Gayle Buck Read Free

parlor with Lord Damion St. Claire. She thought whimsically that she might make a practice of dining with rakes if it guaranteed her such exceptional service.
     

Chapter Two
     
    The innkeeper did not pause in the public taproom but ushered Victoria directly to the heavy plank door to the innyard. Victoria saw that her chaise stood waiting with a restive team of four. The bay leader shook its mane, setting the traces to jingling. She knew immediately that this team was the best that she had yet had hitched to her hired carriage.
    With misgivings Victoria opened the corded reticule dangling from her wrist to take out her purse and settle the tab. The innkeeper jingled the coins in his palm. Victoria braced herself, prepared to haggle with the man. She was surprised when he fished out a few coins and gave them back to her with a bow. “It was a pleasure to serve m’lady. I could not accept such a handsome tip,” said the innkeeper.
    Victoria did not believe him and she was further convinced when the man threw an upward glance at the window above them. She smiled, realizing that they must have an audience. Again Lord Damion’s consequence was at work on her behalf. She knew the wily innkeeper would not lose a tuppence when it came time to figure his lordship’s bill. A man hunched in a frieze coat pushed past them in the doorway, shouldering Victoria rudely against the plank door. He hurried on, mumbling indistinctively, while the innkeeper helped her to regain her balance. “Pay ‘im no heed, m’lady. A pint too much, he ‘ad,” said the innkeeper dismissively.
    “Obviously,” said Victoria dryly. She lifted the long hem of her pelisse before stepping down into the churned mud of the yard. The damp air smelled of horseflesh and hay. She breathed deeply, reminded sharply of Portugal. She promised herself that she would return quickly to Lisbon, to the home which she and Charles had made and which she now managed for herself. The army would naturally march again in the spring and she would lose the company of her English acquaintances. But she would still have her Portuguese friends and the stable that was slowly gaining in reputation for well-blooded stock.
    A low rumbling turned her gaze to the late afternoon skies, where sullen clouds rolled ominously across the horizon. It appeared that Lord Damion had been right in his weather prediction. Behind her, the innkeeper unknowingly echoed her thoughts. “This curst rain!” he exclaimed.
    The postilion jumped down from his perch beside the coachman and unlatched the chaise door for her. Victoria mounted the iron step and ducked quickly into the chaise. The door was latched behind her as she took the seat facing the horses.
    A whip cracked. The chaise lurched forward, axles squealing in protest. The wheels slowly gathered speed and settled into a dull humming complaint. Victoria leaned toward the window. A fine drizzle was falling but she glimpsed the innkeeper’s back as he disappeared through the inn door. He had stayed only long enough to be certain of her swift departure, thought Victoria wryly. She looked up at the parlor window and made out a tall figure. She thought that he raised his hand in farewell, but she couldn’t be certain. The trees bordering the inn yard quickly obliterated any view of the hostelry.
    Victoria sat back against the musty seat squabs. Her brows furrowed as she pondered Lord Damion St. Claire. She had found him to be disturbingly attractive and her response was due to more than his strong lean looks. In his company she had felt the stirring of an old excitement that she had been certain had died with Charles.
    Victoria loosened the ribbons under her chin so that she could put back her bonnet. Lord Damion had called himself a rake and Victoria could well imagine that his aloof amusement fascinated many women. She herself was not immune to him. Victoria caught her thoughts lingering on the impenetrable expression that had been in Lord