She had been an amusing, decorative mistress; now, she was beginning to bore him. That the lady wished to sink her claws in deeper and be the Marchioness of Stefton and the next Duchess of Vauden was obvious. Bets were laid at White’s as to the odds of her success.
Stefton knew he must one day marry; however, the idea of Panthea Welville in his mother’s position was highly distasteful. When she heard he was to leave town for a fortnight, what must she do but pay an unwarranted and highly irregular visit to his home.
Panthea clung to him, begging him to stay in London with her or take her with him wherever he was going. She even manufactured a fine sheen of tears in her eyes and set her lower lip trembling as she spoke with heartfelt accents. She shouldhave taken to the boards. Not for once did she deceive him, for she had forgotten how on one occasion she’d affected such a pose for their joint amusement. Her manner nauseated him and caused him to leave the metropolis later than he cared to. In his black humor, he had pushed his horses to their limit to make up for lost time until one of the horses threw a shoe a half-day’s journey from his ancestral home, and he was forced to put up for the night and present himself at his parents' home on the morrow.
Fortunately, despite all her protestations and ardent coaxing, Stefton had not told Lady Welville where he was going. It would have been like her to appear on their doorstep unasked, and that was one circumstance he wished to avoid.
Stefton shook himself out of his reverie, once again drained his glass and reached for the bottle.
Perhaps, he mused, it was best the nag threw a shoe. It gave him time to vent his anger and present the loving son to his parents, unmarred by other matters.
So deep was he in his thoughts, he scarcely noticed the carriage as it drove into the courtyard and might not have given it more than a cursory glance had it not been for the magnificent team of horses pulling the equipage. Perhaps new guests were the diversion needed to lift his spirits. He stood, sipping his wine thoughtfully as he closely studied the carriage, the long-tailed black horse led by the groom riding behind, and the coach’s occupants.
Catherine was exhausted,her head throbbing, as the carriage drew up before the inn. Only a day’s journey left! At that moment, however, she wanted nothing so much as a littlerefreshment and a chance to rest on something that did not sway and jolt. She entered the inn dazed, with Maureen Dawes and Bethie Callahan close behind, leaving Dawes and Tom Coachman to look after the horses. Her impression of the hostelry was one of cozy warmth and cleanliness. As tired as she was, she failed to notice the three inebriated gentlemen lounging just inside the taproom as the slightly rotund innkeeper huffed and puffed his way toward her.
She summoned a smile for that worthy as he stopped before her, wringing his hands on the large cotton apron that served to protect his buckskin breeches. His round face was flushed and his bald pate glistened. Had she been less tired, Catherine would have been amused by his mannerisms and dubbed him a scuttling beetle of a fellow.
“Good evening. I believe you have rooms bespoken for us by Sir Eugene Burke,” she said softly.
The innkeeper bowed, but before he could answer, a slurred voice came from the direction of the taproom.
“Too old for a daughter and don’t look like a wife, no rings. Hey,” the voice said more loudly after jabbing one of his compatriots in the side and winking broadly. “What are you, his bit of muslin?”
The two other gentlemen laughed uproariously. Stunned, Catherine glanced briefly in their direction but otherwise did not acknowledge that she had heard the comment. She noted the three gentlemen sprawled around the table were fashionably dressed, though a trifle castaway in countenance and appearance. Her tormentor seemed much the eldest of the group, at least five-and-thirty. His companions appeared in their twenties, the youngest a pretty fair-haired youth Catherine deemed only slightly removed from the grubby schoolboy state.
Encouraged by such ready laughter and another quaff of ale, the heckler hailed the innkeeper. “I thought this was arespectable inn. What’s this becoming, a bawdy house?” Again he collapsed into laughter as he swilled his ale.
Catherine frowned and her eyes narrowed as she continued to face the innkeeper. That gentleman was flustered. True, he did have rooms bespoken by Sir Eugene Burke, yet he hesitated; his was a prominent establishment. It would not do to let it be thought it was also an abode for common tramps. He looked from the gentlemen to the drab female standing before him. It didn’t seem in keeping with her calling to be dressed so severely. A disguise? He blinked rapidly and rubbed his hands down his aproned front.
Catherine caught the hesitation in his manner. Her color rose, her eyes glinting dangerously. “I am his niece,” she said through clenched teeth.
That brought another wave of laughter from the gentlemen sprawled across the oak table in the taproom. “Niece! His horses look better than you do!”
Catherine whirled to face the source of the needling drunken voice and curled her lip contemptuously.
He raised his mug in mock salute.
Maureen and Bethie began to exclaim loudly; however, Catherine hushed them and turned to the innkeeper once again.
“I am Catherine Shreveton, Sir Eugene Burke’s niece, and I am on my way to London to visit my aunt, the Countess of Seaverness,” she said levelly.
At that, the youngest of the three tormentors gave a crow of laughter and slapped his knee. “Stab me if you ain’t got the right of it, Kirkson, and that just proves it,” he said, hiccoughing. “Everyone knows all Shrevetons are blond like me. I ought to know my own kin, and you don’t look like any to me.” He blinked at her owlishly.
The innkeeper began to wring his hands. Sir Eugene was a valued customer. Nevertheless... “Now see here, miss,” he began.
He got no farther. Kirkson, rising from his chair by the door, came up behind Catherine and grabbed her around the waist.
Panic clutched at Catherine. She beat him wildly about the head with her reticule, twisting and turning to break free from his grasp.
Maureen screamed in outrage and pummeled his back. Bethie attacked his shins with her heavy country shoes and clawed at his face, calling him every sort of beast and screeching at him to let her mistress go. The innkeeper wrung his hands, then wiped them against his apron again as he feebly protested.
Ignoring the innkeeper, Kirkson swore viciously, relinquishing his grasp of Catherine as he turned to fight off her protectors. Dodging another kick, he pushed Bethie toward the gentleman claiming Shreveton kinship.
“Orrick, take this tidbit and keep her out of my way!”
With Bethie gone, he swung around to face Maureen, his elbow connecting with her right eye. Maureen howled in pain, momentarily blinded by tears of pain. Kirkson shoved her roughly away. Maureen staggered backward and fell awkwardly into a corner of the hall. He turned back to Catherine, who raised her arm to hit him again. He caught her wrist, cruelly twisting it, and wrested her reticule away.
“Here, George, catch!” He tossed the purse to the third gentleman, who still sat at the table, clutching his sides in laughter.
