steered her to the door. Em’s house was probably safe enough but his clubs would be safer; he no longer trusted his aunt. “I have other engagements.”
Lucinda stopped on the top of the steps and glanced up at him. “I do hope I’m not inconveniencing you by claiming your escort to my inns?”
Harry looked down at her, his eyes narrowing. She was an inconvenience unlike any he’d ever encountered. “Not at all, my dear. If you recall, I wished this on myself.” Why, he refused to consider. “But it’s time we were away.”
He led her down the steps, then lifted her to his curricle’s seat. Avoiding Dawlish’s eye, he retrieved the reins. He waited only until his henchman’s weight tipped the carriage before giving his horses the office.
Lucinda thoroughly enjoyed her drive through the morning streets, not yet crowded. She saw orange-sellers plying their wares; she heard strawberry girls calling housewives to their doors. The city seemed different, clean and pristine beneath the morning’s dew, the dust yet to be stirred by the traffic. The varied greens of the trees in the Park shifted like a kaleidoscope. Harry drove them briskly along the gravelled carriageway, then out of a distant gate. Once they were bowling along the road to Hammersmith, Lucinda turned her mind to business. Harry answered her questions on the inns they passed, occasionally referring to Dawlish. Lucinda noted that Harry’s groom seemed uncommonly morose; his dour tones suggested a death in the family.
But she forgot Dawlish and his patent misery when they pulled into the yard of the Argyle Arms.
The Argyle Arms proved to have much in common with the Barbican Arms. The innkeeper, a Mr Honeywell, after one glance at Harry, deferentially escorted her over the large inn, which extended over three interconnecting wings. They were on the ground floor of one of the wings heading back towards the main entrance when Lucinda heard laughter behind a door she had assumed led to a bedchamber.
Visions of the Green Goose flitted through her mind. It had, however, been male laughter. She halted. “What’s behind that door?”
Mr Honeywell remained impassive. “A parlour, ma’am.”
“A parlour?” Lucinda frowned and looked about her. “Ah, yes—this was a separate house at one time, wasn’t it?”
Mr Honeywell nodded and gestured for her to proceed.
Lucinda stood stock-still and stared at the closed parlour door. “That makes four parlours—does the inn’s custom necessitate so many?”
“Not directly,” Mr Honeywell admitted. “But we’re so near town we often rent rooms to groups for meetings.”
Lucinda pursed her lips. “I would like to inspect this extra parlour, Honeywell.”
Mr Honeywell’s expression grew wary. “Ah—this one’s currently occupied, ma’am, but there’s another just like it in the other wing. If you’d like to see that?”
“Indeed.” Lucinda nodded but her eyes remained on the closed door. “Who is currently using this one?”
“Er…a group of gentlemen, ma’am.”
Lucinda’s brows rose; she opened her mouth.
“But—” Mr Honeywell smoothly interposed his stout frame between Lucinda and the door “—I really wouldn’t advise you to interrupt them, ma’am.”
Taken aback, Lucinda allowed her brows to rise higher; for a silent moment, she looked down on Mr Honeywell. When she spoke, her tone was chilly. “My dear Mr Honeywell—”
“Who’s in there, Honeywell?”
Lucinda blinked. It was the first time in an hour that Harry had spoken.
Mr Honeywell cast an imploring glance at him. “Just a group of young bloods, sir. You’ll know the sort.”
“Indeed.” Harry turned to Lucinda. “You can’t go in.”
As frigidly imperious as any dowager, Lucinda slowly turned and met his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”
Harry’s lips twisted slightly but his gaze did not waver. “Let me put it this way.” His tone was peculiarly soft, silky, with an undercurrent that threatened all manner of danger. “You’re not going in there.”
If Lucinda had had any doubt as to the reality behind the unsubtle threat, it was laid to rest by the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw and the tension that slowly infused his large frame. Despite her rising temper, she was assailed by an instinctive urge to step back—and a totally maniacal impulse to call his bluff just to see what he would do. Ignoring the shiver that squirmed down her spine, she sent him a seething glance, then transferred her gaze, now icy, to Mr Honeywell. “Perhaps you could show me this other parlour?”
The innkeeper’s sigh was almost audible.
Shown the second parlour, repeatedly assured that it was virtually identical to the other, Lucinda gave her haughty approval. Stripping off her gloves, she nodded at Honeywell. “I’ll examine the books now. You may bring them in here.”
Honeywell departed to fetch his ledgers.