Page 78 of Libby's London Merchant
The duke rolled down the glass and leaned his head out the carriage window. “Stop this vehicle,” he commanded.
The carriage stopped and he got out without a backward glance. The coachman, his eyes alive with curiosity, handed him his shabby bag, while Eustace scolded him from the carriage and Lydia Ames put in her mite.
He merely stood there, bag in hand, his face an expressionless study, until the chaise rolled on.
He walked slowly toward the next village, ignoring the offers of rides from carters bound for London and farmers with their loads of hay. He knew that his knee would begin to pain him after too many miles, but he wanted to feel discomfort. He remembered lessons of his youth from the vicar, stories of penitents rolling about in sackcloth and ashes to atone for misdeeds that didn’t seem half so serious. When did any Old Testament graybeard have to gaze into eyes as beautiful as Libby’s and watch them fill with tears and know that he had been the author of her humiliation?
And yet, it had been a perfectly reasonable offer. He had made it several times before with signal success. None of his previous charming confections had paled at the thought of just such an alliance as he had offered Libby Ames.
“Libby Ames, I have it on good authority that I am a wonderfully proficient lover,” he shouted out loud, setting down his bag with a thump. “Women don’t exactly beat a path to my door, but no one’s ever been dragged there kicking and screaming, either.”
No one answered. He stood in the empty road and realized that if Libby Ames had been standing before him, she would not have answered either. Again he saw before him those beautiful eyes, hurt beyond his comprehension.
After all, Nez, you block, whose word do you have on your masculine prowess anyway, except those beauties you have kept so comfortably? Were they about to tell you anything but what you wanted to hear? Don’t flatter yourself. They weren’t so beautiful, either.
Only one thing would do now, and the thought moved him to pick up his stride. There was a village not far, and what was a village without a public house? He would take off the rough edge with a tankard of ale. His mouth began to water. He would order a pint of Kentish brew so dark it looked black, with the bitter taste of homegrown hops and malts, ale that peeled the skin off thirst and mellowed the mind.
He came to a village and wiped his lips in anticipation. There it stood before him, the Cock and Hen, an inn with a thatched roof and sign swaying invitingly in the slight breeze. From the looks of the place, he could procure a private parlor and not be bothered by stares or conversation he didn’t wish to hear.
He set his foot upon the threshold and stopped, pulling out his watch and looking at it. Nine o’clock, by damn. The fragrance of sausage and eggs assailed his nostrils and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had been too distracted for breakfast at Holyoke Green. He would indulge himself now and have that ale later, when it was hot and he had worked up more of an urge for it.
An hour later, full to bursting with the best sausage this side of the Channel, eggs, and bread so fine that he smiled at the memory, he started off again. The bag he left in a dark comer of the taproom. There was nothing in it of value. He strode along, arms swinging, on the road to London, enjoying the scent of flowers on the breeze and wondering how people managed, who never set foot in Kent.
Up ahead somewhere, he knew there was a pub with a pint, and he would find it when he was good and ready.
Women be damned, and you, too, Libby Ames, he thought. Do you seriously think you will get a better offer? Anthony Cook would like to tuck you in his bed, but I don’t think his father will approve, and the doctor seems to want the esteem of that prickly man. He chuckled. Not that Anthony Cook is God’s gift to females. You had your chance, Libby Ames, and you muffed it.
That bit of self-righteous absurdity was enough to carry him another ten miles closer to London. By the time he arrived at the next promising village, he was more than ready for that pint.
He asked for a private parlor and received it. He sat down with a sigh, flexing his aching knee. In another moment, the keep brought in a tray with a tankard full to the brim with the specialty of the house.
Nez eyed the beautiful brew. “Bring me another in ten minutes,” he said. “I have worked up a thirst you wouldn’t believe, sir.”
The man nodded and left him to his cup. Nez regarded it as a long-lost comrade and raised the tankard to his lips, more than ready for that first drop of bitterness to roll down his throat.
There he sat, poised, ready, but unable to swallow. He rolled the ale around in his mouth and then spit it back in the cup. Two strides took him to the window, where he dumped the brew onto the roses blooming below. He leaned on the sill then, the cup dangling from his hand.
He had stopped drinking under tyranny from Anthony Cook and then to please Elizabeth Ames. As he watched the foam sink into the ground, it occurred to him that he was now abstaining to suit himself.
He was still there, smiling to himself, when the landlord returned with the second pint.
“Sir, are you well?” the man asked when he didn’t move from his contemplation of the roses.
Nez looked up, startled. “Yes, yes, I am fine.’’ He glanced at the tankard of ale the landlord set on the table, and shook his head. “No, sir, I think I’ll not have that, after all. Can you tell me where the mail coach comes?’’
He had thought about renting a hack, but the strain on his knee would likely still prove too much. Better to tough it out on the mail coach. Likely he would be sufficiently entertained. He would meet any number of “genuine articles” on the mail coach and have stories to tell Libby . . . He shook his head as another wave of desolation washed over him. No stories, no Libby.
His arrival in London after dark was unheralded by anyone other than porters who loitered about the posting house. When they saw that he had no bags to be hauled somewhere at an extortionate rate, they ignored him. He hailed a hackney cab and was deposited at the entrance of the ducal manor.
Luster met him at the door, staring in surprise. “Sir! We have been wondering where you were,’’ the butler said, not precisely dancing up and down in excitement, but rubbing his hands together in evident relish. He eyed the duke’s casual attire with some disfavor, taking in Major Ames’ old trousers, and boots and shirt that had left Clarges Street two months ago in much better condition.
“Your grace, your clothes appear to have fallen upon hard times,” he said. “Cheedleep will probably dissolve into a nervous state if he sees the condition of your boots, so perhaps you will wait in the library while I prepare him.”
Nez smiled at his butler, eager for Luster to take another good look at him. He elaborately ignored sidelong glances that the butler cast his way as they walked together to the library. Luster opened the door and stood aside while the duke entered. “Beg pardon, your grace . . .”
“Yes, Luster?”
“I can’t account for it, considering your clothing, but you are looking rather splendid, if I may say so,” his butler said. “Not that Cheedleep would agree, if one considers your rig-out. Wherever you went appears to have suited you.”
