CHAPTER I
By the time she went to bed, Lady Freyja Bedwyn was in
about as bad a mood as it was possible to be in. She
dismissed her maid though a truckle bed had been set up
in
her room and the girl had been preparing to sleep on it.
But Alice snored, and Freyja had no wish to sleep with a
pillow wrapped about her head and pressed to both ears
merely so that the proprieties might be observed.
"But his grace gave specific instructions, my lady," the
girl reminded her timidly.
"In whose service are you employed?" Freyja asked, her
tone quelling. "The Duke of Bewcastle's or mine?"
Alice looked at her anxiously as if she suspected that it
was a trick question--as well she might. Although she was
Freyja's maid, it was the Duke of Bewcastle, Freyja's
eldest brother, who paid her salary. And he had given her
instructions that she was not to move from her lady's
side
night or day during the journey from Grandmaison Park in
Leicestershire to Lady Holt-Barron's lodgings on the
Circus in Bath. He did not like his sisters traveling
alone.
"Yours, my lady," Alice said.
"Then leave." Freyja pointed at the door.
Alice looked at it dubiously. "There is no lock on it, my
lady," she said.
"And if there are intruders during the night, you are
going to protect me from harm?" Freyja asked
scornfully. "It would more likely be the other way
around."
Alice looked pained, but she had no choice but to leave.
And so Freyja was left in sole possession of a second-
rate
room in a second-rate inn with no servant in attendance--
and no lock on the door. And in possession too of a
thoroughly badtemper.
Bath was not a destination to inspire excited
anticipation
in her bosom. It was a fine spa and had once attracted
the
creme de la creme of English society. But no longer. It
was now the genteel gathering place of the elderly and
infirm and those with no better place to go--like her.
She
had accepted an invitation to spend a month or two with
Lady Holt-Barron and her daughter Charlotte. Charlotte
was
a friend of Freyja's though by no means a bosom bow.
Under
ordinary circumstances Freyja would have politely
declined
the invitation.
These were not ordinary circumstances.
She had just been in Leicestershire, visiting her ailing
grandmother at Grandmaison Park and attending the wedding
there of her brother Rannulf to Judith Law. She was to
have returned home to Lindsey Hall in Hampshire with
Wulfric--the duke--and Alleyne and Morgan, her younger
brother and sister. But the prospect of being there at
this particular time had proved quite intolerable to her
and so she had seized upon the only excuse that had
presented itself not to return home quite yet.
It was shameful indeed to be afraid to return to one's
own
home. Freyja bared her teeth as she climbed into bed and
blew out the candle. No, not afraid. She feared nothing
and no one. She just disdained to be there when it
happened, that was all.
Last year Wulfric and the Earl of Redfield, their
neighbor
at Alvesley Park, had arranged a match between Lady
Freyja
Bedwyn and Kit Butler, Viscount Ravensberg, the earl's
son. The two of them had known each other all their lives
and had fallen passionately in love four years ago during
a summer when Kit was home on leave from his regiment in
the Peninsula. But Freyja had been all but betrothed to
his elder brother, Jerome, at the time and she had
allowed
herself to be persuaded into doing the proper and dutiful
thing--she had let Wulfric announce her engagement to
Jerome. Kit had returned to the Peninsula in a royal
rage.
Jerome had died before the nuptials could take place.
Jerome's death had made Kit the elder son and heir of the
Earl of Redfield, and suddenly a marriage between him and
Freyja had been both eligible and desirable. Or so
everyone in both families had thought--including Freyja.
But not, apparently, including Kit.
It had not occurred to Freyja that he might be bound upon
revenge. But he had been. When he had arrived home for
what everyone expected to be their betrothal
celebrations,
he had brought a fiancee with him--the oh-so-proper, oh-
so-
lovely, oh-so-dull Lauren Edgeworth. And after Freyja had
boldly called his bluff, he had married Lauren.
Now the new Lady Ravensberg was about to give birth to
their first child. Like the dull, dutiful wife she was,
she would undoubtedly produce a son. The earl and
countess
would be ecstatic. The whole neighborhood would doubtless
erupt into wild jubilation.
