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Authors: Lord Greyfalcon’s Reward
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Miss Jensen-Graham. You don’t want to take a chill.”
No sooner had she obeyed him than the chaise began to move. The cobbles beneath made the carriage sway, but the feeling was not an uncomfortable one, and she was almost sorry when the pavement became smoother after they passed through the Kensington turnpike.
The chaise moved with greater speed now, through Hammersmith, across Turnham Green, through Brentford, Smallbury Green, and across Hounslow Heath. An hour and a half after they left London they were crossing the River Coln at Longford. They had traveled more than thirteen miles. Sylvia glanced out the window at Greyfalcon, who had brought his mount alongside the chaise and was moving up to talk to the postboys. She lowered the window in time to hear him shout that they would not change horses before Slough.
The chaise slowed somewhat after that, although the road was flat and free of traffic, and Sylvia realized that the postboys had decided to spare the horses. They must, she thought, have expected to change rather sooner. Slough was, after all, some twenty miles from London, more than two normal stages.
When they reached Slough, the change was accomplished with speed at the White Hart, where it was clear that Greyfalcon was known. He changed his own mount for a dappled gray at the same time, and Sylvia saw that the bay’s sides were heaving. Greyfalcon didn’t, she thought, look much better himself. His complexion was gray, his eyes dull. Really, men were so foolish. It was not as though he had not known he had a long ride ahead of him today. To have allowed himself to drink so much and stay up so late was the action of a man more foolish than she had ever believed Greyfalcon to be. What if Christopher, who had idolized him, could see him now?
Some of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for Greyfalcon, turning to catch her eye, flushed slightly and turned away without speaking, despite the fact that the window was down again.
The landlord stepped up to talk to him, and Greyfalcon smiled at the man but made no effort to pay him. When the earl was mounted again, the innkeeper waved and called out to him to have a good journey, his familiarity making it clear to Sylvia that Greyfalcon was a familiar customer, one moreover who was allowed to travel on tick.
They crossed the Thames at Salt Hill and made good speed once more through Maidenhead, where they crossed the river again and entered Oxfordshire. The team they had now was slower, but the postboys (still Greyfalcon’s own, for he had not scrupled to leave his horses to the Slough innkeeper’s care) managed to hold them together until just before Assington Cross. By the time they reached that village, however, their pace had long since slowed to a walk and the offside wheeler was showing lame. The hour was nearly half-past two. Sylvia was famished.
She let the window down as they drew into the innyard of the Bell and Castle. “I hope you mean to seek refreshment, my lord,” she called, “for I swear I shall faint from hunger if you do not.” Not to mention boredom, she thought, watching him. He was looking at the ostlers, however, and not at her. They unhitched the team rapidly and led another four horses from the stable adjoining the inn. Greyfalcon grimaced expressively and turned his own mount toward the chaise. Leaning down, he muttered, “Bonesetters, the lot of them. No doubt touched in the wind, as well. I do apologize. I had hoped to make Nettlebed before we made the change, for I know the inn there to be as trustworthy as the inn in Slough, but the last pair simply wasn’t good for a full two stages. We ought to have changed them in Maidenhead, I suppose, since there isn’t another posting house between there and Henley.”
“Why didn’t we stop in Henley, then?” she asked reasonably.
“For the same reason I didn’t stop in Maidenhead,” he said. “Thought you’d receive less attention in a smaller place. Public room
No sooner had she obeyed him than the chaise began to move. The cobbles beneath made the carriage sway, but the feeling was not an uncomfortable one, and she was almost sorry when the pavement became smoother after they passed through the Kensington turnpike.
The chaise moved with greater speed now, through Hammersmith, across Turnham Green, through Brentford, Smallbury Green, and across Hounslow Heath. An hour and a half after they left London they were crossing the River Coln at Longford. They had traveled more than thirteen miles. Sylvia glanced out the window at Greyfalcon, who had brought his mount alongside the chaise and was moving up to talk to the postboys. She lowered the window in time to hear him shout that they would not change horses before Slough.
The chaise slowed somewhat after that, although the road was flat and free of traffic, and Sylvia realized that the postboys had decided to spare the horses. They must, she thought, have expected to change rather sooner. Slough was, after all, some twenty miles from London, more than two normal stages.
When they reached Slough, the change was accomplished with speed at the White Hart, where it was clear that Greyfalcon was known. He changed his own mount for a dappled gray at the same time, and Sylvia saw that the bay’s sides were heaving. Greyfalcon didn’t, she thought, look much better himself. His complexion was gray, his eyes dull. Really, men were so foolish. It was not as though he had not known he had a long ride ahead of him today. To have allowed himself to drink so much and stay up so late was the action of a man more foolish than she had ever believed Greyfalcon to be. What if Christopher, who had idolized him, could see him now?
Some of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for Greyfalcon, turning to catch her eye, flushed slightly and turned away without speaking, despite the fact that the window was down again.
The landlord stepped up to talk to him, and Greyfalcon smiled at the man but made no effort to pay him. When the earl was mounted again, the innkeeper waved and called out to him to have a good journey, his familiarity making it clear to Sylvia that Greyfalcon was a familiar customer, one moreover who was allowed to travel on tick.
They crossed the Thames at Salt Hill and made good speed once more through Maidenhead, where they crossed the river again and entered Oxfordshire. The team they had now was slower, but the postboys (still Greyfalcon’s own, for he had not scrupled to leave his horses to the Slough innkeeper’s care) managed to hold them together until just before Assington Cross. By the time they reached that village, however, their pace had long since slowed to a walk and the offside wheeler was showing lame. The hour was nearly half-past two. Sylvia was famished.
She let the window down as they drew into the innyard of the Bell and Castle. “I hope you mean to seek refreshment, my lord,” she called, “for I swear I shall faint from hunger if you do not.” Not to mention boredom, she thought, watching him. He was looking at the ostlers, however, and not at her. They unhitched the team rapidly and led another four horses from the stable adjoining the inn. Greyfalcon grimaced expressively and turned his own mount toward the chaise. Leaning down, he muttered, “Bonesetters, the lot of them. No doubt touched in the wind, as well. I do apologize. I had hoped to make Nettlebed before we made the change, for I know the inn there to be as trustworthy as the inn in Slough, but the last pair simply wasn’t good for a full two stages. We ought to have changed them in Maidenhead, I suppose, since there isn’t another posting house between there and Henley.”
“Why didn’t we stop in Henley, then?” she asked reasonably.
“For the same reason I didn’t stop in Maidenhead,” he said. “Thought you’d receive less attention in a smaller place. Public room
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