Gad. He felt a drop of sweat roll down his back. He couldn’t take that chance. “Go dance with her, will you? I’ve got to leave.”
“The ballroom?”
“The castle. I’m going to London. Now.”
Ash’s brows flew up. “Are you mad?”
Miss Wharton was coming closer. “No, I’m not mad, I’m desperate. And London’s only an hour or two away.”
“Not on a night like this. It’s cold and dark, and the roads are likely as slippery as the skating pond.”
Ash was probably right, but he’d rather risk travel than Miss Wharton. “If the roads are too slick, I’ll only go as far as the Crowing Cock. Findley always saves that room for us.”
One good thing about Ash—he didn’t argue with a fellow. He just raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked, “Are you going to tell Mama?”
“Ah.” That did not sound like a good idea. “Perhaps you could tell her? Just don’t mention Miss Wharton.”
“So what am I to say? That you suddenly—in the middle of a frigid night when only the desperate or insane would go out—decided to hare off to London?”
“Just say I had urgent business in Town.”
“Mama’s not going to believe that.”
“I know.” Though it was true. There were always women and children in need of his help, but the situation was worse now. A madman the newspapers were calling the Silent Slasher was cutting women’s throats, mostly those of Covent Garden prostitutes. Panic was as thick a stench in London’s narrow, dark alleys as rotting offal. “But then you can shrug and say nothing. She won’t press you.” Mama had never tried to get them to peach on each other.
Ash looked at him a moment more and then shrugged. “Very well.”
“Lord Jack, there you are!” Miss Wharton’s hideous ringlets bounced into view.
Damn. “Ah, Miss Wharton, there
you
are. Were your ears burning? Ash here was just telling me how much he wished to beg a dance from you.”
“He was?” Miss Wharton’s mouth fell open.
“I was?” Ash raised both eyebrows.
Ash was only engaging in a bit of good-natured brotherly teasing, but Jack surreptitiously administered a well-placed elbow nevertheless.
“Oh yes,” Ash said, “so I was. Miss Wharton, will you join me in the next set?”
Ash managed to capture the woman’s hand, place it on his arm, and lead her away before she quite knew what was happening. She craned her neck to look back at Jack, but then she was gone. Ash, the splendid fellow, had chosen a set on the far side of the ballroom.
There was no time to waste. Jack slipped out, careful to avoid Mama’s or Father’s gaze, and ran up to his room. He threw a few things into his valise, grabbed his purse and greatcoat, and ducked down the servants’ stairs.
He stepped outside. The cold took his breath away for a moment. A thick blanket of snow muffled the lawns and gardens, while thousands of stars glittered in the cold, clear sky.
He belonged in London, but he loved the country. London was a constant din of coach wheels and horse hooves on cobblestones, drunken bucks singing and shouting. It was dirty and crowded, but the country . . .
The country’s quiet peace would be shattered by his curses if Miss Wharton caught him.
He strode toward the stables.
About forty minutes later, he was indeed cursing, but it had nothing to do with Miss Wharton. He’d almost slid off the road for the sixth time.
He should have stayed home and taken his chances, barricading the door to his room or even spending the night on Ash’s floor. The fellow snored loud enough to wake the dead, but that would have been better than breaking his—or his horses’—necks on this damn road. There was no chance in hell he’d make it to London tonight.
When he finally pulled into the Crowing Cock, he’d never been so glad to reach an innyard in his life.
Watkins, the ostler, came out to see who was arriving so late. “Lord Jack!” He ducked his head, but not before Jack saw his eyes widen. “I didn’t think to see ye tonight.”
Of course he hadn’t. Everyone for miles around knew tonight was the Valentine birthday ball, the culmination of the Duchess of Love’s yearly matchmaking house party. “I’ve urgent business in London, Watkins, and thought I’d get a start on my journey.”
Watkins blinked but didn’t point out the obvious: he was only a little closer to Town than he’d be if he’d stayed in the warmth and comfort of the castle.
“The place’s right full, milord. Lots o’ folks stopped when the chill came on.”
“I see that.” Even in the cold, the windows were wide open. Light and noise spilled out—the rumble of voices, the clink of mugs. There was little chance he could slip in unnoticed, but perhaps he’d be lucky. All he wanted was to find Findley and go to bed. Dodging Miss Wharton and struggling to keep his horses on the road had worn him out.