Freyja preferred not to be anywhere near the vicinity of
Alvesley when it happened--and Lindsey Hall was near.
Hence this journey to Bath and the prospect of having to
amuse herself there for a month or more.
She had not drawn the curtains across the window. What
with the moon and stars above and the light of numerous
lanterns from the inn yard below, her room might as well
have been flooded by daylight. But Freyja did not get up
to pull the curtains. She pulled the covers over her head
instead.
Wulfric had hired a private carriage for her and a whole
cavalcade of hefty outriders, all with strict
instructions
to guard her from harm and other assorted inconveniences.
They had been told where to stop for the night--at a
superior establishment suitable for a duke's daughter,
even one traveling alone. Unfortunately, an autumn fair
in
that town had drawn people for miles around and there was
not a room to be had at that particular inn or any other
in the vicinity. They had been forced to journey on and
then stop here.
The outriders had wanted to take shifts sitting on guard
outside her room, especially on learning that there were
no locks on any of the doors. Freyja had disabused them
of
that notion with a firmness that had brooked no argument.
She was no one's prisoner and would not be made to feel
like one. And now Alice was gone too.
Freyja sighed and settled for sleep. The bed was somewhat
lumpy. The pillow was worse. There was a constant noise
from the yard below and the inn about her. The blankets
did not block out all the light. And there was Bath to
look forward to tomorrow. All because going home had
become a near impossibility to her. Could life get any
bleaker?
Sometime soon, she thought just before she drifted off to
sleep, she really was going to have to start looking
seriously at all the gentlemen--and there were many of
them despite the fact that she was now five and twenty
and
always had been ugly--who would jump through hoops if she
were merely to hint that marriage to her might be the
prize. Being single at such an advanced age really was no
fun for a lady. The trouble was that she was not wholly
convinced that being married would be any better. And it
would be too late to discover that it really was not
after
she had married. Marriage was a life sentence, her
brothers were fond of saying--though two of the four had
taken on that very sentence within the past few months.
Freyja awoke with a start some indeterminate time later
when the door of her room opened suddenly and then shut
again with an audible click. She was not even sure she
had
not dreamed it until she looked and saw a man standing
just inside the door, clad in a white, open-necked shirt
and dark pantaloons and stockings, a coat over one arm, a
pair of boots in the other hand.
Freyja shot out of bed as if ejected from a fired cannon
and pointed imperiously at the door.
"Out!" she said.
The man flashed her a grin, which was all too visible in
the near-light room.
"I cannot, sweetheart," he said. "That way lies certain
doom. I must go out the window or hide somewhere in
here."
"Out!" She did not lower her arm--or her chin. "I do not
harbor felons. Or any other type of male creature. Get
out!"
Somewhere beyond the room were the sounds of a small
commotion in the form of excited voices all speaking at
once and footsteps--all of them approaching nearer.
"No felon, sweetheart," the man said. "Merely an innocent
mortal in deep trouble if he does not disappear fast. Is
the wardrobe empty?"
Freyja's nostrils flared.
"Out!" she commanded once more.
But the man had dashed across the room to the wardrobe,
yanked the door open, found it empty, and climbed inside.
"Cover for me, sweetheart," he said, just before shutting
the door from the inside, "and save me from a fate worse
than death."
Almost simultaneously there was a loud rapping on the
door. Freyja did not know whether to stalk toward it or
the wardrobe first. But the decision was taken from her
when the door burst open again to reveal the innkeeper
holding a candle aloft, a short, stout, gray-haired
gentleman, and a bald, burly individual who was badly in
need of a shave.
"Out!" she demanded, totally incensed. She would deal
with
the man in the wardrobe after this newest outrage had
been
dealt with. No one walked uninvited into Lady Freyja
Bedwyn's room, whether that room was at Lindsey Hall or
Bedwyn House or a shabby-genteel inn with no locks on the
doors.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, for disturbing you," the
gray-
haired gentleman said, puffing out his chest and
surveying
the room by the light of the candle rather than focusing
on Freyja, "but I believe a gentleman just ran in here."
