She glanced at the clock and could hardly believe the time. The coach for Bath left in just five minutes. Carefully, she unlocked the door and peered out. All was quiet and she tiptoed as swiftly as she could to the head of the small staircase and listened again. The only noise wafting up to her was the convivial banter from the taproom. No strong footsteps mounted towards her door. Gareth Wendover thought she was travelling to Bristol and would not know the Bath stage was about to leave. This was her chance.
Regretfully, she would have to leave her cloak bag behind in the parlour below, but at least she had her reticule and in it the precious ticket. In a minute she was down the stairs and lifting the latch on the door leading to the garden. A woman servant suddenly appeared from the kitchen quarters and stared at her uncomprehendingly. Amelie whisked through the door and quickly took the path to the front of the inn.
The scene was a little less chaotic than when she’d arrived in the hackney as many of the morning coaches had already departed. She was easily able to identify the coach to Bath, and once she’d shown her ticket to the guard, she was helped aboard. She chose one of the middle seats of the bank of four that lined either side. It was likely to be the most uncomfortable, but it would shield her from anyone looking in from outside. A large burly farmer sat to one side and a rotund country woman with an enormous basket on her lap on the other. There was very little room, but she could almost disappear between them.
It seemed a lifetime before the guard blew the signal to leave and the coach was pulling out of the yard. There was no sign of her tormentor. By now he was sure to have begun drinking again and would hardly miss her absence. Strangely, she didn’t feel as elated at her escape as she should. It was ridiculous, but she almost fancied that she’d let him down in some way. After all, he’d shown some care for her. If it weren’t for him, she would still be dangling on the rope of sheets or, even worse, impaled on the front railings. He’d helped her down, found a cab and escorted her to the inn. He’d offered her shelter and refreshment. He’d pulled her into his arms. He’d held her in a crushing embrace. Her mind stopped. That was an image she must be sure to leave behind.
They were already passing through Belgravia and turning out on to the highway that ran westwards. She hoped her family had no idea yet that she was gone. Fanny would be worrying frantically and the sooner she could let her maidservant know that all was well, the better. And all was well, she convinced herself. She’d had a gruelling experience, but she’d achieved her aim. She would not be there to greet Rufus Glyde this morning. Instead, she was on her way to her grandmother’s and to safety.
Gareth drained the last of the coffee pot and decided to go in search of his reluctant travelling companion.He’d been unsure whether she was telling the truth about the ham, but she’d certainly begun to look very white and he’d not wanted to risk any unpleasantness. Truth to tell, she’d looked so small and vulnerable he’d felt a wish to protect her rather than pursue her. He shook his head at his stupidity. She was as mercenary as the rest of the world, no doubt. Her story about escaping from an importuning son probably had a grain of truth in it, given her undeniable beauty, but he was quite sure there was another tale to tell. Perhaps she really was a thief. Perhaps she’d allowed the son too much licence and was now scared to tell her mistress of the inevitable result.
Thanks to the very strong coffee, he’d sobered up completely in the hour that she’d been gone. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to get involved with the girl. A sense of the ridiculous, perhaps? Or a whiff of intrigue—a maid with a French name, finicky manners and a keenness to hide her face. He felt too weary to puzzle any further. Two sleepless nights had begun to take their toll and he was now eager to wash his hands of her. He would simply put her on the Bristol coach and go back to his hotel. It had been stupid of him to think that he could flee his obligations. Tomorrow he would send a message to the solicitor and sign whatever papers that worthy presented.
He glanced at the cloak bag Amelie had left on the bench. He’d better restore it to its owner and assure her that she had nothing further to fear from him. He made his way upstairs to the front bedchamber, but it was empty. Thinking he’d got the wrong room, he looked into another and surprised the chambermaid who was making up the bed.
‘I’m looking for a young lady,’ he excused himself, ‘she was feeling unwell and came up to rest.’
The maid looked at him blankly. ‘She’s not ‘ere.’
‘I can see she’s not here,’ Gareth returned shortly, ‘but have you seen her?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’ The maid continued smoothing out the bedspread with a bored expression on her face. ‘Not many people come up ‘ere.’ She paused and looked vacantly out of the window. ‘There wus a stranger on the stairs a while ago.’
‘A young woman?’
‘I couldn’t rightly say.’
‘Why ever not?’ he asked impatiently.
“Cos of the cloak.’
‘A black velvet cloak?’ The maid nodded absently.
‘That’s her. Where is she?’
‘How would I know? She went down the stairs and out the door.’
‘What door?’ Gareth was suddenly alert.
‘The back door, of course.’ The maid shook her head at his obtuseness. “Appen she’s in the garden taking the air,’ she said helpfully.
He swore softly to himself and ran down the stairs two at a time. The garden was empty as he knew it would be, but he saw the path that led around the inn and followed it into the courtyard. The yard was also nearly empty. The last coach of the morning had departed and the inn servants were clearing up the mess the passengers and drivers had left behind.
He accosted a thin, gangling youth who was mournfully sweeping the last of the straw from the cobbles.
‘The stage to Bristol?’ he enquired curtly.
‘There ain’t no stages to Bristol today,’ the boy confided happily, leaning on his broom and glad for an excuse to stop work. ‘Bath now, mebbe. And you can allus go on from Bath.’
‘Where’s the stage to Bath?’
‘Where? Somewhere near ‘Ounslow, I reckon.’ The boy grinned cheekily. ‘What d’you think, Jem?’
Jem staggered to a halt, bent double under the weight of the saddle he was carrying. ‘With ole Tranter driving, probably not yet clear of Kensington,’ he jeered.
The other men stopped their work and joined in a chorus of raucous laughter. An elderly ostler leaned lazily against the inn wall and chewed a straw. He smiled widely, enjoying Gareth’s discomfort.
‘Next one’s tomorrow, sir. That’s if you don’t mind a little wait,’ he sniggered.
‘Move yourself and get me a horse immediately,’ Gareth snapped in response and ran back into the inn. He threw money onto the table in payment and snatched up Amelie’s cloak bag. He’d been willing to let her go when he could play the benefactor. But how dare she play him false? A bargain was a bargain and he was going to make her pay.
He stormed back into the inn courtyard and tapped his foot impatiently.
It took nearly fifteen minutes to make the horse ready and by that time he was in a towering rage. He threw the cloak bag across the saddle, then leapt onto the horse’s back and wheeled her round to face the courtyard entrance.
“Appen you might catch ‘em up,’ opined the old ostler, still chewing his straw vigorously, ‘but I ain’t anyways too sure on it.’
Gareth’s reply was to spur his mount forwards and out of the courtyard in one bound.
Chapter Three
Wedged