One Night with a Regency Lord. Lucy Ashford

their toll and he was now eager to wash his hands of her. He would simply put her on the Bristol coach and go back to his hotel. It had been stupid of him to think that he could flee his obligations. Tomorrow he would send a message to the solicitor and sign whatever papers that worthy presented.

      He glanced at the cloak bag Amelie had left on the bench. He’d better restore it to its owner and assure her that she had nothing further to fear from him. He made his way upstairs to the front bedchamber, but it was empty. Thinking he’d got the wrong room, he looked into another and surprised the chambermaid who was making up the bed.

      ‘I’m looking for a young lady,’ he excused himself, ‘she was feeling unwell and came up to rest.’

      The maid looked at him blankly. ‘She’s not ‘ere.’

      ‘I can see she’s not here,’ Gareth returned shortly, ‘but have you seen her?’

      ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ The maid continued smoothing out the bedspread with a bored expression on her face. ‘Not many people come up ‘ere.’ She paused and looked vacantly out of the window. ‘There wus a stranger on the stairs a while ago.’

      ‘A young woman?’

      ‘I couldn’t rightly say.’

      ‘Why ever not?’ he asked impatiently.

      “Cos of the cloak.’

      ‘A black velvet cloak?’ The maid nodded absently.

      ‘That’s her. Where is she?’

      ‘How would I know? She went down the stairs and out the door.’

      ‘What door?’ Gareth was suddenly alert.

      ‘The back door, of course.’ The maid shook her head at his obtuseness. “Appen she’s in the garden taking the air,’ she said helpfully.

      He swore softly to himself and ran down the stairs two at a time. The garden was empty as he knew it would be, but he saw the path that led around the inn and followed it into the courtyard. The yard was also nearly empty. The last coach of the morning had departed and the inn servants were clearing up the mess the passengers and drivers had left behind.

      He accosted a thin, gangling youth who was mournfully sweeping the last of the straw from the cobbles.

      ‘The stage to Bristol?’ he enquired curtly.

      ‘There ain’t no stages to Bristol today,’ the boy confided happily, leaning on his broom and glad for an excuse to stop work. ‘Bath now, mebbe. And you can allus go on from Bath.’

      ‘Where’s the stage to Bath?’

      ‘Where? Somewhere near ‘Ounslow, I reckon.’ The boy grinned cheekily. ‘What d’you think, Jem?’

      Jem staggered to a halt, bent double under the weight of the saddle he was carrying. ‘With ole Tranter driving, probably not yet clear of Kensington,’ he jeered.

      The other men stopped their work and joined in a chorus of raucous laughter. An elderly ostler leaned lazily against the inn wall and chewed a straw. He smiled widely, enjoying Gareth’s discomfort.

      ‘Next one’s tomorrow, sir. That’s if you don’t mind a little wait,’ he sniggered.

      ‘Move yourself and get me a horse immediately,’ Gareth snapped in response and ran back into the inn. He threw money onto the table in payment and snatched up Amelie’s cloak bag. He’d been willing to let her go when he could play the benefactor. But how dare she play him false? A bargain was a bargain and he was going to make her pay.

      He stormed back into the inn courtyard and tapped his foot impatiently.

      It took nearly fifteen minutes to make the horse ready and by that time he was in a towering rage. He threw the cloak bag across the saddle, then leapt onto the horse’s back and wheeled her round to face the courtyard entrance.

      “Appen you might catch ‘em up,’ opined the old ostler, still chewing his straw vigorously, ‘but I ain’t anyways too sure on it.’

      Gareth’s reply was to spur his mount forwards and out of the courtyard in one bound.

       Chapter Three

      Wedged uncomfortably between her fellow passengers, Amelie endured the miles as they rolled wearily on. By now her escape must have been discovered. Her father would be spreading tempest through the house; he would find it impossible to explain her absence to Rufus Glyde when the latter came calling. For a moment the thought of Glyde’s likely retribution made her feel a little sick, but she resolutely pushed it from her mind. Lord Silverdale would have to find another way of saving the family.

      She had no clear idea of the time, but it had to be around noon. Any moment now Sir Rufus would be stepping up to the front door of the house in Grosvenor Square, expecting to have acquired a bride before he left again. A wave of revulsion passed through her. Anything was better than that, even the harassment she’d suffered from Mr Gareth Wendover.

      She was glad to be free of him, too, yet she couldn’t quite subdue a twinge of regret. He’d behaved abominably, but then her conduct had hardly been that of a delicately raised young woman. If he’d realised her true situation, he wouldn’t have attempted to make love to her. But that was a nonsense. It would have made no difference to him if she were maid or mistress. From the outset he’d shown a predilection for seizing her in as close an embrace as possible. Whether she was the daughter of Lord Silverdale or the daughter’s maid would be immaterial.

      And shamefully, it hadn’t mattered to her either whether he was Mr Wendover, gentleman, or a choice spirit of dubious origins. She’d enjoyed the feeling of being held against his powerful frame. Eyes closed, she thought reminiscently of the strength that had encompassed her, the masculine warmth that promised as much excitement as security. But how foolish! She had no intention of being at the mercy of any man—ever. She’d just escaped from one threatened entanglement and she must preserve herself from any other, particularly with a man who by the look of him could bring her nothing but trouble.

      She shifted her position, trying to get more comfortable, but in such a crowded carriage it was difficult. Her feet were already numb from inactivity and her left arm ached with the weight of the portly farmer bunched in beside her. A thin-faced clerk in the corner scowled at her attempts to move, but the country woman smiled in motherly sympathy.

      ‘There ain’t much room in these coaches, miss, and we large ‘uns don’t make it any easier.’

      The farmer snorted at this and shifted his bulk again, trapping Amelie’s arm even more heavily than before. As well as aching from head to toe, she was beginning to feel very hungry. She’d hardly eaten a crumb at the inn, so intent had she been on eluding Gareth. The motherly lady, sensing her thoughts, reached down to the basket, which now nestled on the floor between her feet. She drew out some slices of pie and cheese and apples and smilingly offered to share her fare. Natural politeness would normally have made Amelie refuse, but her hunger was tormenting and the morning’s events had somehow dispensed with normality. She plunged her teeth into the succulent pie just as they left Hounslow Heath.

      Her benefactor adjusted her white cotton cap and sighed with relief. ‘I’m certain glad we’ve left that Heath. Terrible things happen there. Just last week my neighbour told me her son was held up in broad daylight and robbed of everything, including his horse. He’d to walk all the way to the City and never a chance of catching the man who robbed him.’

      Amelie, too, was relieved, for Fanny’s words still echoed in her mind; that at least was one danger she’d evaded. Once replete with food, it was easy to slip into a doze. She knew it must be another eight hours or so before she reached her destination and if she could catnap at least some of the time,