How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (11 page)

“A good deal less than the Waverlys suffer, I imagine,” Giles said tightly.

He could feel her gaze on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“His grandfather lost his only grandson, and Waverly’s sister
lost her only brother. Gabe knew what he was getting into when he ran that course. He should never have agreed.”

“He was nineteen, for goodness sake! Did you do nothing foolish at nineteen?”

Thinking of the night when he’d unwittingly ruined his brother’s prospective betrothal, Giles winced. “Gabe isn’t nineteen now,” he persisted.

“Yes, but he sees this as a matter of family honor. Chetwin insulted Mama.”

Giles hadn’t known that. He hadn’t witnessed the incident that provoked Chetwin’s initial challenge a few months ago—he’d been off in Bath, checking on something for Ravenswood. “Bloody hell.”

“My sentiments exactly,” she said.

Giles took a turn faster than he liked, throwing her against him. “Did you hear exactly how Gabe broke his arm?”

“Oliver said that the back of his rig hit one of the boulders as he came through ahead of Chetwin, and it sent his rig into a roll that tore it to pieces and threw Gabe from the carriage.”

“That’s right. And he could easily have broken his neck instead of his arm. I don’t know if you can bear to watch—”

“I’m not going to watch. I’m going to stop him.” Her voice thickened. “I refuse to see him die the same horrible death as Mr. Waverly.”

“What time is the race scheduled for?” he asked.

“Ten o’clock.”

“Check my watch. It’s in my left coat pocket.”

She did as he bade and let out a groan. “It’s nearly ten already.”

“We won’t make it.”

She dropped his watch back into his coat. “But I can see Turnham just ahead, and judging from the crowd, the course is on this side of town.”

“Yes, but look at how many people are lining the course. We can’t get through.”

The sound of a pistol shot rang in the air, and they both knew what that meant.

“Oh, Giles!” she cried, grabbing his arm. “We’re too late!”

“He’ll be fine.” He maneuvered his curricle off the road to skirt the crowd, trying to get closer to the makeshift track. “Your brother has a knack for escaping death.”

That didn’t seem to reassure her. She clung to his arm as he’d never seen her do with any other man.

Reining in, he leaped from the curricle and reached up to help her down. Then he left the curricle to his tiger and headed through the crowd with Minerva at his side. It took them several minutes to push their way through. They reached the front just in time to see Gabe enter the boulders just ahead of Chetwin.

“Good Lord . . .” She breathed, gripping his arm, her face pale.

An odd protectiveness surged through him. He covered her hand with his and squeezed. How he wished he could spare her this.

How he wished Gabriel Sharpe had less family honor and more good sense.

They held their breaths until Gabe shot free of the boulders.

“Thank the good Lord,” Minerva whispered, her fingers a manacle about his arm.

Then they caught their breaths again until Chetwin had passed between the boulders safely, too. Once he was out he tried to make up the time, but Gabe had the clear lead to the finish line. The crowd surged toward the two posts marked with red ribbons.

“Lord Gabriel is winning!” cried a voice near them, and others took up the cry.

“He always wins, damn his eyes,” grumbled a man with his back to them. “They all do.”

When the man turned and headed down the road to Turnham, Giles got a good look at his profile and gave a start.

“Minerva,” he said in a low voice. “What the hell is your mother’s cousin doing here?”

Minerva missed Giles’s remark in the cheers that followed as Gabe shot over the finish line. Relieved that he’d survived the race intact, she turned to Giles with a smile on her face. “What did you say?”

“Desmond Plumtree is here. Does he usually watch Gabe’s races?”

She followed Giles’s gaze to where a man in his fifties strolled down the road to Turnham. It was her cousin, all right. She’d recognize his discolored beaver hat with its narrow brim anywhere. Beside him was his twenty-six-year-old son, Ned.

“I can’t imagine why Desmond would come for this,” she said. “He’s always been too priggish to approve of our ‘outrageous ways,’ as he calls them. And they live in Rochester where their mill is, half a day’s journey away at least. What business could he and Ned possibly have here?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Giles said tersely. “It’s not the first time he’s been in Turnham.”

A chill went through her. “Oh, Lord, you’re right.”

His gaze shot to her. “You know?”

