Free The Notorious Lord Havergal by Joan Smith Page B

out.
    “We are connections through Horace’s marriage to your—what was she—cousin?”
    “Yes, but--"
    “And you are my guardian. Now surely a charge may call his guardian by her Christian name when he is shamelessly battening himself on her. You cannot call on propriety, Miss Beddoes. We have been carrying on a most improper, clandestine correspondence for a twelvemonth. It is high time we stop lording and missing each other. I shan’t ‘miss’ you till I leave,” he joked. “That is a pun, ma’am. Are you not going to remind me of Dennis’s excellent setdown: A man who could make so vile a pun would not hesitate to pick a man’s pocket.’ Come now, show me your claws.”
    “By deriding your own conversation, you leave me nothing to say.”
    He turned a jeering smile in her direction. “You could say I might call you Lettie.”
    “Very well then. You may call me Lettie,” she said primly.
    He acknowledged it with a gallant bow and a smile. His eyes soon veered left to another road and another possibility of reprieve. “Don’t even think it,” she said. “An extremely bizarre hermit lives in a cave down that road. He shoots anyone who trespasses.”
    “I don’t see any signs posted.”
    “You’ll feel the bullets if you dare to enter.”
    To offer any further objections to Ashford would only confirm her suspicions, so Havergal steeled himself for the visit. He’d whisk her in and out of the shop as quickly as possible and pray they didn’t meet Crymont and his friends.
    “You can stable your rig at the Royal Oak,” she mentioned when they entered the town.
    His heart sank to his boots. “I’ll just leave it at the curb.”
    “We might bump into Crymont at the inn,” she tempted.
    He controlled his shiver and replied, “You said you would not be long.”
    “I thought you might like to stroll down High Street. There is a church with a rather fine perpendicular tower toward the end of the street. It has some interesting monuments and brasses. Or perhaps you are not interested in churches?”
    “One cathedral a day is usually enough for me,” he said, reminding her of the trip to Canterbury.
    Canterbury was not Ashford. No one she knew would see her with Havergal there. She sighed and pointed out the drapery shop a block away.
    Havergal scanned the street. It was not so very busy at an early hour in the morning. He saw at a glance that Crymont was not about and decided to risk the stroll to please her, but he dare not stable his rig at the Royal Oak. He tossed a street urchin a coin to hold his team while they entered the shop. The purchase of the gloves took only minutes, as she had promised. What took so much time was being presented to her friends. Miss Beddoes seemed to know every soul in the shop, presented them all to him, and did it with a peculiarly proprietary air.
    Havergal was not a vain man, but it eventually occurred to him that she was showing off her exhibit. She wanted her friends to see she had a young lord, a bachelor, staying with her. It was her friends who slyly inquired for Lady Havergal, and Miss Beddoes was not slow to enlighten them of his marital status. Some corner of her cast-iron mind had taken note of the fact that he was eligible, then. Perhaps she was not so unflirtable as he thought.
    When he had done the pretty with half a dozen ladies, they went back outside. A quick perusal of the street told him Crymont was still not about. He allowed himself to be taken to admire the church. Knowing Crymont would never venture inside a church, he felt safe to linger there, admiring the tombs and brasses. After a lengthy perusal, it was Lettie who suggested they should leave.
    “For we have to drive home, have lunch, change, and get to Canterbury. Pretty hard trotting for one day.”
    Havergal laughed, taking it for a joke. “And that still leaves us the evening,” he said. “You are forgetting the duke is taking us to dinner.”
    “Forget it?” she asked in