He gave another snort, this one even more scornful. “They ain’t paying customers.”
“Four rooms,” she said. “Three for these people and one for myself. Supper for everyone, as well as breakfast, and dinner for tomorrow’s travel.”
The innkeeper’s expression melted into a confident sneer. “That’s a lot of money.”
Phoebe reached into her dress pocket and pulled out her reticule. She loosened the drawstring and retrieved her mother’s ruby ring. Her heart wrenched as she held it out. A murmur rippled through the travelers.
“This will more than cover the cost,” she said.
The innkeeper's eyes widened and Phoebe knew she had him.
His gaze lifted to meet hers. “How can I be sure you didn’t steal the ring?” He ran his gaze down the length of her. "You don’t look the sort to own something so fine. I don’t need—"
"Don’t be a fool," she cut in. "If I had stolen the ring, I wouldn't be trading it for simple lodging. The ruby is genuine, and the gold of the highest quality. I will require a bath as well and—" the innkeeper opened his mouth and she went on in a more forceful tone "—and your other guests will be given the same privilege should they choose."
The innkeeper glanced at the travelers. “If there’s any trouble—”
“If there is any trouble, I shall call the constable myself.” She brought her gaze to bear on the traveler’s spokesman. “I expect that won't be necessary.”
"My lady," he began, but she turned again to the innkeeper.
"Please see to my horse." With that, she brushed past him and into the inn.
*****
Shyerton Hall in London. Despite the fact the townhouse hadn't felt like home since her mother died, anticipation swept through Phoebe when the cab turned onto the dead end lane and the house came into view at the end of the road. She surveyed the neighborhood as they rolled along the lane. Autumn leaves littered the cobblestone street and rustled with the wisps of air created by the cab. The hour was early yet, nine-thirty or so, and no signs of life were evident in the homes they passed. Phoebe breathed a sigh of thanks for the small favor. She had dreaded any neighbors witnessing her arrival. The bath at the inn had refreshed her, but that had been two days and many dusty roads ago.
Water enough for drinking had been offered on the ride from Yorkshire, but no more. Phoebe had dipped a corner of her dress in the quarter cup she was given at the last stop the previous night and, without the aid of a mirror, had cleaned her face. The looks she’d gotten from drivers at the London depot told her she’d been unsuccessful in elevating herself above the status of street prostitute. Her hair hung in limp tresses around her shoulders. If the dusty taste in her mouth was any indication, even her tongue needed a good cleaning. All would be well, however, if her good fortune included her aunt and uncle’s absence when she arrived.
What of the travelers’ good fortune, she wondered? The man who had begged shelter from the innkeeper had introduced himself the following morning as David MacEwen. His gently offered thanks had wrenched her heart, but it was the children’s faces that haunted her. The meal they’d eaten at the inn and the night in a warm bed had restored some of the glow to their cheeks, but no hope illuminated their eyes. Suffering through the ride in the public carriage from Yorkshire to London had been worth the price of giving her horse to David. If they sold the beast, they would get enough for passage to a larger city where the men could find work. She laughed. It wasn’t her the travelers had to thank for the horse, but the Duke of Ashlund.
The cab jostled as the driver turned off the street and onto the gravel drive that circled Shyerton Hall. A moment later, they came to a halt at the townhouse steps. Phoebe opened the door, knowing the driver wouldn't bother to assist her, and stepped to the ground.
“Wait a moment,” she instructed, and hurried up the steps.
“This is your home, is it?” the driver said in a doubtful voice.
“Be good enough to wait,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’ll wait,” he said.
Phoebe tried the knob. Locked. If not for the driver, she would enter through the rear servant’s entrance. She glanced at him. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Phoebe faced the door and knocked several times with the ball of the knocker.
The door opened with a jerk and the butler stood in the doorway. “What—"
Recognition flooded his angular face and his mouth fell open.
Phoebe smiled reassuringly and stepped into the foyer, forcing him back. “Is there any money to be had in the house, Gaylon?” she asked.
“Money?” he repeated.
“Yes, money.” She pointed to the driver, who watched them intently. Gaylon glanced past her, and she added, “I find myself short of cash. If you don't have any, I'll fetch some from my room.”
“No, Miss. I'll deal with the gentleman.”