had only one child and that child was you. So a sister?’
‘It’s none of your affair and I’ll thank you to leave.’
‘Now that’s where we could disagree, I fear.’
‘I’ve nothing further to say to you. Leave of your own free will or at the end of my boot, it’s your choice.’
‘Proud crowing from someone plainly unable to enforce their threat.’ He gestured at Gareth’s bandaged ankle. ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave as quickly as you could want. What about this sister?’
Gareth weighed up the odds of forcibly removing his antagonist from the room and decided it was probably not worth the pain he would inevitably suffer. He would give him the minimum of information and speed him on his way.
‘She is merely an acquaintance who happens to be staying at the inn.’
‘An acquaintance you call a sister. Come, Denville, that won’t wash. Who is she?’
‘She’s a maidservant, no one you know and no one of any interest.’
‘A maidservant? Pitching it rather low even for you, my dear Denville. A maidservant—and your doxy, I presume.’
Gareth’s knuckles tightened until they were white. ‘Get out!’
‘Dear, dear, that temper again. Yes, I see, your doxy, and to pacify that dreadful harpy downstairs, you pass her off as your sister. You’re right, of course, I have no interest in her. The woman I seek would not pass the time of day with you, and as for impersonating a maidservant and sharing this vile refuge, the idea is laughable.’
‘Now you’ve had your laugh, you’re at liberty to leave.’
‘Indeed, and I shall do so very shortly. But first tell me how the cardsharping business prospers in Europe. Did you make a living?’ Glyde glanced down at the elegant coat of superfine he was wearing and then at Gareth’s outfit, daily looking more frayed.
‘And I always thought such practised tricksters went on prosperously,’ he murmured, ‘but it would seem not.’
Ignoring the intense pain in his ankle, Gareth moved with unexpected swiftness towards his enemy and clasped him violently round the throat.
‘If ever you call me a cheat again, you will not live,’ he ground out.
The door had remained open throughout their acrimonious exchange and with his hands still wrapped around Glyde’s neck, Gareth thrust his adversary through the doorway and down the stairs.
At the moment Glyde had been dismounting from his carriage, Amelie had escaped through the back entrance of the inn. She ran wildly past the crumbling outbuildings and through the small wicket gate that led on to open pasture. Dismayed and frightened at the turn of events, she ran without thinking where she was going. Her mind was in chaos, refusing to accept that Sir Rufus had tracked her to this remote place. It was impossible. Nobody except Gareth Wendover knew her whereabouts and he was ignorant of her true identity.
Slowly through the confused toss and tumble of thoughts a chilling idea began to emerge. Was it possible that they were in alliance together, that Gareth knew who she was and had been Glyde’s accomplice all this time? Was it coincidence that Rufus Glyde had appeared out of nowhere, just after she’d been abducted from the stagecoach? The fact that his carriage had mown Gareth down and thrown him into a ditch was probably an accident in their plan. Gareth had resolutely refused to tell her anything about himself. Was that in case she would unmask him too soon, before Glyde could catch up with them? And to think that she had so nearly put herself into his power, so nearly succumbed to his seductive charm.
By now breathless, she was forced to come to a stop. It was pointless running any farther across the fields. She had no idea where she was going and if she turned back again to regain the road, Glyde could overtake her in his curricle at any moment. A nearby clump of trees would provide shelter and from this vantage point she could observe the inn from a distance. She settled herself beneath a sturdy oak, her back against its grainy trunk. The gentle summer sun filtered through the leaves above and birdsong filled the air. It was hard to imagine there was anything wrong with the world. Gradually her breathing returned to normal and her disordered thoughts began to settle. It was madness to imagine that Gareth was in league with the man who was hunting her. How could he have arranged to be outside her house at the precise moment she’d climbed from the bedroom window? It was ridiculous. Even more ridiculous to think him an accomplice. She knew, as well as she knew herself, that he would loathe and despise a creature such as Glyde.
The time passed tantalisingly slowly. She told herself that her pursuer wouldn’t be at the inn long. Even if he ran into Gareth, he would not know him and any description of Miss Wendover’s appearance was unlikely to match that of the aristocratic woman Glyde sought. He would be eager to leave an inn as insalubrious as the George and make once more for the pleasures of London. And once he’d driven away, she could take shelter for one more night. Early tomorrow morning she would get her lift to Wroxall and be on the stagecoach to Bath and safety.
She waited for what seemed an age, although in reality only half an hour had passed since she’d fled the inn so precipitately. In that time she’d neither glimpsed any activity nor heard a sound from the distant building. Maybe, after all, her hiding place was too far away to hear the noise of any departure? She debated what to do. At this rate she could be sitting under the oak tree until nightfall. Gathering her courage, she decided to chance a return. With some stealth she began slowly to approach the inn and, meeting nobody, crept through the back entrance to the passage that ran the length of the building to the open front door.
Almost immediately she became aware of Glyde’s carriage being led back into the courtyard and turned to flee again. But at the same time raised voices sounded above and she was sure one of them was Gareth’s. She strained to hear what was being said, but the voices were too indistinct. As she listened, there was a sudden noisy creak of bedroom floorboards overhead. In a trice she’d whisked herself into the shadows beneath the stairs. Just in time. Rufus Glyde clattered down the staircase, his face twisted in fury. He was so close that had she reached out her arm, she could have touched him. She remained frozen to the spot as he stormed past her and out into the sunlit yard, throwing himself onto the driving seat of the carriage and whipping up his horses in a frenzy.
She found she was shaking uncontrollably and her first thought was to seek the sanctuary of her bedchamber. But there were questions burning through her brain that needed answers. The angry scene she’d come upon in its dying moments made no sense. Her old suspicions began to return; she needed to know what connection existed between these two men.
Contempt was written large on Gareth’s face. His ankle throbbed angrily, but it had been worth the pain to knock the sneering smile from the face of his foe. Glyde would be for ever associated with the scene of his disgrace and his heart rejoiced that he’d routed the man so completely. But if he were honest, it was the image of Glyde and Amelie together that had spurred him to extreme action. That image was seared on his mind’s eye, even stronger for being intangible. He had no idea why Glyde had turned up at this remote inn or what connection he had to the girl, but speculation gnawed relentlessly at him. He doubted he would ever get the truth from her; he’d been a fool to believe that she was trustworthy.
He was still standing by the window, exactly where she’d left him. If she hadn’t just heard that furious altercation, she might have imagined she’d been away for only a few minutes and that the intervening time was simply a bad dream. But Gareth’s face told another story. She could see immediately