“About Jarret’s suspicions concerning Desmond and his possible involvement in our parents’ deaths? Of course I know. Nothing is ever a secret in our house.”

He eyed her askance. “Jarret wouldn’t have told you.”

“Well, no.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “But I overheard him discussing it with Oliver. Jarret said Desmond stayed in Turnham on the day of our parents’ deaths, and the groom who cared for his horse claimed that Desmond had blood on his stirrup when he returned to the inn from wherever he’d been.”

Taking her arm, Giles started back toward his curricle.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m leaving you with my tiger while I follow the Plumtrees and find out why they’re here. It’s odd that Desmond should be in Turnham again, for no apparent reason. It might shed light on why he was here the night of your parents’ deaths.”

She snatched her arm from his hand. “If
you
follow him, so will I.” She set off toward the road, along with those leaving the race, and headed toward Turnham. “It’s my
family
we’re talking about, you know.”

Shooting her an exasperated look, he fell into step beside her. “Didn’t you say you wanted to be seen by your brothers at the race?”

“This is far more important.” It
was
odd that Desmond had come here. What did it mean? “And two of us have a better chance of uncovering the truth.”

“All right. But follow my lead. We don’t want him to see us. It could be dangerous if he realizes that we suspect him.”

“Now you really
do
sound like a spy,” she teased.

“Only because you think of everyone in terms of how they might fit into your fictional landscape,” he countered with a thin smile.

“Fictional landscape.” She chuckled. “I like that. I’ll have to use it in a book. I may even give the line to Rockton.”

“You’re not going to write about Rockton anymore, remember?” His gaze sharpened at a point ahead of them. “They’re entering the Black Bull.”

“That’s where Desmond stayed when he came to Turnham nineteen years ago.” She kept her voice low because of the men around them who were also surging toward the Black Bull.

“I wouldn’t make too much of that; it’s the only inn in Turnham. And they might just be availing themselves of the taproom, as these other gentlemen plan to do, I suspect.”

“There’s an easy way to find out if they’re guests,” she said. “We could see if Desmond’s rig is in the stables.”

“Good thinking, my dear,” he said, taking a sudden turn toward the stables. “No wonder you plot your books so cleverly.”

The compliment warmed her more than all his earlier remarks about her “fetching figure” and “creamy skin.”

He led them past the stables at a quick walk. “Would you recognize his rig if you saw it?”

“Certainly. His favorite equipage is a gig that’s painted the most god-awful blue.” She glanced casually into the stables. “It’s there, Giles. He’s staying in the inn. Why?”

They kept walking. “I don’t know, but clearly he didn’t just pop over here to watch Gabe race.” He stopped at the other end of the stables to stare back at the inn. “If we could at least learn . . .” He groaned. “Uh-oh. He’s coming back out.”

Swiftly, he tugged her around the side of the stables. As they watched furtively, Desmond and Ned strode across the inn yard. After Desmond spoke to the ostler, they climbed into the gig and drove off toward Ealing.

Giles’s gaze narrowed and he turned to Minerva. “I have an idea for how we can find out what he’s doing here. Come on.”

Taking her arm, he headed to the inn. As they walked, he removed his gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket, then
fished a ring out of his other coat pocket and put it on his left ring finger. “Play along, Minerva.”

When he covered her hand with his, she glanced down at the ring, then started. It was a signet ring of the kind titled gentlemen wore.

Before she could ask where he’d acquired it, he walked inside bold as brass and headed straight for the innkeeper, who was busily directing servants to accommodate the sudden crowd of thirsty gentlemen.

“Ah, my good man,” he called to the innkeeper, “do you by any chance have rooms available? Or has this crowd rented them all?”

The innkeeper took their measure in one quick glance, then smiled broadly. “No, sir. They’ve only come to drink after the race. They’ll be gone by evening. Did you need a room for the night?”

“Several nights, actually.” When Minerva started, Giles squeezed her hand, as if to caution her. Then he added with the perfect amount of condescension, “I am Lord Manderley of Durham, and this is my wife.”

The innkeeper’s eyes lit up. Clearly he had no trouble believing Giles, and who wouldn’t? As always, Giles was dressed as well as any titled lord—his coat and trousers of dark brown superfine were exquisitely tailored to show off his broad shoulders and muscular calves, his waistcoat was of the finest figured silk, and his Wellington boots were perfectly polished.

