Scandal in the Regency Ballroom. Louise Allen

and sitting down in the chair he was holding for her.

      ‘How the devil do you deduce that?’

      ‘Well, when a woman in man’s clothes asks which parlour a gentleman is in, there are very few alternatives that are likely to occur to her.’

      ‘Do you mind?’

      ‘Not at all. I certainly won’t be stopping at this inn again, so where’s the harm?’

      ‘I am beginning to have grave doubts about how I am going to explain this to your male relatives.’

      ‘I cannot imagine Uncle George coming up from Buckinghamshire armed with his horsewhip, and Piers will be too busy worshipping at your feet to notice, even if I staggered through the door shrieking that you had ruined me.’ Bree found she enjoyed watching Max’s face, even when he was scowling.

      He definitely was not handsome. She had long ago decided that her taste ran to slender gentlemen with dark hair and green eyes, the refined, artistic type. The earl was big, tough, and did not look as though he had an artistic bone in his body. His eyes were brown, his hair the deep colour of dark honey. The decided chin she had already remarked upon. And his mouth—now that was very expressive.

      His lips quirked as she studied him. ‘And why should your brother do anything so outlandish?’

      ‘Because, although he has altogether too much interest in steam engines and canal boats, his absolute passion is driving. And he knows all about the exploits of the Nonesuch Whips—meals are frequently rendered hideous by his mistaken belief that I must be just as interested. You, my lord, feature frequently. Oh, thank you.’ The maid came in with a large platter of ham and eggs, followed by a pot boy with a teapot in one hand and a tankard in the other and another girl with the bread, butter and preserves.

      ‘So you knew who I was from the moment you saw my card?’

      ‘Of course.’ Bree began to cut bread.

      ‘So you knew I was a perfectly competent driver?’

      ‘A nonpareil, according to Piers.’ She passed him the bread and helped herself from the platter. ‘I am starving.’

      ‘Yet you asked me if I was any good?’ That obviously rankled.

      Bree smiled sweetly. ‘I could not resist. I was somewhat annoyed with you, if you recall.’

      ‘You, Miss Mallory, are a minx and I hope your young man has the measure of you,’ Max said warmly, taking out his feelings on a slice of ham.

      ‘My what?’

      ‘Young man, follower, betrothed.’

      ‘I don’t have one.’ She regarded him, surprised, her forkful of food half-raised.

      ‘Why ever not?’

      ‘Most of the men I meet are employees. And I don’t mix socially with the other coaching company proprietors, because … I don’t know really, I just don’t. When we are at the farm there are our neighbours, but I’ve never met anyone I felt I wanted to be closer to, somehow.’ Her voice trailed away.

      How could she explain that the farmers and the coaching proprietors all regarded her warily because of her titled relatives, and her half-brother and that side of the family thought of her and Piers as an embarrassment hardly to be acknowledged. She fell neatly between two stools, but she had no intention of revealing her family circumstances to the earl. He too would despise what she knew James regarded as her mongrel breeding.

      The vertical line between Max’s dark brows was deeper now. ‘That’s a waste.’

      ‘I am too bossy anyway,’ she said with a laugh, determined that he would not pity her. ‘What about you? Is Lady Penrith wondering what has become of you?’

      ‘I am not—’ He broke off. ‘There is no Lady Penrith at home waiting for me.’

      ‘So is there a young lady expecting to become a countess shortly?’

      ‘No.’ He frowned again and there was a bleakness at the back of those warm brown eyes that spoke of banked emotion. ‘If I were looking for a wife, I would first have to find one who isn’t a ninny.’

      ‘They can’t help it, you know.’ Bree cut some more bread. ‘They are brought up to believe that the slightest show of independence, the merest hint of taking an intelligent interest in anything besides fashions and dancing, housekeeping and babies, will brand them as either bluestockings or fast.’

      ‘How do you know?’ Max was enjoying watching her eating. Her table manners would have graced a banquet, but her appetite was extremely healthy. It occurred to him that Bree Mallory was one of the freest women he knew: she said what she thought, she made up her own mind about things and she did not appear to feel she had to hide things just for the sake of convention.

      ‘I …’ It seemed he was wrong. What had he said? She had coloured up and was looking thoroughly self-conscious. ‘I read fashionable journals, if you must know. And I observe people.’

      ‘Of course,’ Max agreed. There was a mystery about Miss Mallory, and one he was only too well aware he was not going to be able to investigate. Whatever he felt about her—no, because of what he felt about her—the only honourable thing to do would be to drop her at her own front door and never see her again.

      Chapter Four

      ‘That was a good stretch,’ Bree remarked, looking out on the countryside rushing past as the postilions took advantage of the famously fast road between Staines and Hounslow.

      ‘Yes.’ Max nodded agreement. ‘I would reckon we made thirteen miles an hour there. We’ll be at the bridge over the River Crane in a moment.’

      ‘Then the Heath, then Hounslow and we’ll be back where we started,’ she said brightly, trying to keep the conversation going. That sentence was the longest Max had uttered since they left the inn, replete with ham, eggs and cherry preserve.

      ‘Yes.’

      Bree watched him from under her lowered lashes as the chaise slowed and clattered over the bridge. He wasn’t sulking; he did not appear to be sleepy. Perhaps he was simply irritated to have lost so much time over her concerns. She hoped it was not that; she had been enjoying the adventure—even her wrist had stopped aching so much. And, if truth be told, she was enjoying Max’s company.

      The chaise lurched on the well-worn road and the Heath unfolded on either side with its rough grazing, spiny cushions of gorse and occasional copses of trees.

      ‘The gorse is still in flower.’ Max was resting his forearm on the window ledge.

      ‘Love is out of fashion when the gorse is out of bloom.’ Bree quoted the old adage with a smile. ‘I love the scent of it in the summer when the sun’s on it. It smells of—’

      There was a shot, very close, and the chaise juddered to a halt to the sound of shouting outside.

      ‘Hell.’ Max shifted to stare forwards out of the offside window, pushed Bree firmly into a corner and rummaged urgently in the pockets of his greatcoat as it lay on the seat. ‘Highwaymen. Two of them.’ He dragged a pistol from the pocket. ‘Stay there.’ He opened the door and climbed out slowly, the hand holding the pistol slightly behind his back.

      The moment he was out of the door Bree slid along the seat and squinted round the corner of the window frame. There were two of them, each with an ugly-looking horse pistol, one covering the postilions who were out of her sight, the other now training his weapon on Max.

      ‘Not good odds,’ Bree muttered. Her heart was banging somewhere in the region of her throat, but she tried to think calmly. The fact that they probably did not have much of value about them, beyond a few coins in her pocket and Max’s watch, signet and what money he had left after hiring the chaise, was not particularly encouraging. She had heard of highwaymen shooting travellers out