      ‘Still hot-tempered, I see. Some things never change. Though you’ve aged—not quite as fresh faced as when I saw you last. Now, when was that? Ah, yes, the Great-Go. Quite a night, quite a sensation, I recall.’

      ‘Cut to the chase, Glyde, what do you want?’

      ‘Not you, for sure. Keeping company with the flotsam of society is not really my custom. But I am rather interested in the sister you appear to have acquired. If my memory serves me right—and, of course, I could be wrong, family genealogy was never my strong point—your father, another unfortunate I understand, had only one child and that child was you. So a sister?’

      ‘It’s none of your affair and I’ll thank you to leave.’

      ‘Now that’s where we could disagree, I fear.’

      ‘I’ve nothing further to say to you. Leave of your own free will or at the end of my boot, it’s your choice.’

      ‘Proud crowing from someone plainly unable to enforce their threat.’ He gestured at Gareth’s bandaged ankle. ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave as quickly as you could want. What about this sister?’

      Gareth weighed up the odds of forcibly removing his antagonist from the room and decided it was probably not worth the pain he would inevitably suffer. He would give him the minimum of information and speed him on his way.

      ‘She is merely an acquaintance who happens to be staying at the inn.’

      ‘An acquaintance you call a sister. Come, Denville, that won’t wash. Who is she?’

      ‘She’s a maidservant, no one you know and no one of any interest.’

      ‘A maidservant? Pitching it rather low even for you, my dear Denville. A maidservant—and your doxy, I presume.’

      Gareth’s knuckles tightened until they were white. ‘Get out!’

      ‘Dear, dear, that temper again. Yes, I see, your doxy, and to pacify that dreadful harpy downstairs, you pass her off as your sister. You’re right, of course, I have no interest in her. The woman I seek would not pass the time of day with you, and as for impersonating a maidservant and sharing this vile refuge, the idea is laughable.’

      ‘Now you’ve had your laugh, you’re at liberty to leave.’

      ‘Indeed, and I shall do so very shortly. But first tell me how the cardsharping business prospers in Europe. Did you make a living?’ Glyde glanced down at the elegant coat of superfine he was wearing and then at Gareth’s outfit, daily looking more frayed.

      ‘And I always thought such practised tricksters went on prosperously,’ he murmured, ‘but it would seem not.’

      Ignoring the intense pain in his ankle, Gareth moved with unexpected swiftness towards his enemy and clasped him violently round the throat.

      ‘If ever you call me a cheat again, you will not live,’ he ground out.

      The door had remained open throughout their acrimonious exchange and with his hands still wrapped around Glyde’s neck, Gareth thrust his adversary through the doorway and down the stairs.

      At the moment Glyde had been dismounting from his carriage, Amelie had escaped through the back entrance of the inn. She ran wildly past the crumbling outbuildings and through the small wicket gate that led on to open pasture. Dismayed and frightened at the turn of events, she ran without thinking where she was going. Her mind was in chaos, refusing to accept that Sir Rufus had tracked her to this remote place. It was impossible. Nobody except Gareth Wendover knew her whereabouts and he was ignorant of her true identity.

      Slowly through the confused toss and tumble of thoughts a chilling idea began to emerge. Was it possible that they were in alliance together, that Gareth knew who she was and had been Glyde’s accomplice all this time? Was it coincidence that Rufus Glyde had appeared out of nowhere, just after she’d been abducted from the stagecoach? The fact that his carriage had mown Gareth down and thrown him into a ditch was probably an accident in their plan. Gareth had resolutely refused to tell her anything about himself. Was that in case she would unmask him too soon, before Glyde could catch up with them? And to think that she had so nearly put herself into his power, so nearly succumbed to his seductive charm.

      By now breathless, she was forced to come to a stop. It was pointless running any farther across the fields. She had no idea where she was going and if she turned back again to regain the road, Glyde could overtake her in his curricle at any moment. A nearby clump of trees would provide shelter and from this vantage point she could observe the inn from a distance. She settled herself beneath a sturdy oak, her back against its grainy trunk. The gentle summer sun filtered