Barbara Metzger Read Online Free PDF

slumguzzled for sure.”
    St. Cloud helped the older man back up to the curricle, wishing he had his flask, at least. “Whatever that is, don’t blame yourself. I shouldn’t have been woolgathering either, but who would have thought there’d be bridle culls on this side road in Berkshire?”
    “Amateurs, they was, you could tell.”
    “Yes, I was able to convince them to leave my ring, when any flat knows the thing can be melted down for the gold.”
    The groom spit through his teeth in disgust. “An’ only one gun between them.”
    “It was enough,” the earl answered, trying to keep the chestnuts to the least bumpy portion of the road. “And now they have mine.” He was trying to recall how soon they could expect to come upon the next inn. He’d lost track of their position in the headlong rush and in truth hadn’t been paying proper attention before then. There had to be something closer ahead than the Rose and the Crown was behind, even a hedge tavern. He didn’t like Foley’s color.
    The groom was barely conscious when St. Cloud turned into the yard of a place whose weathered signboard proclaimed it the Fighting Cock. Dilapidated, in need of paint, and with one sullen stable hand to come to their assistance, this inn was a far cry from the Rose and the Crown. There was a vast difference in their style of arrival, too. Now the horses were lathered and plodding, the curricle was scraped and spattered, the earl was disheveled, and his groom was bloody and sagging on the seat. And there was no pocketful of coins to grease the wheels of hospitality.
    Their reception was commensurate with their appearance. The earl had to rub down the horses himself while waiting for the doctor. He had to leave his signet ring as pledge for the surgeon’s bill and the laudanum he prescribed as well as for Foley’s bed and baiting the horses. The innkeeper offered to throw in some stew as part of the bargain, but St. Cloud was too furious to eat. There were no horses to be hired, not on tick, and no room for the earl, not on Christmas Eve.
    “You can’t mean to set out so late,” Foley complained from his rude palette behind the kitchen stairs. “And without me.” He tried to sit up.
    The earl pushed him back down. “Stubble it, you old hen. I’m not your only chick. There are a few hours of daylight left, and we’re not that far from St. Cloud. Anyway, it looks to be a clear night ahead. I’ll send a carriage back for you at first light.”
    “But the chestnuts, m’lord, they’re tired.”
    “They’ve had their rest, and I’ll travel slowly. Besides, I wouldn’t leave my cattle in this cesspit.”
    Foley grinned as the laudanum pushed his eyes closed. “Aye, but you’d leave me.”
    St. Cloud tucked the thin blanket around his man. “No choice,” he told him. “Lady St. Cloud is frantic enough as is. If my bags arrive and I don’t appear as promised, she’ll send out the militia. Blast all females and families.”
    “And footpads and fools.”
    “And clutch-fisted innkeepers.”
     
    St. Cloud was still furious an hour later. Two hours later, when he got down again to lighten the load as the chestnuts strained up yet another hill, he was furious, footsore, and hungry.
    Some other traveler must have had trouble with the incline, he observed, spotting a small pile of books by the side of the road. The books were neatly stacked on a rock, off the damp ground and in full view, as though waiting to be picked up. St. Cloud did not think they were left for anyone in particular, for night was coming on, this country byway was practically deserted, and the books were neither wrapped nor tied. No, the chap must simply have grown weary of carrying the heavy volumes. The earl picked them up, thinking that if he came upon his fellow traveler, he could offer a ride and restore his belongings.
    Oddly enough, the books were all religious in nature. Who would bother to carry a hymnal, a Bible, and a book of sermons,