Free Tarleton's Wife by Blair Bancroft Page A

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    As Daniel stepped forward ready to do battle, Julia gripped his arm, the colonel’s daughter suddenly appearing from behind the bone weary, ill-dressed façade of the young woman the landlord was so ready to shun. “And what kind of Englishman are you, pray tell?” she inquired, her voice falling clearly on a room resounding with sudden silence. “Boney’s building an invasion fleet a scant few miles across the channel and you scorn those who suffered for you at Corunna?” Her contemptuous gaze swept from skewering the gaping landlord to encompass the entire room. “Here you all sat gorging on mutton and swilling ale while Britain’s army died for you. We—Daniel, Meg and I—we were with the men who slowed the tap of the hammers building Boney’s boats.”
    Julia turned her blazing eyes back to the landlord. “You dare…you dare tell two women who watched their husbands die at Corunna that you have no room at the inn! I am Mrs. Nicholas Tarleton of The Willows. We’ve come straight from Spain. We are not beggars and we will have a room.”
    “The major’s dead?” A strong masculine voice cut across the pregnant silence. “Nick Tarleton’s dead, you say?”
    Julia’s burst of emotion had drained what little strength she had left. She clutched Daniel’s arm as she regarded the stranger who had entered from an inner hallway. “We are not sure,” she murmured. “He was sorely wounded. It’s possible he still lives.”
    “Billings!” the stranger snapped at the landlord, “see to rooms for the lady at once. And give her my private parlor. Snap to it, man.”
    In a matter of moments a solid oak door had shut out the rising buzz of comment and speculation in the common room and the refugees were warming themselves before a crackling fire. The remarkably deflated and obsequious landlord apologized profusely, promising a hearty meal forthwith. As Billings scurried off to make good on his assertions, the stranger seated the women on a small sofa before the fire, waving aside all attempts to thank him. After a swift examination of Julia’s strained face, he poured a tot of brandy and handed it to her.
    Julia nodded her thanks, raising her clear blue eyes in appeal. “Would you mind, Sir? I know my companions are in need of brandy as well.”
    “You’ll be pleased to forgive our ways, Sir,” Daniel Runyon interjected swiftly, fully conscious of the incongruity of a batman and a lady’s maid being served by a gentleman, “but we’ve been through some rare bad times, the three of us. It will take us a wee bit to remember how to go on among the English.” Encouraged by a glint of wry amusement in the stranger’s eyes, Daniel ventured to add, “I promised the major I’d look after his lady, so I trust you’ll not take offense if I ask your name.”
    Their rescuer had already handed Meg O’Callaghan a tot of brandy and now held out a glass to Daniel, his glint of humor broadening into a smile. “It is the major who is well served,” he approved. “Jack Harding at your service. Estate agent to the Earl of Ellington.”
    Estate agent. Not bloody likely, thought Daniel. Estate agents were little better than upper class servants. Second sons of second sons of the landed gentry. Or poor relations, bastard sons. Aye, that was likely the case. A man who gave orders like the most arrogant nobleman or strode across a room as if he owned it was no man’s servant. The earl’s by-blow, more like. Which might also account for the iron behind his aristocratic arrogance. Jack Harding was six feet of hardened muscle, topped by windswept locks of chestnut hair that curled about his ears. He was dressed well enough in country clothes but a hint of danger lurked about him. Energy, barely leashed, which might explode at any moment. An able friend, Daniel judged but a poor man to cross.
    Julia introduced herself and her companions, adding, “You knew the major, Mr. Harding?”
    “In years past, when Nicholas