was anything but royal. Ramming on his bowler and shoving the cane under his arm, he turned his back on the servant, locked the door and marched to the stairs, but not before both he and Marty heard the sound of a heavy object hitting wood.
Struggling to contain his mirth, the boot boy appeared to go obediently on his way. But a crafty glance over his shoulder told him that the other had descended and, upon hearing noisy sobs, he crept back to employ the keyhole. Maybe he could be the one to comfort her…
They were not the feeble kind of tears but loud wails interspersed with frustrated yelps and thuds, as if she were punching some substitute for the one who had angered her. He was still bent over trying to catch a glimpse of anything other than the bedroom wallpaper, when someone nipped his trim, uniformed buttock, shocking him upright.
The culprit stifled a giggle as her victim swivelled in dread. ‘What’re you up to, Bootsie?’
‘Ye daft mare!’ He scolded the chambermaid in a forced whisper, and then grabbed her to tussle and tickle her, chuckling good-naturedly. ‘I thought ’twas her daddy come back.’
Annoyed to learn that his attention was for another woman, Joanna’s laughter dissipated in a blunt Yorkshire response. ‘You lecher! Spying on that swanky lass – I might have known!’
‘I’m just checking she’s all right, that’s all!’ The tone was innocent, but the cheeky sparkle in Marty’s eyes showed otherwise. ‘They were going hammer and tongs at each other and then he left in a hurry and locked her in.’ Keeping his voice low, and oblivious to Joanna’s jealousy, he shoved his cap to the back of his head and bent to the keyhole again. ‘Maybe he hit her – she’s still bawlin’.’
Smarting over his ignorance of her own feelings, Joanna hissed, ‘Why don’t you just knock and find out?’ And with that she rapped briskly on the door before hastening away with her trolley, leaving him to panic.
He was set to run but the occupant was already at the door, her crying stopped and her voice eager with enquiry. ‘Who’s there?’
Still unnerved by Joanna’s action, Marty gave rapid apology through the barrier. ‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to distur—’
‘Don’t go!’ Her entreaty was swift but polite, its melodic tone permeating the wood to spellbind him. ‘Could you possibly help? My father’s gone out and taken the key in error. I’m locked in.’
Marty knew it was no error. He would be in deep trouble if he got involved in this. ‘I’m only the boots, Miss er –’ He broke off, not privy to her name. But her voice sounded lovely, stroked him persuasively as she begged again.
‘Oh please! Couldn’t you find a spare key and let me out?’
Wanting to assist, his face contorted with indecision, he glanced along the corridor to where a bad-tempered Joanna was darting in and out of a room changing the bed linen. She would have a key. Still, he dithered for a second, playing with his chin. Why had the girl’s father locked her in? It was too impertinent to ask, but he did not like the man who, gentlemanly attire or no, looked an arrogant brute. Thus decided, he straightened his cap and said, ‘Hang on, miss, I’ll just go see what I can do.’
Hurrying to accost the maid he explained the situation. ‘We have to help her, Jo.’
‘I don’t have to do anything!’ Edging her way past him to gather dirty linen, Joanna remained cross, white petticoats frothing under the sober dress as she marched to and fro.
Marty tried to cajole sympathy, leaning his attractive head close to her plain one and nudging her arm suggestively. ‘I always took you for a kind soul. How would you feel if your da locked you in against your will? Bet you’d want me to come and rescue you.’
For once his rough-diamond charm was lost. Ignoring the smell of buttermilk soap, those kind eyes, the winning smile, Joanna condemned him as a faithless friend. ‘It’s not my dad, it’s hers, and we shouldn’t get involved unless we want to lose our jobs!’ She stamped off with her bundle of sheets.
Thwarted, Marty grimaced and returned to apologise to the prisoner. ‘Sorry, miss, I tried to get a key off the maid but she wouldn’t be involved.’
There came a snort of frustration that condemned him as useless and the sound of a body slumping to the carpet. Squinting through the keyhole he caught a wisp of dark hair against the backdrop of pastel wallpaper. ‘Maybe your father won’t be long.’
Her reply was dull. ‘He’ll be out all morning.’
Upon learning this, Marty relaxed somewhat to enjoy the romantic notion that he was helping a damsel in distress. He was intrigued to know why she had been locked in, and difference in status had not prevented him from flirting with female guests before, given the encouragement. Some ladies found him attractive, though heaven knew why; personally he saw a gypsy when he looked in the mirror, a face that lacked the finely chiselled features he himself admired, with eyes that were somewhere between grey and green. When he was happy they appeared green, when sad they were grey – that was, if one could see them under those heavy lids. His hair was of a nondescript colour too; one might be kind and call it brown but it was the insipid brown of dried winter undergrowth and its texture similarly wiry, so that whenever he removed his hat it sprang back into place like trampled grass, no amount of oil able to control it. He disliked everything about his looks. Still, to his favour he had decent teeth and was taller than average, and he had learned that charm compensated for any other lack of attribute.
Leaning against the door, he voiced a bold and teasing statement. ‘Your father took the key on purpose, didn’t he?’
There was a pregnant pause, then the glint of an eye as she tried to assess her impudent Samaritan through the aperture.
Marty felt no need to apologise, but did offer an explanation as to how he had guessed. ‘I saw him leave. He seemed quite aggrieved.’
She fixed her glittering dark eye to his green one.
Concerned that he might have overstepped the mark, he added quickly. ‘I hung around ’cause I felt worried about you.’
‘Did you, really?’ She sounded grateful.
Encouraged, Marty prolonged the bizarre method of conversation. ‘It’s remiss of me to have to ask, miss, but could you tell me whom I have the pleasure of addressing?’
‘I’m Henrietta Ibbetson.’
When he did not automatically introduce himself in return, she prompted, ‘So, who are you?’
‘Oh, like I said, I’m only the boots, miss.’ The quality of her voice had him glued to the keyhole. If the hotel manager himself had come round the corner Marty could not have torn himself away.
‘You must have a name.’
‘I’m flattered you’re even interested, miss.’ Marty grinned to himself – that’s right, lay it on thick.
‘Why, naturally I am!’
‘Thank you, miss. It’s Martin Lanegan.’
‘Martin, I’d love to see you, but even with this unyielding timber between us I can tell by your voice that you’re a very kind person, very likeable.’
His
