Page 7 of The Damsel
Leaping down, Robert retrieved his purse from the breast pocket of his coat. Laying a shilling in the boy’s dirt-smudged hand, he then proceeded toward the open front door.
“Take your time. I intend to be here for a while.”
“Aye, me lord!”
Robert ducked past a man toting a valise, glancing up at the wooden sign hanging over the door.
“The White Cock,” he murmured, interpreting the white rooster emblazoned across wooden signage. “Charming.”
He did not care about the place’s name—only that no one here would know him, and he could find oblivion in liquid form. A few heads turned as he strode toward the rough, wooden bar, but he ignored them, used to such. The men likely noted his fine clothes and recognized him as nobility, while the few scandalously dressed women lounging about on laps and against the wall wondered how much blunt they could milk out of him. Apparently, his expression indicated that he held no interest, because none approached him.
“Well, ain’t you a sight,” said the woman behind the counter, lips curved into an amused smirk as she eyed him.
Short and rotund, she wore a gown far too small to contain her oversized bosom. The apron tied about her waist had seen better days. A worn kerchief tied stringy, brown hair back from her round face, though a few stray strands clung to her forehead, damp with sweat.
“Good afternoon,” he murmured, sinking onto one of the stools pushed up to the counter.
She laughed, the sound thick and hearty, her large bosom heaving with each chuckle and snort. “We’re a humble establishment your Lordship. No need for your airs and manners around here. Say what you want an’ I’ll fetch it for you.”
With a sigh, Robert went back into his purse. “Whisky … the best you have.”
“Nothin’ to eat?”
He hadn’t eaten breakfast, but found himself without an appetite.
“No, th-”
He gritted his teeth around the ‘thank you' and held it in. This woman would not appreciate it, anyway.
“Whisky, comin’ right up.”
She bustled away and returned a moment later with a pint-sized bottle. It smelled bloody fantastic when she uncorked it and poured a healthy amount into a clean glass. Glancing down the counter at the other men seated with their drinks, he noted that his was the cleanest tumbler to be found. He supposed his appearance and airs had earned him that, despite her insistence otherwise.
“Leave the bottle,” he said, before she could take it away.
She held her hand out to him, accepting his payment. After retrieving a purse from within the bodice of her overstretched gown, she stashed the coins inside and nestled the money safely between her breasts.
“Shout if you’ve a need,” she said before moving on to another patron.
He was certain the pint would keep him occupied for a while. Lifting the tumbler, he took a swallow—one so substantial it burned going down, making his eyes water. He gritted his teeth and bore the discomfort, knowing there would be numbness on the other side.
And while he sat here feeling as if someone had shoved a fireplace poker down his throat and pulled his heart out through his mouth, it was the best he could hope for.
He finished off the first measure far too fast, his head already spinning as he poured another. He took his time with this one, gazing around the taproom as the warmth of the whisky suffused through his body. The occupants ranged from shabby to well-dressed, a common enough occurrence in a posting inn so close to London. However, the two ladies he spotted seated at a table near the large hearth drew his eye, striking him as out of place.
Both finely clothed in carriage dresses, cloaks, hats, and gloves, they were accompanied by a lone servant. The man sat eying the occupants of the room as if ready to strike out at anyone who thought to accost either of the women under his protection.
Robert might not have stared for long if not for the sudden recognition that dawned on him as his gaze fell on one of the two. Funnily enough, it was not the most attractive of the two who achieved his notice. Another man might not have noticed the woman seated across from the ravishing blonde.
But this particular woman seemed to require closer inspection every time Robert laid eyes upon her, and now proved no exception.
Lady Cassandra Lane would be considered plain in comparison to theton’s other eligible chits. A fair complexion seemed washed out by red hair masquerading as blond—strawberry, his mother would have called it. The shade did not have the vibrant luster of Daphne’s auburn, or her companion’s gold, falling into some muddle between the two. A light smatter of freckles lent a bit of girlishness to a face composed of sharp lines and angles.
He knew her to be a spinster firmly on the shelf. If she hadn’t been, then the recent scandal embroiling her and several other young women would have placed her into the ranks of the ineligible.
He wasn’t certain what it was about her that gained his notice. Perhaps it had something to do with the sullen expression she wore, and the fact that he’d never seen her smile. It could have something to do with the unflinching way she’d faced public scrutiny through what might be one of the beau monde’s most scandalizing trials. Whatever the case, Robert found his curiosity about her reaching its peak.
Predictably, she perked up a bit, tensing as if she felt eyes upon her. A natural reaction to being watched, for certain. But, as she turned her head, eyes darting as if to ferret out the person watching her, Robert found himself unable to breathe. He sat as still as death and waited for her to find him.
