as bad as the rest of the Evernden men when it came to loose women?
Damn. There had been enough scandal in the Evernden family and he had sworn not to add to it.
He dropped the remains of his cigar, a smouldering red spark in the night, and ground it beneath his heel as if quenching the fire in his veins. If only it were that easy. He turned and strode for the inn.
What the hell should he do with her, then? The thought of a bordello chilled his blood. A lady’s maid? A seamstress? Apparently, she had some talent in that direction.
Idiot. She was French. A married friend had complained bitterly about the cost of his French governess. If, as Christopher suspected, this friend in London proved to be a hum, why not palm her off on some country squire seeking to elevate the prospects of his hopeful brood?
Because he wanted her.
Hell fire. A wry smile twisted his lips at the way his mind bent towards the urgings of his body.
He rounded the bend. A lantern lit the sign of the Bird, a clenched fist with only the head of a bright-eyed robin visible. The door lay open, but the parlour window was dark and blank.
What would Mrs Dorkin say if he requested a tub of cold water to be sent to his chamber? She’d likely think he’d run mad and predict his death from pneumonia.
Tension locked his spine and he rubbed the back of his neck. A good strong brandy before bed would relax him and take the edge off the want clawing at the heart of his resolve.
Maybe two.
A brown gelding lifted its head from the trough on the stable wall. A nice beast, perhaps a little long in the leg, it had been ridden hard judging from the steam rising from its flanks.
Christopher ducked his head beneath the lintel and made his way through a narrow passage to the back of the house and the dimly lit taproom. Behind the long bar, Jack Dorkin, jolly and fat on his wife’s cooking, greeted him with a nod.
Dorkin put down a pewter tankard and his drying cloth. ‘Something for you, Mr Evernden?’
‘A brandy, please. Make it a double.’
Dorkin lifted a bottle and shook it. ‘I’ll have to go to the cellar,’ he muttered. ‘Won’t be but a moment, sir.’ He swung up a trapdoor in the floor and clattered down the steps.
Christopher leaned one arm on the battered oak bar. A couple of country labourers in traditional smocks, clay pipes clamped in whiskered jaws, clacked domino tiles in swift sure movements. An occasional chuckle or mutter indicated the state of play. A shepherd, his dog at his feet, nursed a tankard on the settle beside the red brick medieval hearth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement in the shadows at the far end of the bar. In a pool of light cast by an oil lamp, a square strong hand, the wrist covered by the cuff of dark green coat, lifted a mug. The horseman.
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