Trapped at the Altar (27 page)

She was about to slide to the ground unaided but saw his warning look. She dismounted decorously, her hand in his, and shook down the skirts of her red velvet riding habit, conscious with some satisfaction that she was every bit as richly dressed as the inn's other customers.
Up-to-the-minute fashion was perhaps not as important as the luxury of the materials, she reflected. She ignored the curious looks directed at the newcomers, handed her reins to a groom, who had appeared instantly, and placed her hand on Ivor's arm as they went into the inn.

The landlord stood bowing in the square hall. “My lord, my lady, welcome to the King's Head. I trust I may be of service.”

Ivor smiled, guessing that the innkeeper was aware of the carriage, the outriders, the mountains of baggage that had accompanied these potential customers. “I require a bedchamber for Lady Chalfont and myself and a private parlor, accommodation for her maid and for our men. Stabling for the horses, of the best kind, you understand.” This was accompanied with a fierce frown that despite everything brought an involuntary smile to Ari's lips. She turned her attention hastily to a dim oil painting on the wall beside her.

The innkeeper bowed and squeezed his hands together and promised that all would be provided exactly as his lordship required. If his lordship would be pleased to follow him, he would show his lordship and her ladyship the accommodation he had available.

“You may show Lady Chalfont. She will decide whether it will suit our needs. We shall be staying for several weeks,” Ivor declared. “I shall see to the disposition of our baggage.”

Ari followed the innkeeper up the stairs. The place was by no means immaculate, but she hadn't expected it to be. Inns in general didn't pride themselves on cleanliness,
but there was a faint smell of beeswax and a hint of lavender in the air, despite the dust on the stairs. She would set Tilly to work directing the inn's maids to scour their accommodation. Tilly would be in her element.

The landlord, with a flourish, threw open a door into a corner parlor on the second floor. “Best in the house, my lady.”

“Is it, indeed?” Ariadne said with an air of disdain. She looked around, deciding privately that it would do very well once Tilly had had her way with it. There was a fireplace, at present unlit, a table in the bow window with two chairs, which would do well enough for dining, and a pair of chairs by the fire, together with a settle against the wall. The floor was of bare wooden boards, but with a touch of wax, they would shine. A rag rug in front of the fireplace needed beating, but Tilly would see to that.

“And the bedchamber?” she inquired.

The landlord was looking a little hesitant now at his prospective guest's apparent lack of enthusiasm. He opened a door in the far wall into a bedchamber looking out at the back of the inn over the green. It was a pleasant vista, Ari decided, a quiet and almost peaceful oasis in the midst of this hideously noisy city. The four-poster bed, dresser, linen press, armoire, and foot chest were all adequate. They had their own sheets, fortunately, and Tilly would deal with the inevitable livestock in the mattress, if a new mattress could not be procured.

“If my lady would like, there's a truckle bed for your maid.” The landlord indicated the extra mattress beneath the bed.

Tilly would sleep in the parlor, Ari decided, not that it would matter if she slept in here . . . She pushed that thought aside. Now that they had found a resting place, however temporary, it was time to deal with the situation of her marriage . . .
somehow
.

“So, madam, will it do for us, do you think?”

She turned to the door at Ivor's voice. He stood in the doorway to the parlor, tapping his whip lightly against his boot, looking around.

“Yes, I believe it will. Once Tilly has had free rein, of course,” she added, turning to the landlord. “My maid, Mistress Tilly, will take charge of cleaning these rooms. You will put your servants at her disposal, if you please.”

“Of course, your ladyship. Anything your ladyship requires.” The man bowed so low his forehead almost touched his knees, and it was Ivor's turn to look away to hide his quivering lip. Ariadne was playing the haughty noblewoman to perfection. It was almost impossible to imagine the raggle-taggle hoyden of Daunt valley in this present incarnation.

“Supper, then?” Ivor said. “We did not stop on the road to dine, so we are all sharp-set. We shall need a substantial meal. What can you offer us, mine host?”

The man beamed. “A chine of beef, my lord, a barrel of oysters, some new-drawn pullets, and if you've a fancy for a fine carp, then my lady wife has a friend in the fishmonger.”

“Oysters and the chine of beef,” Ari said swiftly. The fish would have been fresh that morning, but it was now almost dark, and Daunt folk were accustomed to only the
freshest-caught fish. They'd also eaten enough chicken, she decided. Chicken and rabbit were the easiest to acquire on their journeying. “And you will please ensure that our men have their fill of both.”

The landlord looked surprised, but if these noble folk were prepared to pay to feed their servants as they fed themselves, then who was he to complain? “Of course, my lady.”

Ariadne smiled at him for the first time. “Then I think we shall deal very well together, Master . . . ?”

“Master Rareton, my lady. Master of the King's Head. I'll order that dinner at once. What of wine, my lord? I've a good claret for the chine and a fine Rhenish for the oysters, if that'll do you.”

“Why don't you show me?” Ivor said easily. “We'll leave Lady Chalfont to organize the domestic arrangements.”

“Yes,” Ari said. “Send up the maids, if you please, Master Rareton.”

The host bowed himself out, and Ivor prepared to follow him. He offered a smile as he met Ari's eyes. “
Will
this do, Ari?”

She felt the lingering warmth behind the smile and with it a little tingle of hope. Maybe Ivor was as tired of this estrangement as she was. Maybe, if she made the first move, the
right
move, they could put things right. “Yes,” she said firmly. “But I need Tilly.”

“I'll send her up straightway.” He followed the landlord down to the cellar to inspect the wine.

Ari pulled back the coverlets on the bed and looked
with disfavor at the grubby sheeting pulled over the straw mattress.