And he had the haughty manner down pat. “Your inn seems to be adequate for our purposes,” he went on. “We are in the area looking at properties to purchase. We plan to spend the week at least, but we do have one question before we decide if your establishment will suit us.”

“Ask anything you wish, my lord,” the innkeeper said with great enthusiasm.

Minerva could practically see him calculating the amount of money to be made from a rich lord who would require a week’s worth of lodgings and expensive meals, not to mention stabling for a team of horses.

“As we were approaching the inn,” Giles said, “we saw a gentleman we thought we knew. A Mr. Desmond Plumtree?”

“Yes, my lord. Mr. Plumtree is indeed staying here with his son.”

Giles turned to her with a frown. “I told you it was him, my dear. I cannot tolerate the sight of that man day after day, knowing what he did to my poor brother.”

Catching on to his game, Minerva said soothingly, “Oh, I’m sure it will be fine, darling.” She smiled at the innkeeper. “He’s not staying long, is he?”

“Oh no, my lady, just one more night,” the innkeeper said hastily. “And he’s not even here at the moment. He’s gone off on his wanderings.”

“Wanderings!” Giles cried. “So he’s in the neighborhood a great deal, is he?”

“No, my lord, certainly not! He hasn’t been here in nigh on twenty years . . . until a few months ago.”

“But he’ll be here tonight.” With a heavy sigh, Giles glanced at her. “We should find another inn closer to Ealing. Honestly, sweetiekins, there are more properties in that vicinity to suit our needs than in this one.”

Sweetiekins?
She stifled her smile. “But I’m so tired. Can’t we just stay here?”

“I don’t know. If we should happen to come across Mr. Plumtree, I’m not sure I can contain myself.”

“My lord,” the innkeeper interjected, “I swear that your
paths won’t cross. I’ll make sure that you’re put in an entirely different part of the inn.”

“I suppose he has taken the best room in the house already,” Giles complained.

“Oh no, my lord. The best room is in the back, and his is in the front, overlooking the inn yard. So you see, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Come, my dove, I’m sure we can avoid him for just the one night,” Minerva wheedled.

Giles gave the innkeeper a pouting look. “If you can assure us . . .”

“I swear you won’t have to endure Mr. Plumtree’s presence for one moment. I’ll show you the room. I’m sure it will please you.”

The innkeeper hurried up the stairs, his other guests forgotten.

As Minerva and Giles followed, she whispered, “This had better not be a ploy to get me alone.”

“Now, sweetiekins, would I do that?” he teased.

“I wouldn’t put it past you, my dove.”

As they approached the room, Giles said, “And where exactly did you say his room was?”

“I’ll show you, my lord.” The innkeeper brought them to the end of the hall and pointed down another. “It’s that last room on the left. He won’t come back till late, and I’m sure you will have retired by then.”

Giles sighed. “Very well, since my dear wife is so set upon it, we’ll take it.” He dropped some gold into the innkeeper’s hand.

The man’s eyes widened. “Yes, my lord, certainly.” He led them back to their room and opened it. “Shall I have someone fetch your bags?”

“My man is coming behind with them in another rig. Do let me know when he arrives, will you?”

“Of course.” He handed the key to Giles. “If you need anything else . . .”

“We’ll be fine for now. My dear lady wants to rest.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

As soon as the man was gone, Minerva said, “You lie just a jot too convincingly for my taste, sir.”

“I could say the same about you, sweetiekins.” He grinned.

“Call me that again and you’ll find yourself missing an essential part of your anatomy.”

“What a spoilsport you are.” He went out into the hall and looked both ways. No one was around. “Come on,” he said and headed for Desmond’s room.

She followed him, curious to see what he was up to.

Giles reached the door and tried it. It was locked. “Give me one of your hairpins.”

She removed one and handed it to him. “What are you planning to do?”

He went to work on the lock. “Take a look at his room, what else?”

“Giles Masters, how on earth did you learn—”

“I work with criminals, remember? They’ve taught me a trick or two. Comes in useful when I stumble home drunk to find I’ve misplaced my key.”