The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

into a cottage near Lady Richardson’s birthplace, he would take his leave and trouble them no more. Common interests had nothing to do with it, and he would do well to remember that.

Charles paid the tolls and decided to stop in Newbury if the lodgings should be of a good standard. When they reached the coaching inn, he thought “good standard” might be a stretch, but Lady Richardson had begun to flag, and pressing on was out of the question. The inn, such as it was, would have to do.

“Allow me, madam.” Charles assisted Lady Richardson. Mrs. Chapman followed, and then he reached up to help Lady Sophia. Her fingers brushed his, and the touch of her skin sent awareness thrumming along his veins. The moment her shoes graced the cobbles, she released his hand. He took a moment to get his bearings.

The coachman jumped down as hostlers emerged from the stables. “The baggage cart is a fair way back. I can bring in the bags atop the carriage, and you can let me know what else the ladies need for the night.” He stretched his back and shook first one leg, then the other. “Stiff as starched iron. Must be weather coming in. Here,” he shouted. “Be easy with that off fore. He’s skittish.” He nodded to Charles and hurried to where the lead horse sidled and jerked his head. “Let me do that. You’d think you’d never seen a horse before.”

Charles turned away and headed into the taproom. The windows and doors were thrown open to catch any breeze that might wander by, and the fireplace was dark. Lady Richardson sat on a bench beside the long table, and a handful of men around a table had stopped playing cards to stare at the women. Or rather, one woman.

Lady Sophia knelt before Lady Richardson, chafing her hands, smiling encouragingly. Mrs. Chapman had her basket over her arm, one hand clenching the opposite wrist, staring balefully at the group around the card table.

An old woman with a dried-apple face stood behind the counter. She was thin as a stick and short enough to walk through a gun port without bumping her head. “You needin’ rooms?” Slap! A wet cloth smacked the counter, sending droplets flying. “I got two. That’s all.”

By his count, they needed three, if he was to have space for himself. One for Lady Sophia and one for Lady Richardson. Perhaps Mrs. Chapman would sleep in one of their rooms. Plus they would need a place for the baggage driver and the coachman.

“There’s bunks in the barn for your driver and the like.”

He grimaced. However, he’d slept rougher in his time, and one night wouldn’t hurt him. “Fine. If you would get some refreshment for the ladies, we’ll take the rooms and meals.” He looked about the taproom. It hardly seemed the place for ladies to dine. There was a bit of the rough element about it.

“Perhaps you would care to dine in one of your rooms?” He didn’t like the hard stares of the cardplayers, and with evening coming on, the taproom was sure to fill up.

“No need,” the crone behind the counter said. “I got a private room for when swells visit. You won’t hafta rub shoulders with the likes of these blaggards.”

“That’s no way to talk about your best customers.” The oldest of the quartet rose with his pewter tankard and made his way to the counter. Amazing that he didn’t collide with the furniture, since he never took his eyes off Lady Sophia. “Gimme another, and mind your tongue, you old harpy.”

The wrinkled woman took the mug and turned the spigot on a keg behind her. With a quick twist, she stopped the flow of ale just before the tankard overflowed. “There, Paul Pipkin. Put that down your gullet. It’s the only way to stop your gob.”

Lady Sophia straightened and sent Charles an imploring look. “We’ll take that private room, if you please.” She lowered her voice. “Mamie is very tired.”

Later that night, Charles surveyed his sleeping quarters with a jaundiced eye. Men lay on the straw like forgotten piles of cargo, snoring and snorting, scratching and shuffling. Most were soaked in ale.

Charles dropped his bag on the floor, and by the light of one weak lantern, withdrew a precisely wrapped canvas parcel. Taking stock of his options, he chose two stout columns and affixed the ropes of his hammock to them, testing that the knots would hold against the queen posts. With his bed sorted, he shrugged out of his coat and yanked at his cravat. He’d find water to wash and shave in the morning. For now, he just wanted sleep.

Stuffing his necktie into his coat pocket, his fingers brushed something smooth and cold. With a jolt he realized he still carried the miniature painting of Lady Sophia. He had intended to return it to her the morning after he’d “borrowed” it, but he’d been interrupted by the arrival of the new baron and baroness to Primrose Cottage. In all that had transpired since, it had slipped his mind.

He withdrew the oval, letting the flickering light play over the likeness. Guilt and pleasure mingled in his chest. She was beautiful of face, but he’d also seen she was beautiful of heart. Her care of Lady Richardson, her acceptance of him as the bearer of bad news, and her kindness to all, no matter their class, were things he admired even more than her beauty.

How to return her possession with as little embarrassment and fuss as possible eluded him. Having once girded himself up for the admission, he now felt more reluctant than ever to expose his sin. Might it be possible to slip the painting into the baggage without ever mentioning that it had been taken?

It might be the coward’s way out, but at this point it also seemed the best way to avoid giving Lady Sophia additional hurt.

C

HAPTER

6

SOPHIE STUDIED CAPTAIN Wyvern—Earl Rothwell—across the small carriage space.

Ever