Had he awaited an answer to his knock and then addressed
her with the proper deference, Freyja might have betrayed
the fugitive in the wardrobe without a qualm. But he had
made the mistake of bursting in upon her and then
treating
her as if she did not exist except to offer him
information--and his quarry. The unshaven individual, on
the other hand, had done nothing but look at her--with a
doltish leer on his face. And the innkeeper was
displaying
a lamentable lack of concern for the privacy of his
guests.
"Do you indeed believe so?" Freyja asked haughtily. "Do
you see this gentleman? If not, I suggest you close the
door quietly as you leave and allow me and the other
guests in this establishment to resume our slumbers."
"If it is all the same to you, ma'am," the gentleman
said,
eyeing first the closed window and then the bed and then
the wardrobe, "I would like to search the room. For your
own protection, ma'am. He is a desperate rogue and not at
all safe with ladies."
"Search my room?" Freyja inhaled slowly and regarded him
along the length of her prominent, slightly hooked Bedwyn
nose with such chilly hauteur that he finally looked at
her--and saw her for the first time, she believed.
"Search
my room?" She turned her eyes on the silent innkeeper,
who
shrank behind the screen of his candle. "Is this the
hospitality of the house of which you boasted with such
bombastic eloquence upon my arrival here, my man? My
brother, the Duke of Bewcastle, will hear about this. He
will be interested indeed to learn that you have allowed
another guest--if this gentleman is a guest--to bang on
the door of his sister's room in the middle of the night
and burst in upon her without waiting for a reply merely
because he believes that another gentleman dashed in
here.
And that you have stood by without a word of protest
while
he makes the impudent, preposterous suggestion that he be
allowed to search the room."
"You were obviously mistaken, sir," the landlord said,
half hiding beyond the door frame though his candle was
still held out far enough to shine into the room. "He
must
have escaped another way or hidden somewhere else. I beg
your pardon, ma'am--my lady, that is. I allowed it
because
I was afraid for your safety, my lady, and thought the
duke would want me to protect you at all costs from
desperate rogues."
"Out!" Freyja said once more, her arm outstretched
imperiously toward the doorway and three men standing
there. "Get out!"
The gray-haired gentleman cast one last wistful look
about
the room, the unshaven lout leered one last time, and
then
the innkeeper leaned across them both and pulled the door
shut.
Freyja stared at it, her nostrils flared, her arm still
outstretched, her finger still pointing. How dared they?
She had never been so insulted in her life. If the gray-
haired gentleman had uttered one more word or the
unshaven
yokel had leered one more leer, she would have stridden
over there and banged their heads together hard enough to
have them seeing wheeling stars for the next week.
She was certainly not going to recommend this inn to any
of her acquaintances.
She had almost forgotten about the man in the wardrobe
until the door squeaked open and he unfolded himself from
within it. He was a tall, long-limbed young man, she saw
in the ample light from the window. And very blond. He
was
probably blue-eyed too, though there was not quite enough
light to enable her to verify that theory. She could see
quite enough of him, though, to guess that he was by far
too handsome for his own good. He was also looking quite
inappropriately merry.
"That was a magnificent performance," he said, setting
down his Hessian boots and tossing his coat across the
truckle bed. "Are you really a sister of the Duke of
Bewcastle?"
At the risk of appearing tediously repetitious, Freyja
pointed at the door again.
"Out!" she commanded.
But he merely grinned at her and stepped closer.
"But I think not," he said. "Why would a duke's sister be
staying at this less-than-grand establishment? And
without
a maid or chaperone to guard her? It was a wonderful
performance, nevertheless."
"I can live without your approval," she said coldly. "I
do
not know what you have done that is so heinous. I do not
want to know. I want you out of this room, and I want you
out now. Find somewhere else to cower in fright."
"Fright?" He laughed and set a hand over his heart. "You
wound me, my charmer."
He was standing very close, quite close enough for Freyja
to realize that the top of her head reached barely to his
chin. But she always had been short. She was accustomed
to
ruling her world from below the level of much of the
action.
"I am neither your sweetheart nor your charmer," she told
him. "I shall count to three. One."