To his regret, today he still lusted from afar.
He downed a deep draft of ale and glanced at Mary. “What about pretty little Miss Demarest? Is she better today?”
“Must be, my lord.” Jean, another maid, piped up from where she kneaded the bread. “Up and left first thing without stopping for so much as a crust for breakfast. Didn’t half cause a flurry below stairs. But that companion of hers, that nice Miss Smith, she wouldn’t delay even an hour to say good-bye to Lady Humphrey. Not that Lady Humphrey will mind having more of her visitors gone. It’s been a rum sort of house party, it has.”
A bristling silence descended. Ranelaw realized he stared at Jean in furious shock. He forced himself to pick up the ale and drink, although he tasted nothing.
The birds had flown. . .
When he put down the tankard, he struggled to keep his voice even. “I thought the chit was at death’s door.”
“She’s been improving, although I must say the poor mite looked peaky when they bundled her into the carriage. Nigel carried her down the staircase. She couldn’t walk on her own.”
“Aye, and a sweet armful she was too, beggin’ your pardon, my lord,” Nigel remarked from the corner where he polished a silver food cover.
“She’s a diamond.” Ranelaw raised his tankard in a toast to Miss Demarest. And to Miss Smith, who escaped him.
Damn her.
“I suppose they’re bound for London?” he asked with forced idleness. To his own ears, his comments sounded too interested to be casual. None of the servants seemed to notice.
“Not sure, my lord.” Nigel critically regarded his reflection in the silver. “I imagine so. Or perhaps they’re taking the lady home to the country.”
Double damn.
If they’d slunk back to Bascombe Hailey, his plans—for both women—must wait. Perhaps until next year.
He should be fuming that Cassie escaped. All he saw through a fog of blistering temper was Antonia staring up at him, her eyes pools of shining mystery as he pounded into her.
She had no right to run. She knew they weren’t finished. The lying—
Then with a jolt of grim awareness, he recalled she hadn’t agreed to meet him.
He’d been so certain of her. Yet again arrogance led him wrong. He bit back burgeoning rage. “It’s time I left too.”
More than time. Morecombe still wasn’t himself but he’d resumed his duties yesterday. His valet could travel with the luggage while Ranelaw rode to make extra speed. First he’d try London, then worry about Somerset.
Burning to overtake the women, he left the kitchen and mounted the steps to his room two at a time. His heart raced with the thrill of the chase.
If Antonia thought her dawn departure left him flat, she had an unpleasant surprise ahead.
Chapter Fourteen
With a curse, Ranelaw dismounted outside the prosperous inn. The summery weather had deteriorated into a cold, blustery night more like February than May. He had a sudden sour recollection of his thwarted plans to take Antonia swimming.
Grimly he passed the reins to the shivering groom and strode into the taproom, rubbing his gloved hands together to restore circulation. Only sheer stubbornness kept him on the road. Common sense insisted he rest, shelter from the storm. Especially as he could be on the wildest of wild goose chases. He had no idea if Antonia made for London. Even if she did, he couldn’t confront her in the middle of the night. He knew she’d take measures to stop him climbing into her room again.
These days common sense was woefully absent.
As it was, he’d put off stopping as long as he could. But he was cold and hungry and his horse was exhausted. The beast needed a little warmth and a feed before Ranelaw pushed him the last fifteen miles to London.
The inn wasn’t crowded. It was late and the night banished the locals to their own hea
rths. Only desperate lunatics like Ranelaw traveled in such weather.
Dropping onto a bench near the fire, he ordered sirloin with potatoes and a tankard of ale. He was grateful none of the scattered patrons paid him a moment’s attention. When the plump tavern maid sent him a meaningful glance, he ignored her.
He had enough woman trouble.