‘I don’t bother with a break at noon. I’m usually out and about. Busy with estate business when I’m in the country. Or in my office with my secretary when I’m in town.’
‘You have a secretary? What kind of business are you in?’
Did she imagine it, or did he look a little hunted?
‘Never mind what business I’m in,’ he said, rather defensively.
Oh, dear. Last night Aunt Charity had remarked that he was just the kind of disreputable person she’d been afraid they might encounter in such an out-of-the-way tavern. That he was probably a highwayman. Or a housebreaker. Though surely housebreakers didn’t have secretaries? Still, the fact that he didn’t want to answer any questions about his background made it more than likely that he was some sort of scoundrel.
But not a complete scoundrel. A complete scoundrel wouldn’t have given her his jacket. Wouldn’t have rescued her from the ostler or offered to buy her breakfast, either. No—a complete scoundrel would have left her to fend for herself. Climbed into the gig and driven away. If not the first time then definitely the second time, after she’d thrown a rock at him.
She rubbed at her forehead. He looked so villainous, and yet he wasn’t acting like a villain. Whereas her aunt, who made a great display of piety at every opportunity... Oh, nothing made sense today! Nothing at all.
‘I have just realised,’ he said, ‘that I don’t even know your name. What is it?’
‘Prudence Carstairs,’ she said. ‘Miss.’
‘Prudence?’ He gave her one sidelong glance before bursting out laughing.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny about my being called Prudence,’ she objected.
‘P...Prudence?’ he repeated. ‘I cannot imagine a name less suited to a girl whom I met naked in bed, who gets chased around horse troughs by lecherous ostlers and throws rocks at her rescuer. Why on earth,’ he said, wiping what looked like a tear from one eye, ‘did they call you Prudence? Good God,’ he said, looking at her in sudden horror as a thought apparently struck him. ‘Are you a Quaker?’
‘No, a Methodist,’ she said, a touch belligerently. ‘Grandpapa went to a revival meeting and saw the light. After that he became a very strict parent, so naturally my mother named me for one of the virtues.’
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘But why Prudence in particular?’
‘Because it was the one virtue it was impossible for her to attain in any other way,’ she retorted, without thinking.
‘And did she feel she had attained it, once you grew old enough for her to discern your personality? I suspect not,’ he observed. ‘I think you are just like her.’
‘No, I’m not! She ran off with a man she’d only known a week, because his unit was being shipped out and she was afraid she’d never see him again. Whereas I have never been dazzled by a scarlet jacket or a lot of gold braid. In fact I’ve never lost my head over any man.’
‘Good for you.’
‘There is no need to be sarcastic.’
‘No, no—I was congratulating you on your level head,’ he said solemnly, but his lips twitched as though he was trying to suppress a smile.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So,’ he said, ignoring her retort. ‘Your mother ran off with a soldier, I take it, and regretted it so much that she gave you a name that would always remind her of her youthful folly?’
‘She did no such thing! I mean, yes, Papa was a soldier, but she never regretted eloping with him. Not even when her family cut her out of their lives. They were very happy together.’
‘Then why—?’
‘Well, doesn’t every parent want a better life for their child?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said.
He said it so bleakly that she stopped being angry with him at once.
‘And I have no patience with this sort of idle chatter.’
What? She’d hardly been chattering. All she’d done was answer the questions he’d put to her.
She’d taken a breath in order to point this out when he held up his hand to silence her.
‘I really do need to concentrate for a moment,’ he said brusquely. ‘Although I am familiar with the area, in a general sort of way, I have never travelled down this road.’
They had reached a junction to what looked like a high road.
‘I think we need to turn left,’ he muttered. ‘Yes, I’m almost sure of it.’
He looked to the right, to make sure nothing was coming, before urging the horse off the rutted, narrow lane and out onto a broad road that looked as though it saw a lot of traffic.
‘So how come,’ he said, once they were trotting along at a smart pace, ‘you ended up falling into such bad company? If your mother was so determined you would have a better life than she did how did you end up in the power of the termagant who invaded my room this morning?’
‘That termagant,’ she replied acidly, ‘happens to be my mother’s sister.’
‘You have my sincere condolences.’
‘She isn’t usually so—’ She flared up, only to subside almost at once. ‘Actually, that’s not true. Aunt Charity has never been exactly easy to get along with. I did my best. Well, at least at first I did my best,’ she confessed. ‘But eventually I realised that she was never going to be able to warm to me so it didn’t seem worth the effort.’
‘Why should she not warm to you?’
He looked surprised. As though there was no earthly reason why someone shouldn’t warm to her. Did that mean he had?
‘It was all to do with the way Mama ran off with Papa. The disgrace of it. I was the result of that disgrace. A constant reminder of it. Particularly while my father was still alive.’
‘He sent you back to your mother’s family while he was still alive?’
‘Well, not deliberately. I mean...’ Oh, why was it so hard to explain things clearly? She screwed up her face in concentration, determined to deliver the facts in a logical manner, without getting sidetracked. ‘First of all Mama died. And Papa said that the army was no place for a girl my age without a mother to protect her. I was getting on for twelve, you see.’
‘I do see,’ he grunted.
‘Yes... Well, he thought his family would take me in. Only they wouldn’t. They were as angry over him marrying a girl who “smelled of the shop” as Grandpapa Biddlestone was that his daughter had run off with a sinner. So they sent me north. At least Mama’s family took responsibility for me. Even though they did it grudgingly. Besides, by then Aunt Charity had also angered Grandpapa Biddlestone over her own choice of husband. Or at least the way he’d turned out. Even though he was of the Methodist persuasion he was, apparently, “a perpetual backslider”. Though that is neither here nor there. Not any more.’
‘By which you mean what?’
‘He’d been dead for years before I even reached England. I cannot think why I mentioned him at all.’
‘Nor can I believe I just said, By which you mean what.’
‘It doesn’t matter that your speech isn’t very elegant,’ she said consolingly. ‘I knew what you meant.’
The sort of snorting noise he made in response was very expressive, if not very polite.
‘Well anyway, Grandpapa decided I should live with Aunt Charity until my father could make alternative arrangements for