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Authors: Henriette Gyland
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roses, if you would be so kind, Mr Byrd. The countess is complaining of a headache.’
Rational thinking returned. The man, Lord Halliford, it seemed, had thought her male; there was no reason why he should suspect a plainly dressed country girl. If anything, he might remember her from the hayfield, but that was not so bad. Just to be safe though, she averted her eyes and kept them firmly fixed on the floor. But even though she couldn’t see his face, the sense that his eyes were roaming over her stayed with her. The sooner she could leave, the better.
Chapter Five
The crossroads, where those who had taken their own lives were buried, was said to be haunted. Country-folk told stories of ghostly sightings, of drunken farmers on horseback being chased across the fields and timid plough-boys having to make a run for it, but as far as Rupert was concerned, those who chose to destroy themselves deserved nothing. Life was for the taking, and he wanted to make damned sure he got his due. Winning the wager with his cousin was just one step in that direction. He rode past the crossroads, along the Lampton Road towards Hounslow, passing orchards heavy with unripened apples, pears and plums; he breathed in the scent of the flowers on the fruit trees and praised himself lucky he wasn’t given to such fancies as ghost stories.
Hounslow, where several busy coaching routes crossed, was a town hard at work at all times, but by midday, when Rupert arrived, it was simply bustling. The Bath Road was narrow and in addition to the farmers’ carts there were people on horseback, pedlars, pedestrians, mongrels and other stray animals. Coaches clattered up the High Street, between the buildings on each side, destined for the countless coaching inns. Because of the town’s position – at the end of the first stage out of London and the last place where coaches from the West Country changed horses – there were usually more horses than people on the streets.
The hustle and bustle made Rupert sit up straighter in the saddle, in readiness for any snide comments about what had happened the night before. The local rumour mill worked overtime and there was a good chance the folk of Hounslow had heard of Rupert’s humiliation at the hands of the highwayman. He could well imagine the knowing looks and the sniggers behind his back. Jealousy curdled inside him at the awareness that he didn’t enjoy the same popularity as his cousin, and he had no particular wish to draw attention today.
The milliner in Hounslow smiled as Rupert entered his shop. ‘Mr Blythe, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ He bowed slightly, enough to show deference to one of his betters, but not enough to show the kind of respect Rupert knew was his due. He clenched his fists. When he had improved his station in life the townsfolk would change their attitude, he’d make sure of it.
‘I need a new hat,’ he said sharply. ‘This one has a hole in it.’ Bristling, he lay the torn tricorne on the counter and looked about him. Rolls of felt and dark-coloured material were spread everywhere on shelves and counters and were even displayed in the bay-fronted window, but it was unlikely this man would be able to equip him with a hat of the same modishness as his ruined one. It would have to do. He was loath to travel to fashionable Bond Street for fear of being accosted by disgruntled tradesmen whose bills he had neglected to pay. Surely they must know his uncle was good for the money.
‘Ah,’ said the milliner. ‘Moth problems, sir?’
‘No. A bullet.’
‘A bullet?’ The hat maker raised his eyebrows. ‘Was it a hunting incident, sir?’
‘Well, of course not!’ snapped Rupert and speared his hat through the hole with his finger. ‘If I’d acquired a hole like that in my hat during a hunting accident, I’d be dead. No, it was a most audacious robbery, and not two miles from my uncle, Lord Lampton’s, estate.’
‘That is outrageous indeed,
Rational thinking returned. The man, Lord Halliford, it seemed, had thought her male; there was no reason why he should suspect a plainly dressed country girl. If anything, he might remember her from the hayfield, but that was not so bad. Just to be safe though, she averted her eyes and kept them firmly fixed on the floor. But even though she couldn’t see his face, the sense that his eyes were roaming over her stayed with her. The sooner she could leave, the better.
Chapter Five
The crossroads, where those who had taken their own lives were buried, was said to be haunted. Country-folk told stories of ghostly sightings, of drunken farmers on horseback being chased across the fields and timid plough-boys having to make a run for it, but as far as Rupert was concerned, those who chose to destroy themselves deserved nothing. Life was for the taking, and he wanted to make damned sure he got his due. Winning the wager with his cousin was just one step in that direction. He rode past the crossroads, along the Lampton Road towards Hounslow, passing orchards heavy with unripened apples, pears and plums; he breathed in the scent of the flowers on the fruit trees and praised himself lucky he wasn’t given to such fancies as ghost stories.
Hounslow, where several busy coaching routes crossed, was a town hard at work at all times, but by midday, when Rupert arrived, it was simply bustling. The Bath Road was narrow and in addition to the farmers’ carts there were people on horseback, pedlars, pedestrians, mongrels and other stray animals. Coaches clattered up the High Street, between the buildings on each side, destined for the countless coaching inns. Because of the town’s position – at the end of the first stage out of London and the last place where coaches from the West Country changed horses – there were usually more horses than people on the streets.
The hustle and bustle made Rupert sit up straighter in the saddle, in readiness for any snide comments about what had happened the night before. The local rumour mill worked overtime and there was a good chance the folk of Hounslow had heard of Rupert’s humiliation at the hands of the highwayman. He could well imagine the knowing looks and the sniggers behind his back. Jealousy curdled inside him at the awareness that he didn’t enjoy the same popularity as his cousin, and he had no particular wish to draw attention today.
The milliner in Hounslow smiled as Rupert entered his shop. ‘Mr Blythe, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ He bowed slightly, enough to show deference to one of his betters, but not enough to show the kind of respect Rupert knew was his due. He clenched his fists. When he had improved his station in life the townsfolk would change their attitude, he’d make sure of it.
‘I need a new hat,’ he said sharply. ‘This one has a hole in it.’ Bristling, he lay the torn tricorne on the counter and looked about him. Rolls of felt and dark-coloured material were spread everywhere on shelves and counters and were even displayed in the bay-fronted window, but it was unlikely this man would be able to equip him with a hat of the same modishness as his ruined one. It would have to do. He was loath to travel to fashionable Bond Street for fear of being accosted by disgruntled tradesmen whose bills he had neglected to pay. Surely they must know his uncle was good for the money.
‘Ah,’ said the milliner. ‘Moth problems, sir?’
‘No. A bullet.’
‘A bullet?’ The hat maker raised his eyebrows. ‘Was it a hunting incident, sir?’
‘Well, of course not!’ snapped Rupert and speared his hat through the hole with his finger. ‘If I’d acquired a hole like that in my hat during a hunting accident, I’d be dead. No, it was a most audacious robbery, and not two miles from my uncle, Lord Lampton’s, estate.’
‘That is outrageous indeed,
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