He left his cattle in Watkins’s capable hands and crossed the yard, pushing open the door—
“Look who’s here! Come join me, Jack.” Damn, that was Ollie Pettigrew’s booming voice. “Dantley’s gone off to the privy, and I might never see him again.”
Silence descended like a dropped window sash, and the eyes of every man in the room turned to regard Jack.
Bloody hell. So much for avoiding attention.
He strolled over to join Pettigrew, who bore a remarkable resemblance to a large bear, and the hum of conversation resumed. He’d have a quick drink, and
then
he’d find Findley. “What’s the matter with Dantley?”
“Ate something that didn’t agree with him.” Pettigrew pulled out his pocket watch and made a show of consulting it. “Is the ball over already?”
“I left a little early.”
“Oh ho! So did you survive another year with your bachelorhood intact?”
Did the man have to be so loud? His damn voice carried to every corner of the room. “I did.” Jack smiled at Bess, the barmaid, as she handed him a mug of ale. “Why aren’t you there?”
Pettigrew threw up his hands as if to ward him off. “I don’t care to risk my freedom at the Duchess of Love’s Valentine ball.”
Jack could sympathize with that sentiment. “So why are you in the area? I thought you hated the country.”
“Oh, I do. I definitely do. Was just down for the day, visiting a friend who fled London when the damn duns started camping on his doorstep.” Pettigrew snorted. “Idiot thought he’d marry to keep the dibs in tune rather than hang on his father’s sleeve, only the girl got wind of his plans and bolted.” He took a swallow of ale. “Just as well. Never met her, but her brother says she’s a regular shrew.”
Damn, callous blackguard. Anger churned in Jack’s gut and his fist itched to plant itself in Pettigrew’s face, but he forced himself to laugh. He had to maintain his reputation as a careless rake. It kept society from nosing out his real activities. “He was going to take on a leg shackle? Seems like a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
“Not what I would do, of course, but Littleton was feeling desperate, and the aunt just about dropped the girl into his lap. And really, one female’s much like another with the candles snuffed, as you well know.”
“Yes.” He would
so
enjoy drawing Pettigrew’s claret, but he’d have to deny himself that pleasure. Besides it being out of his carefully crafted character, he was far too tired to do a fight justice, not to mention the fact that Findley wouldn’t be happy with the resulting mess.
“Littleton had hoped the girl’s maternal connections would be a source of continuing funds, but I told him he’d catch cold there. They’ve never recognized her.” Pettigrew grinned. “But don’t worry, Felix will land on his feet. His father’s sure to cough up more of the ready to tide him over to his next allowance, especially after all the uproar caused by the girl bolting.”
As if he cared what happened to the worthless sprig of the nobility. The girl, however . . .
“Where did the girl bolt to?” Surely if she was gently bred she had some relatives to help her.
Pettigrew shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Would she go to her brother?”
“God, no! He just got married. Wouldn’t want a shrew in the house with a new wife.”
Bloody hell.
“Then what of her parents?”
“Mother’s dead, father’s in foreign lands more often than not.
He
wouldn’t care if Littleton married her.” Pettigrew leered. “Has only one use for women, don’t you know.”
Jack gripped his mug tighter and forced himself to leer back. The girl might already be raped or sold to a brothel. “When did this happen?” Perhaps there was still time to save her. “What’s the girl’s name?”
Damn. Pettigrew’s eyes had widened in surprise at his obvious interest. “Might want to have a go at her myself,” Jack said quickly, in a practiced, lascivious tone, “especially if she’s a virgin.”
“Got a touch of the pox, do you?”
He forced himself to smile and let Pettigrew think what he would. Damn, he hated having to masquerade as a heartless rake, but the subterfuge allowed him to move through the worst areas of London without the
ton
constantly speculating about his real interests.
Pettigrew was shaking his head. “Sorry, but really must keep my tongue between my teeth. Littleton wouldn’t want it bruited about that he’d caused a spinster to turn tail and run. Doesn’t say much about his amatory skills, does it? And I’m quite sure the girl’s not up to your exacting standards. Littleton said she was too tall and far too skinny. Best let her go.”
