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Authors: Leigh Greenwood
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prepared to alight. “I’m going to see if I can find a room and get you inside without anyone being the wiser.” He disappeared into the gathering dusk, and Kate huddled down in the corner to await his return.
Brett was tempted to enter through the kitchen, but he knew his disappearance from the courtyard would focus additional attention on his movements so he went through the front door and was hailed immediately.
“Westbrook! I thought you’d never get here,” Stephen Wyndom shouted as he elbowed his way through the crowd. “I bet Hubart you’d never stay at Ryehill above one day. Come join us. We have a table, and the ale’s not bad.” Brett liked Stephen, even if he was a little slow-witted, but he couldn’t stand Hubart Sedley.
“Later,” Brett said. “I’ve got to see about a room. I wasn’t expecting to be met by half of London.”
“There’s not a bed within twenty miles of this place,” Hubart assured him. “You’ll probably have to sleep in your coach. You know,” he said half to himself, “it must be damned boring in London this season if such an unimportant fight can draw half the blades in the city. Can’t you drum up some excitement?”
“Not now. I’ve spent the whole day in my coach, and I shudder to think of spending the night there as well. What happened to your little widow? Did she give you the slip?”
Hubart favored him with a thin smile. “If you mean Mrs. Brightstone, she started to have expectations, and I had to give her up. I don’t like clinging women. They remind me of my wife.”
“You old devil,” Stephen guffawed. “She gave you the shove. Probably wouldn’t let you climb into her bed the first night. I’ve told you not to be so impatient. You lose more fillies than you catch that way.”
Hubart embarked on an explanation of the intricacies of the chase, and Brett excused himself to go in search of the landlord. He found him serving up ale as fast as it came out of the barrel. The little man smiled broadly when he saw Brett, but his face fell ludicrously when he realized he must be in need of a room.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Brett asked as quietly as he could in the noise of the room. The landlord motioned one of the serving boys to take over and led Brett down a hall and into the still room.
“This is the most private place in the inn,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “Nobody wants milk tonight.” He laughed at his own joke, but smothered his mirth when Brett didn’t join him. “I hope it’s not a room you’re wanting, Mr. Westbrook, because there’s no way I can give you one, not even a closet.”
“A room is exactly what I must have. Isn’t there some way you can move one of these gentlemen in with someone else?”
“One won’t do,” Michael answered diffidently. “There’s not a man here who isn’t sharing his bed or sleeping on the sofa.”
“I’m not interested in anybody else,” Brett replied rather sharply. His temper was rising and his few shreds of politeness were about to evaporate. “Do what you must, but get me that room.”
“But there aren’t any rooms, not unless you drive on for ten, maybe twelve, miles.”
“Damnation, man, I’ve been on the road since dawn. I’m liable to kill somebody if I have to spend another five minutes in that coach. I don’t care how you do it or what it costs, just get me a room.” He turned to leave but stopped dead in his tracks.
“Of course … why didn’t I think of it before? We can use your room. I can sleep on the sofa and Walker and Charles can rack up in the stables.”
“Have pity, for mercy’s sake,” the landlord pleaded. “You know I don’t dare ask Mathilda to leave the inn, not with all those meals to fix and rooms to see after. She’ll kill me.”
“Your domestic difficulties are of no interest to me,” Brett snapped.
“You don’t have to live with her. Nothing goes right when she’s angry. Besides, you can’t sleep
Brett was tempted to enter through the kitchen, but he knew his disappearance from the courtyard would focus additional attention on his movements so he went through the front door and was hailed immediately.
“Westbrook! I thought you’d never get here,” Stephen Wyndom shouted as he elbowed his way through the crowd. “I bet Hubart you’d never stay at Ryehill above one day. Come join us. We have a table, and the ale’s not bad.” Brett liked Stephen, even if he was a little slow-witted, but he couldn’t stand Hubart Sedley.
“Later,” Brett said. “I’ve got to see about a room. I wasn’t expecting to be met by half of London.”
“There’s not a bed within twenty miles of this place,” Hubart assured him. “You’ll probably have to sleep in your coach. You know,” he said half to himself, “it must be damned boring in London this season if such an unimportant fight can draw half the blades in the city. Can’t you drum up some excitement?”
“Not now. I’ve spent the whole day in my coach, and I shudder to think of spending the night there as well. What happened to your little widow? Did she give you the slip?”
Hubart favored him with a thin smile. “If you mean Mrs. Brightstone, she started to have expectations, and I had to give her up. I don’t like clinging women. They remind me of my wife.”
“You old devil,” Stephen guffawed. “She gave you the shove. Probably wouldn’t let you climb into her bed the first night. I’ve told you not to be so impatient. You lose more fillies than you catch that way.”
Hubart embarked on an explanation of the intricacies of the chase, and Brett excused himself to go in search of the landlord. He found him serving up ale as fast as it came out of the barrel. The little man smiled broadly when he saw Brett, but his face fell ludicrously when he realized he must be in need of a room.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Brett asked as quietly as he could in the noise of the room. The landlord motioned one of the serving boys to take over and led Brett down a hall and into the still room.
“This is the most private place in the inn,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “Nobody wants milk tonight.” He laughed at his own joke, but smothered his mirth when Brett didn’t join him. “I hope it’s not a room you’re wanting, Mr. Westbrook, because there’s no way I can give you one, not even a closet.”
“A room is exactly what I must have. Isn’t there some way you can move one of these gentlemen in with someone else?”
“One won’t do,” Michael answered diffidently. “There’s not a man here who isn’t sharing his bed or sleeping on the sofa.”
“I’m not interested in anybody else,” Brett replied rather sharply. His temper was rising and his few shreds of politeness were about to evaporate. “Do what you must, but get me that room.”
“But there aren’t any rooms, not unless you drive on for ten, maybe twelve, miles.”
“Damnation, man, I’ve been on the road since dawn. I’m liable to kill somebody if I have to spend another five minutes in that coach. I don’t care how you do it or what it costs, just get me a room.” He turned to leave but stopped dead in his tracks.
“Of course … why didn’t I think of it before? We can use your room. I can sleep on the sofa and Walker and Charles can rack up in the stables.”
“Have pity, for mercy’s sake,” the landlord pleaded. “You know I don’t dare ask Mathilda to leave the inn, not with all those meals to fix and rooms to see after. She’ll kill me.”
“Your domestic difficulties are of no interest to me,” Brett snapped.
“You don’t have to live with her. Nothing goes right when she’s angry. Besides, you can’t sleep
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