walked over to where she was sitting on Hugo’s curricle, his face set in uncompromising lines, like scored granite.
“You…”
Pen glanced about, and pretended to be absorbed in looking to see who he meant in the yard, while her mind raced like a firedog trapped in a wheel with a fresh coal.
What could he want? Had he somehow seen through her disguise?
Such thoughts seemed to tumble wildly through her head.
“You… Boy.”
The voice was one of such command that it brooked no opposition. Pen felt compelled to turn and face him, vastly reassured that he seemed to think her male.
His cold, grey eyes swept over her. Their intensity made her aware of the shabbiness of her borrowed clothes, the scrubby tufts of deliberately knotted hair on her head, all set against the dusty backdrop of Hugo’s carriage.
“Are you Hugo Burrows’ tiger?” he asked sharply.
“Er, yes…sir,” stuttered Pen in reply, at a loss for what else to say. An involuntary glance and a shift of her body towards the door of the inn seemed to tell him all he needed to know. His gaze simply followed hers.
He studied her, briefly, his hard, grey eyes narrowing slightly, before he span on his heel and marched towards the taproom with long, purposeful strides.
“Without even a thanking you,” fumed Pen at his back as he went. Then she remembered she was posing as a servant, a servant he probably considered so far beneath him she should count herself fortunate he took the trouble to walk over to her, rather than roar his question across the inn yard. Her only meaningful function to him was to provide information about the whereabouts of her employer, not to expect thanks.
A tide of resentful anger started from somewhere deep inside her and grew as Pen sat there atop a dusty curricle in that Sussex yard. Anger that rose and aimed itself at Hugo and her brother-in-law.
Not that I am at all interested , Pen told herself haughtily, whilst staring with as much ill will as she could muster in her exhausted state, towards the inn door. I know a popinjay of a man when I see one!
She looked down at her woefully grubby hands, having fast acquired suitably chipped and dirty finger nails from scaling the curricle at each tollgate that morning. Pen reflected glumly that she was soon going to have the hands to match her new station in life.
“Damn you, Sebastian,” she grumbled to herself. “I should be enjoying my first year out of widow’s weeds with men like that fribble, writing sonnets to my eyes and declaring me the unparalleled beauty of the season.”
And securing a line of daring handsome lovers if I had my way, just to show that wretch Sebastian Carrington that I can .
Her brother-in-law was an authoritarian figure who described her previous activities as unladylike and hoydenish, and levied any number of draconian measures under the guise of attempting to restrain his brother’s young widow from her wild, impulsive ways.
Pen suddenly felt a great curiosity as to why the Abrupt Gentleman was so interested in Hugo Burrows. She turned her mind towards the door to the tap, and without further thought, her feet followed suit.
Initially she was forced back out of the way by two very brawny fellows as they walked out of the taproom, but undeterred she ducked out to one side then slipped through the doorway. Pen blinked at the comparative darkness, before looking about, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to recognise a familiar face.
Neither Hugo Burrows nor the Abrupt Gentleman could be seen anywhere in the taproom, although there seemed to be plenty of nooks and crannies where men were talking, smoking their pipes and drinking tankards of Sussex brew.
“Can I help you, young sir?”
A large-breasted woman stood staring at Pen from by the taps.
“I am looking for a gentleman who entered earlier,” Pen replied.
The woman continued to stare, no reply forthcoming, and left Pen feeling a little foolish. She realised almost as soon as
“You…”
Pen glanced about, and pretended to be absorbed in looking to see who he meant in the yard, while her mind raced like a firedog trapped in a wheel with a fresh coal.
What could he want? Had he somehow seen through her disguise?
Such thoughts seemed to tumble wildly through her head.
“You… Boy.”
The voice was one of such command that it brooked no opposition. Pen felt compelled to turn and face him, vastly reassured that he seemed to think her male.
His cold, grey eyes swept over her. Their intensity made her aware of the shabbiness of her borrowed clothes, the scrubby tufts of deliberately knotted hair on her head, all set against the dusty backdrop of Hugo’s carriage.
“Are you Hugo Burrows’ tiger?” he asked sharply.
“Er, yes…sir,” stuttered Pen in reply, at a loss for what else to say. An involuntary glance and a shift of her body towards the door of the inn seemed to tell him all he needed to know. His gaze simply followed hers.
He studied her, briefly, his hard, grey eyes narrowing slightly, before he span on his heel and marched towards the taproom with long, purposeful strides.
“Without even a thanking you,” fumed Pen at his back as he went. Then she remembered she was posing as a servant, a servant he probably considered so far beneath him she should count herself fortunate he took the trouble to walk over to her, rather than roar his question across the inn yard. Her only meaningful function to him was to provide information about the whereabouts of her employer, not to expect thanks.
A tide of resentful anger started from somewhere deep inside her and grew as Pen sat there atop a dusty curricle in that Sussex yard. Anger that rose and aimed itself at Hugo and her brother-in-law.
Not that I am at all interested , Pen told herself haughtily, whilst staring with as much ill will as she could muster in her exhausted state, towards the inn door. I know a popinjay of a man when I see one!
She looked down at her woefully grubby hands, having fast acquired suitably chipped and dirty finger nails from scaling the curricle at each tollgate that morning. Pen reflected glumly that she was soon going to have the hands to match her new station in life.
“Damn you, Sebastian,” she grumbled to herself. “I should be enjoying my first year out of widow’s weeds with men like that fribble, writing sonnets to my eyes and declaring me the unparalleled beauty of the season.”
And securing a line of daring handsome lovers if I had my way, just to show that wretch Sebastian Carrington that I can .
Her brother-in-law was an authoritarian figure who described her previous activities as unladylike and hoydenish, and levied any number of draconian measures under the guise of attempting to restrain his brother’s young widow from her wild, impulsive ways.
Pen suddenly felt a great curiosity as to why the Abrupt Gentleman was so interested in Hugo Burrows. She turned her mind towards the door to the tap, and without further thought, her feet followed suit.
Initially she was forced back out of the way by two very brawny fellows as they walked out of the taproom, but undeterred she ducked out to one side then slipped through the doorway. Pen blinked at the comparative darkness, before looking about, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to recognise a familiar face.
Neither Hugo Burrows nor the Abrupt Gentleman could be seen anywhere in the taproom, although there seemed to be plenty of nooks and crannies where men were talking, smoking their pipes and drinking tankards of Sussex brew.
“Can I help you, young sir?”
A large-breasted woman stood staring at Pen from by the taps.
“I am looking for a gentleman who entered earlier,” Pen replied.
The woman continued to stare, no reply forthcoming, and left Pen feeling a little foolish. She realised almost as soon as
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