Page 28 of Anthony


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Carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping hound, she drew back the covers and padded over to the window. As far as she could tell, the stable yard was dark, silent and empty apart from the steadily falling rain. She couldn’t see whether Horatio was still in his stall, but the cart was a vague shape under the porch. George turned away from the window. Mayhap Anthony had decided to sleep downstairs in the bar. She snorted, or more likely he’d keeled over and was sleeping where he fell.

Shaking her head at the stupidity of men, she started to climb back into bed.

But what if the noddy had fallen and hit his head? She paused, one knee on the lumpy mattress.Bloodyhell, the last thing she wanted to do was wander round the inn in her drawers. Muttering under her breath, she felt her way to the only piece of furniture in the room apart from the bed – a rickety chair that was likely older than she was - and grabbing hold of her britches, hurriedly pulled them on and shoved her feet into her boots. The room was nearly pitch-black, but she had no flint to relight the candle. She’d have to make her way down the stairs in complete darkness and hope she didn’t break her bleeding neck.

Standing still to reacquaint herself with the position of the door, George finally made out its rectangular outline. Slowly, arms outstretched, she shuffled towards it, and once her hands connected with the wood, she quickly located the knob.

Taking a deep breath, she eased the door open and peeked out onto the tiny landing. A loud snore behind her suggested that Nelson had no intention of joining her foolhardy escapade, and with one last longing glance back towards the sleeping dog, she stepped out onto the top of the stairs.

There was no banister, and her heart was in her mouth for every step she took. How the devil more guests didn’t end up at the bottom with their toes up their nostrils she had no idea. The stairs were a bloody death trap. But then doubtless there weren’t many guests bacon-brained enough to go wandering around in the middle of the night without a bleeding candle.

It took her nearly ten minutes to finally reach the door to the bar, and by then she was in a high old dudgeon. If Anthony Shackleford wasn’t dead, she’d be sorely tempted to bloody well remedy the situation. Grasping the knob, she gave it a hard shove and promptly fell out into the bar.

Which was empty.

The mullioned windows let in enough light for her to be sure there was nobody seated in any of the chairs or indeed sprawled anywhere on the floor. Biting her lip, she stood indecisively in the doorway. Common sense told her to go back to bed. But where had common sense ever gotten her?

There was one more place to look. And while she didn’t exactly relish getting wet through for the second time in twenty-four hours, she knew she’d never be able to sleep without knowing the idiot man was safe. Chances were he was in the stable with Horatio. But she couldn’t be sure he hadn’t stumbled out to relieve himself and never made it back inside.

Sighing, George pulled open the door leading out towards the kitchen and yard. There were no windows in the small square hall but plenty of obstacles, and she muttered several expletives as she nearly went arsey varsey over a pair of boots, then broke a fingernail trying to undo the bolt on the outside door. Finally, however, she managed to pull the door open and step outside.

Still under the eaves, she waited for a second to get her bearings. The rain was steady now, falling straight down like God was pouring water from a jug in the sky. She scanned the yard but could see no sign of a prone body. Clearly, the numbskull had decided to bed down with Horatio. George breathed a sigh of relief. She could go back to bed now.

Backing up towards the door, she suddenly paused. What if he’d been kicked in the head by the horse? ‘Bleedin' ‘ell, George,’ she muttered to herself in frustration, ‘it’s your ‘ead wot needs seein’ to.’ She stared across the yard where she could just make out the stable door. She had two choices – run for it, or make her way around the side, trying to keep under cover as much as possible. After hesitating for a few seconds, she opted to try and keep dry and began to make her way carefully along the line of the eaves, grumbling, ‘I must be dicked in the bloody nob.’

It took her nearly five minutes to weave around barrels and wooden boxes, not to mention the cart, but she was still relatively dry when she got to the stable door. After a brief, nervous pause, she slowly lifted the latch and pushed the door inwards…

…Only to be faced by a giant shadow wielding what looked like a bloody great pitchfork. ‘One more step, and I’ll turn you into a stuck pig,’ the shadow warned. With a squeak George stepped backwards, only to stumble on the cobbles. Seconds later she was sitting on her arse in the pouring rain.

∞∞∞

‘The girl’s disappearance has become more than an inconvenience. His lordship remains disturbingly robust, despite his advancing years. If the girl should surface while the bastard still has all his wits, everything I’ve worked for will be for nought.’ Simon Linfield poured himself a large brandy and emptied it in one swallow.

‘Does she resemble Miss Huxley so very much?’

Linfield gritted his teeth, reminding himself that he needed patience. The Earl of Ruteledge’s lineage was complicated, even to those who were familiar with its history. Sighing he poured himself a second brandy and sat back at his desk before answering.

‘A damned mirror image. There would be no doubt in the Earl’s mind that they’re twins.’

‘But why the devil would he care anyway? He shows no affection towards the granddaughter who lives under his roof. I don’t think the chit has left the house in the whole of her life.’

‘As long as he believes her his daughter-in-law’s bastard, she’s never likely to.’

‘So why would the other twin turning up convince the Earl otherwise?’

Simon Linfield sat forward in his chair, steepling his fingers on the desk. ‘The first born of each generation of theLinfield family, is always a twin. It’s been that way since the family came over from Normandy with the bastard Duke. Additionally,Oneof the siblings – and not necessarily the elder -alwayspossesses a distinctive birthmark somewhere on their body.’

‘Do you have a twin?’ Linfield shook his head.

‘It affects the direct line only.’

‘And Georgiana Huxley has this … birthmark?’

Linfield nodded. ‘If she comes to my cousin’s attention and he discovers the mark, he’ll know the girls were Roland’s get. And if that should happen, no longer being his heir will be the least of my worries.’ He shrugged and swallowed the rest of his brandy before adding, ‘Or putting it another way, being the Earl’s second cousin will be no guarantee that my head will remain on my shoulders.’

‘Well since the twins were born under your roof, why didn’t you just have one of ‘em smothered at birth?’

‘Oh, believe me I wanted to, but my dearest wife wouldn’t hear of it.’ He shook his head. ‘Suddenly developed some bloody morals would you believe. After we shipped the child without the birthmark to Edward, she actually wanted to keep the other one with her. Said Julia Huxley had once been her best friend and she had a duty to her child. She swore Edward would never set eyes on her.’ He swallowed his brandy and slammed the glass back on the desk. ‘I humoured her for two bloody years, but I could see she was getting attached to the brat.