A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season Read Free Page B

closed and shuttered. Peter freed one hand to bang energetically on the door and a few moments later was relieved to hear the shuffling approach of one of the inn servants. As the door swung open he realised that this stocky individual with forearms like corded barrels was in fact the landlord himself. The man took one look at the recumbent figure of the girl and started forward.
    ‘Miss Cassandra! What have you done to her, sir?’
    Peter was not remotely surprised to receive the confirmation that the young lady in his arms was his intended bride. He was an intelligent man and the radical banner had rather given the game away. He was more offended to be unjustly accused.
    ‘I have rescued Miss Ward from an accident on the road,’ he snapped. ‘Be so good as to stable my horse and then fetch a doctor to attend to the lady. And pray send to Lyndhurst Chase and call the landlady and show me to the parlour.’
    The innkeeper appeared confused at this barrage of orders. ‘Beg pardon, but what do you wish me to do first, your honour? I am on my own here, for my wife is visiting her sister over Barrington way and the groom is on an errand to Watchstone and—’
    Peter cut short the explanations. ‘Then pray stable my horse. I will find the parlour on my own. And when the horse is safely stowed, fetch the doctor.’
    ‘Aye, my lord,’ the landlord said, having expertly sized up Peter’s horse, appearance and attitude and adjusted his mode of address accordingly.
    The inn was small and Peter had no difficulty in finding his way to the one tiny parlour. A fire was lit against the dampness of the day and the room was almost overpoweringly warm. He laid Cassie down on an ancient lumpy red sofa, which was clearly somewhat of a luxury for a country inn, placed a cushion under her head and eased his cramped arms with a sigh of relief. He would need to open a window or both of them would start to steam as their clothes dried out.
    The landlord came in as he was pushing against the window frame, which stubbornly refused to move.
    ‘It’s stuck, my lord,’ the landlord said helpfully. ‘The rain blows off the Downs this time of year and the wood swells.’
    ‘So I see,’ Peter said. He went swiftly back to Cassie’s side, taking her hand in his. She was breathing regularly and her face was regaining its pink colour, but she did not stir. Her fingers slid between his and she tightened her grip on his hand. Peter felt a disconcerting tug of concern and tenderness deep inside.
    ‘The doctor?’ he asked abruptly, over his shoulder.
    ‘Yes, my lord.’ The landlord rubbed the palms of his hands nervously against his trousers. ‘I sent one of the village lads, my lord. He goes direct to the Chase once he has found Dr Nightingale.’ He looked dubiously at Cassie’s prone body. ‘You’ll be wanting hot water, my lord, and something restorative for the young lady. Took a tumble, did she?’
    Peter glanced at him. ‘She fell from a tree,’ he said.
    ‘Ah.’ The landlord looked unsurprised, as though Miss Ward falling out of trees was a common occurrence in the vicinity of Lynd. Peter suspected that it probably was. The landlord was still weighing him up, his shrewd blue eyes fixed upon him, clearly uncomfortable about something.
    ‘I’m thinking you’ll be staying at the Chase for Major Lyndhurst’s house party, my lord?’ he said.
    ‘That is correct,’ Peter agreed.
    The landlord blew out his lips. ‘Ah. But you’ll not be Viscount Quinlan?’
    Peter frowned. ‘Why not?’
    The landlord looked him over. ‘They said he was an older man.’
    ‘I see,’ Peter said. ‘The hot water and brandy for Miss Ward?’
    ‘Dangerous, these London folk.’ The landlord looked disapproving. ‘Not sure about these house parties, neither. Opportunity for dancing and gambling and hunting, and not always of the sporting variety neither…Heard Quinlan was an ageing roué who drinks like a fish and suffers the gout. Couldn’t