“That is enough, sir!”
“Actually,” North said gently, “it’s ‘my lord.’ Contrive not to forget your manners, else I will have to challenge you to a duel and wound you and then both you and Owen would be laid up side by side, complaining.”
“Arrogant young puppy.”
“Now, that is just fine, so long as you identify me after your string of descriptive words.”
Caroline stared at the two men, drew herself up, and said, “Mr. Ffalkes, now that you’re here, you will take over Owen’s care. I’m leaving. Lord Chilton, thank you for your assistance. I very much appreciate it.”
“You’re not going anywhere, my girl!” Mr. Ffalkes grabbed her arm as she walked past him and jerked her about. North watched transfixed as she raised the poker and struck Mr. Ffalkes hard on his shoulder.
He yowled, releasing her. “You damned bitch, I’ll—”
She hit him again on his other shoulder, then threw the poker to the floor. She dusted her hands, picked up her valise, and began to pile her clothes into it.
“You’ve killed me.”
“No,” she said, not looking at him, “but I wish I had. Leave me alone, Mr. Ffalkes. I will have my solicitor contact you.”
She picked up her cloak and strode from the bedchamber. Mr. Ffalkes made to go after her, but Owen, emerging from beneath his fortress of blankets, said, “No, Father, do let her go. She won’t wed me and she won’t wed you. She doesn’t care about her reputation. Please, Father, give her her money. End it now and let’s go home.”
“I won’t give her a bloody sou, and you, you faithless sniveling hound, I will see that you suffer for the muddle you’ve made of everything.”
“Muddle? Father, I became ill. If I hadn’t become ill, then you would never have found us.”
“Don’t be a fool, Owen. I know where she’s going. To her aunt Ellie in Cornwall, in a godforsaken place called Trevellas. If I hadn’t found the two of you here, I would have continued on there. It’s better I found you here, though, for that blasted woman would have tried to protect her.”
North felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Trevellas? Aunt Ellie? For an instant he felt light-headed, then a searing pain went through him, a pain that would be her pain very soon.
“It has been quite an experience,” North said to Mr. Ffalkes. He nodded to Owen, who said unexpectedly and with a good deal of liking, “Thank you, North, for taking care of me. I hope I will see you again. Perhaps you can teach me more strategy at piquet.”
“Humph,” said his father.
“Perhaps,” North said. “Good-bye, Owen, Mr. Ffalkes.”
Mr. Ffalkes gave him a cold bow, saying nothing. He turned to his son and said, “You will remain here, Owen, and keep yourself warm, though how you can bear all those blankets is beyond me. I’m going after Miss Derwent-Jones. She won’t get far. She won’t bring me low this time. I will handle things. I am a man and I am devious and I will see to it.”
And North thought as he walked down the corridor, Like hell you will.
6
NORTH STARED AT Tewksberry, feeling a bolt of deep admiration, and tried to keep himself from laughing out loud.
“Aye, my lord, you might just look that disgusted, for that little strum—er, miss, left and without paying her shot, just as I said. What am I to do?”
He should have known, North thought, yes, he should have known. Well, and why should she have to pay for Owen, her hostage? Hostage. He fought again to control his laughter. She’d taken a man hostage. He just shrugged and said, “Her father is upstairs right now with her brother. His name is Mr. Roland Ffalkes. Quite naturally he will cover what’s owing.”
“But why did she fly off like a bird out of its cage if her father’s come?”
“It seems,” North said, leaning forward, all confidences, “that Mr. Ffalkes’s wife, Mathilda, eloped with a German footman. The daughter took the mother’s part and ran away too, the brother coming with her. She dislikes the father thoroughly. You’ll see he’s rather a nasty sort.”
“Ah,” said Tewksberry. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. A footman, eh? German, you say? Poor little mite.”
North nodded solemnly, paid his own bill, nodded to Mr. Tewksberry, and left the inn. He walked out into the inn yard, lightly slapping his riding crop against his thigh. The morning was overcast and would prove to be warm.
Rain threatened, but then again, rain always threatened in England, particularly here on the southwest coast. He called to one of the stable lads to bring out Treetop, who was probably so bored with his inactivity he’d race like the wind. He had to catch up with her and he doubted it would take him very long at all. Treetop was a magnificent beast, fleet and strong.
The boy saluted and bobbed, then ran into the large ramshackle stable set off to the side of the inn. He returned in very short order, red in the face, his eyes darting about frantically in search of help, of which there was none.