Page 35 of Unmasking the Earl

“How irksome! Is he handsome? Dark or fair?”

She smiled. “He’s striking-looking, in a very masculine way, with dark hair, deep brown eyes, and long lashes.”

Portia gave her a penetrating look. “He sounds splendid. I’m half in love with him already.”

Cassie snorted. “Don’t be. He’s irascible, interfering, temperamental, and thoroughly annoying. But the point of the matter is, have you seen him?”

Portia smiled. “Sadly, no.”

Outside, the strident sound of the coachman’s horn called the remaining travelers to heel.

Portia glanced up and asked, “Would he have come by coach or carriage? I usually look out when they go by, but as the road’s on the opposite side of the green, I can’t always make much out. If he came on horseback, I might not have noticed him. But if he’s here, he’ll be staying at the Rose and Crown. Unless he’s a very important personage, in which case he’d probably stay with one of the local aristocracy.”

Portia was obviously digging for information. To deflect her, and to spare her own blushes, Cassie asked, “Have any new tenants arrived in the village of late?”

“How recently?”

“Within the last six months. It would be a young lady.”

“Am I allowed to learn her name?” Portia asked hopefully.

Cassie grinned. “Better not. You’re far too good at working out puzzles.”

Portia sighed. “This is the most infuriating thing you’ve ever done to me, Cassandra Blythe!” She made a face. “And I know for certain you didn’t come to see me. You’re just using me for a place to stay while you pursue your adventure.”

Cassie reached for her friend’s hand, aghast. “No! That is only a small part of my reason, believe me. I so miss having someone to confide in. My cousin, Becca, is completely wrapped up in her books and her studies, and I certainly can’t talk to Papa about…well, anything but the weather. I promise as soon as I have permission I will tell you as much as I know. And if there is any adventure to be had, you will be included in it.”

This seemed to mollify her friend a little, for she smiled and then pondered for a moment. “Well, there is an old lady who’s taken a cottage on the Kenville road. It’s right on the edge of the village. She doesn’t come into Aston at all, but a well-dressed manservant appears sporadically and runs errands for her.”

Discouraged, Cassie said, “No, this wouldn’t be an old lady.”

Ned would be so disappointed. But at least Wycherley’s skin would remain whole for a while longer.

She put her cup down and gave a genteel stretch. Her friend immediately said, “You must be stiff from your journey. How about a stroll around the village? We can inquire after the people you’re looking for.”

That sounded a splendid idea. Although the prospect of meeting Ned again so soon did something strange to her insides.

And definitely, she told herself firmly, there’d be no kissing involved.

Chapter Seventeen

Ned sat in simmering fury on a grubby, straw-filled mattress atop a narrow wooden shelf. Something had crawled out of the bedding and bitten him several times before he’d found and crushed it. Now his head was itching, as well as his legs, arms, and torso, but it was exceedingly difficult to scratch where he needed to, due to the manacles fastening his right arm and ankle to the wall.

His jaw clenched as he stared out at a small square of blue sky—broken up by bars—which was all he could see of the outside world. Without the chains, he’d have been able to look out, see how his surroundings appeared in daylight. Not that it mattered. The damned village could go hang, and all the people in it, too, for all he cared. For a person of his status to be so manhandled, to be cast into this wretched jail cell for a full twenty-four hours with no hope of release, was the outside of enough.

When he finally got out, he would string that obnoxious constable from the church tower by his bootlaces. He would knock together the heads of the men who’d thrown him into this cell until they forgot their own names, and he would send in a crew of stonemasons to pull apart this ghastly little lock-up, stone by stone, then break the stones and use them to fill in potholes. That would show the world exactly what he thought of Aston bloody Tankerville, its residents, and the damned Blind House on the green!

The parish constable, a well-fed oaf with a multitude of keys jangling about his person, had brought Ned a stale loaf and some ale an hour ago. The man had stood just out of reach and rung a righteous peal over him for not being able to control his temper and for causing damage to other people’s property.

Him? Not control his temper? Of course he damn well could! Wasn’t Francis Wycherley’s continued existence in unaltered form proof of his self-restraint? Besides, Ned could easily pay for the blasted damaged door hinge.

In retrospect, it had been a mistake not to change out of his servants’ garb before making the journey. The half-baked villagers, seeing him upon a superior horse, immediately suspected he must have stolen it from his master. Now his faithful, exhausted steed was in a stall at the back of the inn, being watched over by a boy who didn’t know his fetlock from his forehead. If any harm came to Maxim, Ned would not be responsible for his actions.

Damn the innkeeper, asking to see the color of his coin before offering him the hospitality of the Rose and Crown. That, along with all the hostile faces, when he was already feeling fractious after his grueling ride, had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Taking up the gritty loaf in his left hand, he took a desultory bite and sat back on the cold, hard plank of a bed, staring up through the bars at the taunting patch of blue.

Beyond the curved walls and dome of his jail, village life continued. He had heard a coach arrive, empty, fill, and leave again. There’d been the heavy hooves of horses pulling wagons, the screeching of jackdaws, and the clack, clack, clack of pigeon wings. Now he could hear soft feminine voices, growing louder as they approached.