Unfortunately, it seemed he would have to, with no concrete information to go on. He felt a twinge of regret, but he’d long ago come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t save every poor girl in trouble.
“Ah, here comes Dantley,” Pettigrew said. “Did you fall in, man?”
Ralph Dantley, thin and storklike, burped. “I’ve got a mind to complain to Findley about his damn dinner.” Dantley nodded at Jack. “Hallo, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the duchess’s ball?”
Jack did not wish to get into that subject again. He threw back the last of his ale and stood. “I left early. If you’ll excuse me, I need to see Findley about a room.”
“No rooms to be had, unless a duke’s son can make one magically appear.” Pettigrew’s voice had acquired a sharp edge. “We’ll save you a chair in case your exalted position doesn’t produce a miracle.”
“Splendid.” He’d rather sleep in the stables; the animals there would be far more congenial than Pettigrew.
Jack found the innkeeper in the taproom, feverishly filling mugs.
“Good evening, Findley.”
“Eh, I’ll be with you in just a min—” Findley turned. “Milord!” He grinned—and then his face fell. “Er, we didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Who is it, Archie?” Mrs. Findley came out of the kitchen. “Oh, Lord Jack!” Her face also lit up and then collapsed. She bit her lip. “Isn’t tonight the duchess’s and your birthday ball? It’s not over already, is it?”
“No, but I need to get back to London.” Damn. Perhaps he
would
be making his bed in the straw. Well, he’d slept in worse places.
Findley snorted. “You won’t be going any farther tonight. The roads are awful. But I suppose you know that.”
“I do.” His arms and shoulders ached with that knowledge. It had been the very devil keeping his horses on the road.
“And you must have missed your supper.” Mrs. Findley shook her head. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
Food had always been Mrs. Findley’s solution to any problem, which is why he and his brothers had liked stopping by the Crowing Cock so much when they were young. “I
am
a bit sharp-set.”
“Of course you are. Now sit down, and I’ll be back in a trice with some mutton and potatoes”—Mrs. Findley’s eyes twinkled—“and some apple pie, too.” She knew how much he liked her apple pie. She disappeared into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry to come so late and unannounced,” Jack said as he sat at the table. “And when you’re so busy as well.”
“Think nothing of it, milord. We are delighted to see you.” The worried look settled back over Findley’s face. “It’s just that—”
“You’ve put someone in the room you save for us. I quite understand. With this crowd, it would be foolish if you hadn’t.” Jack smiled as Mrs. Findley returned with a food-laden tray. “I’ll just sleep down here with the others or out in the stables.”
“You will not!” Findley was almost sputtering. “The lad will sleep with the hoi polloi. I’ll get him up straightaway.”
“No, don’t evict him on my account.” Jack cut into his mutton. Mrs. Findley was an excellent cook. “I don’t need a soft bed. I’m not made of spun sugar, you know.”
“Oh, milord, it’s all my fault Archie let the boy have the room,” Mrs. Findley rushed to say, “but the poor thing looked so tired.” The woman hesitated, and then forged on, wringing her hands. “I’m sure it is not
at all
what you are used to, but . . . but would you mind sharing? The—”
“Madge! Of course Lord Jack won’t share a bed.”
It wasn’t his preferred arrangement, true, but he’d done it countless times in his travels, and it looked as though that was the only way to save the poor lad from being rudely woken and tossed downstairs. “An excellent plan! That will suit admirably.”
Mrs. Findley almost sagged with relief. “Well, he’s thin as a whisper, milord. I can’t imagine he’d take up much room.”
In truth, size didn’t matter as much as sleeping habits. Some of the skinniest men made the worst bed partners, whirling like dervishes or snoring so loud they shook the rafters. He’d once ended up with a black eye after sharing a bed with a wizened little preacher.
Oh damn. Mrs. Findley was looking at him hopefully again. What else was coming?
“The boy seems far too young to be traveling by himself, milord. If you’re off to London anyway, perhaps you could watch out for him until he reaches his brother?”
Wonderful. Not only would he have a bedmate who likely grunted and squirmed and would poke him all night in the back with sharp elbows and knees, but now he was to bear-lead the lad as well.