Page 1 of Miss Barton's Mysterious Husband
Chapter 1
Puddlebrook, Yorkshire, Christmas Eve, 1818
By heaven, he loathed Yorkshire.
Sir Roland Destry especially loathed it on a freezing, dark afternoon, when the precipitation couldn’t decide whether it was snow or rain. Whatever it was, it knew that it wanted to blight his journey. As another rivulet of icy water trickled down the back of his neck, he shivered and cursed beneath his breath.
Not for the first time, he regretted agreeing to spend the Festive Season with his friend, Sir Hugo Brinsmead, and his family. But as he encouraged his exhausted horse to plod through whatever this godforsaken village was called, he regretted it with particular savagery.
There was the whole Yorkshire thing, for a start. The county had never been lucky for him. It wasn’t as if Christmas was his favorite time of year either. These days, he preferred to hole up at his club for most of December and pretend the rest of the world wasn’t elsewhere, cuddling up together in cozy jollification.
But Hugo’s invitation had arrived when he was feeling lower than usual. He’d replied in the affirmative, before he had a chance to think through what he committed to. Not thinking through the consequences of a fleeting impulse had caused him more than enough trouble already, damn it all to hell.
Disaster was all but assured.
Having said yes to Hugo, he was duty bound to attend, but lack of enthusiasm meant he was late leaving London. Then the weather had turned on him – as it was wont to do at this time of year. Like Yorkshire and Christmas, winter was doing what it always did.
He probably should have brought his carriage. At least that would offer some shelter from the storm. But he’d looked forward to a good ride.
The journey had started out as a good ride. He’d taken his time, giving Titan plenty of rest along the way, and staying in luxurious hostelries, where he had private rooms and no obligation to wish anyone the compliments of the season.
But for the last twenty miles, travel had become sheer misery. He should have stopped at an inn somewhere. God knew why he kept plodding his way northward. He could only blame the stubborn stupidity that seemed to mark most of his actions.
So here he was, a good forty miles from Hugo’s estate. He was cold, wet, and exhausted. And the horrors of a family Christmas still awaited. Some days, a man wished that he’d never got out of bed.
The road through the village crossed a bridge. Through his grumbling, he was aware of a roaring in his ears, but he didn’t pay much attention.
Only when Titan balked at advancing did Roland emerge from what even he recognized as a colossal sulk to realize that while the road might once have led to a bridge, the bridge was no longer there. Instead, a raging torrent of brown water threatened to break the high riverbanks.
It seemed that he wasn’t going to spend Christmas Eve with Hugo after all. He was in such a funk, the news came as a relief.
“Nowt will get through that, sir,” a rough voice insisted from behind him.
Roland turned his head to see a portly fellow in a bedraggled sheepskin coat splashing toward him. A farmer, he guessed. He’d been riding through soggy fields all day.
Roland raised his voice over the thundering water. “I wanted to make Halifax tonight.” Hugo lived about ten miles past the city.
As the man approached, he kept his sodden hat pulled low against the tumbling rain. “Reckon the only place thou will make tonight is Puddlebrook.”
“Where’s Puddlebrook?”
The man gave a grunt of derisive amusement. “Thou art standing in it. Though tonight, it’s more Noah’s flood than Puddlebrook. Bridge went two hours ago.”
That was another thing that Roland remembered without fondness about Yorkshire. The denizens liked to make grim jokes.
“There was a crossroads about five miles back.”
“Flooding at Muckly Marsh, if thou goes that way. Flit in spate. Muckly Marsh goes underwater.”
Muckly Marsh didn’t sound appealing. “Then what in Jericho am I to do?”
“Reckon thou’d best hop down to the Spotted Fox and see if they’ve got a bed. Mind, we’ve had a few strangers through today, so it might well be a bench in the taproom.”
“The Spotted Fox?”
One leather-gloved hand waved toward the village behind them. “Aye, the inn thou passed on thy way. Did thou not mark it?”
Roland had been so sunk in a murk of misery and memories, he hadn’t seen much. Now that he took the trouble to look, he noted that Puddlebrook was a substantial village, sure to have at least one hostelry.
