“Ah...I think the gentleman means Weslay,” Prudence quickly interjected. “It’s his accent,” she added, a bit softer, and avoided making eye contact with Roan.
“Ah!” the clerk said triumphantly, and smiled. “A Yankee, I’d wager. I’ve heard the accent is a wee bit coarse.”
“Coarse?” Roan echoed.
“The northbound coach came through at three o’clock,” the clerk said. “Right on time, too.”
Roan gaped at him. This journey was nothing but one obstacle after the other. He felt as if he might come apart at the seams, just as a tent had come apart with a strong gust of wind at a wedding celebration he’d attended several years ago. “Three!” he said, his fury hardly contained. It was only twenty past.
The clerk casually braced his elbow on the counter and said easily, “The afternoon northbound stage comes by at three o’clock. Every day, three o’clock. Why, he’s never more than a quarter hour late. Unless there’s rain. If there’s rain, he might be a bit delayed,” the clerk said, settling in, warming to his explanation. “A good rain can slow the best drivers, you know, what with the roads in the condition they are. I remember the year it rained every day. Not a light rain mind you, but heavy rains. They lost a bridge up at Portrees, but the Royal Post, it still ran. Just ran late every day, sometimes as much as four or five hours. Sometimes as much as a day—”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Prudence said sweetly, stepping forward a bit, putting herself between Roan and the clerk. “We find ourselves in a bit of a dilemma. I should call on Mrs. Bulworth at once. Surely there is some method of transport to the Bulworth estate?”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not this time of day. Had you come earlier, you might have talked the dry-goods man into taking you. I believe he was out that way. But you’re too late. You can ride with the Bulworth man on the morrow. Not too many go in that direction from here. You came the long way to reach the Bulworth estate, didn’t you? Them that goes to Bulworth come down from Epsey.”
Prudence glanced helplessly at Roan.
“There is no other way we might continue our journey?” he asked. “No cab for hire, no portage?”
“Not through Himple, no sir. There’s an inn down the lane here, the Fox and Sparrow,” the man said, gesturing to his right. “It’s a decent inn, if you ask me. One wing is for the gentlemen, the other for families.” He looked at Prudence again. “Mrs. House is the innkeeper’s wife. You might tell her you fell on hard times. She doesn’t usually take in single women.”
“Pardon?” Prudence said, her brows dipping into a frown. “Why shouldn’t Mrs. House accept single women?”
“When is the next coach?” Roan asked, cutting Prudence off and surreptitiously touching her hand to keep her from protesting.
“Ten o’clock on the morrow,” the man said. “It will be on time, too, as it’s a Royal Post. Never tardy, not the Royal Post, not unless there’s rain. Otherwise, you could set your pocket watch by them, that’s certain. Old Mr. Stainsbury, he sets the church clock—”
“Is there a porter around? Someone who can see our trunks to the inn?” Roan interrupted.
“Eh? Oh,” the clerk said, clearly disappointed to be cut short. “I’ll have the post boys bring them up. They’ll expect a few coins for their trouble. They’ll carry up a bath, too, if needed.” He glanced again at Prudence.
She gasped. Her hand went to her hair, no doubt discovering that another tress had come down.
“The post boys, now there’s a set of riders who won’t tarry—”
“Thank you,” Roan said quickly. He opened the door and held it open for Prudence. “Miss Cabot?”
Prudence swept out before him, mortified. “I think I might die of shame,” she said when Roan stepped out behind her. She tried to tuck her hair back in.
“That would be a tragic ending to our outing,” he said. He took off his hat and ran his hand over his head.
“What are we to do?” she asked.
“We’ll take rooms at the inn.” He smiled at her. “And we’ll give the boys a crown to bring up the bath the clerk thinks you ought to have.”
With a roll of her eyes, Prudence started marching in the direction of the inn.
*
AS IT HAPPENED, there were no rooms left for single men, a fact Roan happened to overhear when he stepped inside to let the rooms with a bit of money Prudence had pinned to her pocket. That settled it to Roan’s satisfaction. He didn’t want to be away from Prudence, not after all they’d been through. And yet, he’d felt terribly presumptive that he would share a bed with her, not with the truth of their lives tearing through the curtain they’d pulled around themselves. Roan had taken enough from her. But he wanted more. God, how he wanted more.
He was, therefore, almost elated to learn there were no single rooms left.
The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)
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