Free Vanity by Jane Feather

departure.
    Her feet flew down the stairs, and she burst out into the bitterly cold sunshine, breathing deeply, drawing the icy air into her lungs, enjoying the sharp, cleansing pain. Everything was white and pristine under its fresh carpet of snow, the usual filth and squalor of the narrow streets buried a foot deep. The sky was a brilliant blue, and her boots crunched across the snow as she turned to the side of the inn in search of the stableyard. They would presumably have some kind of vehicle for hire that would carry her back to London.
    The only vehicle in the yard, however, was a carter’s dray drawn by two massive shire horses. Ben and the gangly lad were unloading barrels. Ben glanced up at Octavia and then carried on with his work as if she weren’t there. She stood awkwardly, looking around. The stable buildings were all closed up, and she knew that one horse, at least—the highwayman’s roan—was stabled within. Maybe, if they didn’t have a carriage or gig she could hire, they wouldhave a riding horse. She wasn’t dressed for riding, but that was the least of her worries.
    She walked up to the dray. “Your pardon, innkeeper, but I wish to hire a carriage of some kind … or a horse, if that’s all you have available.”
    “Not a livery stable, miss,” Ben said shortly. “Don’t ’ave nuthin’ like that.” He was less rude than Bessie, but no more helpful.
    Octavia slipped her hand into the slit in her skirt, feeling for the pouch. Maybe a little gold could persuade Ben to change his mind. She shivered, realizing for the first time that in her dudgeon she’d abandoned her cloak, gloves, and muff, in the highwayman’s parlor. It was a damnable nuisance. Apart from the fact that she’d freeze to death between there and Shoreditch without them, they were her only decent outer garments, essential to her appearance as a respectable young woman of good family, and she couldn’t afford to replace them. But the prospect of trailing foolishly back to the parlor after such an exit was insupportable.
    “Death and damnation!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot in the snow in frustration.
    “Forgot something, Miss Morgan?”
    Lord Rupert’s suave tones came from the back door of the inn. He stood in the doorway, a dark velvet cloak lined in turquoise silk hanging from his shoulders, a black tricorn tucked beneath his arm. Over his other arm he carried Octavia’s cloak, her muff and gloves in his hand.
    “I’m afraid you really will catch your death of cold if you persist in running around in just that flimsy gown,” he said, coming toward her, shaking his head in reproof. “It’s really not at all sensible, you know.”
    Octavia ground her teeth as he carefully placed her cloak around her shoulders and fastened the clasp at the neck.
    “Gloves,” he said, taking her hand and manipulating her fingers into the right holes as if she were a toddler who couldn’t manage to do it for herself.
    “For heaven’s sake, I can do it!” Octavia jerked her hand away and pulled the glove on before snatching theother from his hold. “I wish to hire a carriage to take me home, but the innkeeper says they don’t have such a thing. I suppose they might find one on
your
authority,” she added bitterly, drawing the hood of her cloak over her hair. “Well, I daresay I can walk.”
    Lord Rupert sighed. “You are a most obstinate and perverse girl. I said I would convey you home this morning, and I will do so.”
    “I have no wish to be beholden to you any further, sir. I
am not for sale!”
To her fury she could hear tears in her voice, and even the knowledge that they were tears of anger rather than hurt didn’t make such weakness easier to bear. She turned from him with a rough gesture as if she would push him away.
    “You are not beholden to me, Octavia. If anything, the shoe is on the other foot.” He laid an arresting hand on her arm. “I told you yesterday that you were given to extravagant language