‘To think I was concerned about my name being dragged through the mud,’ he muttered, giving it a shake. ‘You managed to pitch me into the only puddle for miles around.’
She felt a pang of guilt. Just a small one. Because now not only was his eye turning black around the swelling he’d already had the night before, but he also had a nasty gash from the stone she’d thrown, spatters of blood on his neckcloth, and a damp, muddy smear down one side of his coat.
She braced herself for a stream of recrimination as he clambered back into the driving seat. But he merely released the brake, took up the reins, and set the gig in motion.
His face was set in a fierce scowl, but he didn’t take his foul mood out on her. At least she presumed he was in a foul mood. Any man who’d just been accused of indecency when he’d only been trying to see to a lady’s comfort, and then been cut over what must already be a sore eye, was bound to be in a foul mood.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after they’d been going for a bit. Because she felt that one of them ought to say something.
‘For what, exactly?’
Oh. So he was the sort of man who sulked when he was angry, then, rather than one who ranted.
‘For throwing the rock. For hitting you when normally I couldn’t hit a barn door.’
‘You are in the habit of throwing rocks at barn doors?’
‘Of course not! I just meant... I was trying to apologise. Do you have to be so...so...?’
‘You cannot think of the word you want?’
‘No need to mock me.’
‘I didn’t mean to. It was an observation. I have already told you that I am struggling to find the words I want myself this morning. And, like you, none of this seems real. I suspect that when whatever drug we have both been given wears off I shall be rather more angry about the rock and your assumptions about me. But right now all I can think about is getting something to drink.’
‘A cup of tea...’ She sighed. ‘That would be heavenly.’
‘A pint of ale.’
‘Some bread and butter.’
‘A steak. With onions.’
‘At breakfast?’
‘Steak with onions is always good.’
She shuddered. ‘I don’t know about that. My stomach doesn’t usually wake up first thing. I don’t normally eat much before noon.’
‘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