“Lord, you'll be eaten alive on that thing.” Tilly's welcome voice came from behind her.

“What should we do? Use the heavy sheeting again?”

Tilly shook her head vigorously. “If we're to be 'ere for a while, then we'll have to burn this an' stuff it with fresh straw. “Look at 'em.” Even in the dim light of dusk, the bugs were jumping in the straw.

Ari shuddered. “Do what has to be done, Tilly. The landlord's sending up his maids. Tell them what you want. We'll sort out the parlor in the morning.”

She went into the parlor as Tilly directed a small army of maidservants. Ivor came in carrying two bottles. “Rhenish or claret?” He set them on the table and took two pewter goblets out of his coat's deep pockets. A manservant had followed him with an armload of firewood.

“Rhenish,” Ari decided. “Can we light the candles?”

The manservant set a taper to the fire and then lit the candles on the mantel and the table. The room flickered into life. Sounds of merriment rose from the taproom and the ordinary below as the inn began its evening.

Ivor poured the golden wine. He looked at Ari over his glass, a speculative look that made her skin prickle. “So, in the morning we must find milliners,” he said, and she felt a wash of disappointment. She had expected something else, words that went with the look.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed without expression. “How do we do that?”

“Mine host, probably. This is a fashionable inn.” He
drank deeply. “His cellar, at least, is not to be complained about.”

“No,” she agreed dully, sipping from her own goblet. “Is all well, Tilly?” She greeted Tilly's head around the bedchamber door with relief.

“Oh, aye, Miss Ari. They're changing the straw in the mattress now, an' the maids are finishing up with the cleaning and lighting the fire. I'll be going for my dinner now.”

“Yes, of course. You'll be eating with the men?”

“Oh, aye, there's a special table set for us all in the back kitchen,” Tilly announced, clearly pleased with the arrangement. Daunt folk preferred to stay together. “Beef, they're saying.” She grinned, her freckled cheeks shining. “Been a long time since we tasted beef, miss.”

Ariadne was about to agree when Ivor said, “Tilly, you must remember to call Miss Ari Lady Chalfont from now on. Such informality won't do in the city.”

Tilly looked a little crestfallen, as if taken to task for some error. “Oh, beg pardon, sir, I wasn't thinking.”

“No, it's all right, Tilly,” Ari said swiftly. “There are so many new things we have to remember. I have to remember to be helped from my horse, for instance.” Here she cast a somewhat irritated look at Ivor. “Try to remember. But don't worry if you forget. It won't matter.”

Tilly, looking much happier, went off for her dinner, and Ivor said sharply, “Actually, Ariadne, it
will
matter. People will notice such slips, and we cannot afford to draw attention to ourselves just yet.”

“You don't think we already have done?” she exclaimed. “We arrive in this great cavalcade, march around, giving orders left, right, and center, and no one's going to wonder who we are?”

“Of course they will,” he said impatiently. “We are Sir Ivor and Lady Chalfont from Somerset. But they won't know anything else, and we're at present lodged far enough from Whitehall not to draw attention from that quarter. When we're ready for that, then we make a grand entrance. But in the meantime, we practice these new ways. You, me, Tilly. Is that clear, Ari?”

“As day,” she responded. She bent to warm her hands at the fire, only it wasn't her hands that were cold, it was that piece of ice that seemed lodged beneath her breastbone. How could she approach him as she wished when he closed off every avenue? A lifetime in this atmosphere was not to be contemplated.

A
riadne awoke on their first morning at the King's Head to the sounds of the hostelry beginning its day below. A keg rolling over the uneven paving of the hallway, voices shouting orders, a dog barking. It was still barely light, only a gray glimmer through the window that looked onto the peaceful green field of Lincoln's Inn. She knew Ivor was not beside her, even without the tentative hand she stretched across the mattress. But he had been there all night, although he had come to bed after her. She could still feel the residual warmth of his body, although he had not touched her in the hours of darkness.

But that was going to change. If he would do nothing positive to change things, then
she
must.

She had never been able to tolerate just standing by while bad things happened, either to herself or to others. It had been impossible on the journey to take any definitive, independent action, but here it was different.
Infused now with a renewed sense of purpose, a plan of action, Ari pushed aside the covers and stood up, stretching. Ivor must have rekindled the fire before he'd left the chamber, because it glowed brightly in the hearth, and the room was quite warm. Barefoot, she padded to the window, peering out into the early light. Black-clad figures, arms filled with heavy volumes, crossed the green field, moving between the gray stone buildings of the Inns of Court.

Ari turned from the window and went to the door to the parlor. She opened it, expecting to see Ivor taking an early breakfast, but there was only Tilly, just stirring on the truckle bed. The fire had gone out, and the room was dark and cold.

“Good morning, Tilly.”

Tilly sat up, blinking, as she remembered where she was. “Lord, Miss Ari, I slept like the dead,” she declared, pushing aside the blanket and getting to her feet. She scrambled into her discarded gown and thrust her feet into her clogs. “Best sleep I've had in weeks.”

“I know the feeling,” Ari said with a smile. “Sir Ivor lit the fire in the bedchamber before he left, but we need to relight this one. It's freezing in here.” She retreated to the bedchamber for her woolen dressing gown.

Tilly, yawning, bent to throw kindling on the fire. “Where's Sir Ivor gone, then, Miss Ari?”

“I wish I knew.” Ari came back into the parlor, carrying a lighted taper from the bedchamber fire, and lit the candles. The fire came to life, and the room felt instantly more homely. She went to the window, which looked
down on the inn's forecourt, wondering if she would see Ivor. There were folk aplenty abroad already but no sign of her husband's tall, broad-shouldered figure.

She turned swiftly as the door to the corridor opened.