Page 23 of The Gentleman's Deception

“Could have sworn you said the White Hart,” Hannah muttered.

“You know, ahartis a deer, Hannah,” Artie said instructively. “Not a horse. Some very clever puns on the word inTwelfth Night.”

“Artie . . .” Lavinia warned.

“‘O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,’” Artie quoted, gazing steadfastly at Delia, his arm outstretched dramatically. “‘Methought she purged the air of pestilence! / That instant was I turn’d into a hart; / And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, / E’er since pursue me.’”

Delia applauded. “Bravo, Arthur. Very moving.”

Artie placed his hand on his chest. “Hart and heart, you see.”

“Of course we see,” Hannah grumbled. “We aren’t daft, now, are we?”

“Give us a hand, now, Hannah, if you please,” Artie said, shifting about so he could get his feet solidly under him. Hannah grabbed him beneath his elbow and helped support his weight while he rose shakily and settled next to Delia on the bench. “I daresay the rain has made my rheumatics act up,” Artie said in an apologetic voice. “Blast this getting old business.”

“Never you mind about that,” Delia said. “Sing for us, Arthur. Otherwise I fear we shall be sitting here for an hour or so listening to the rain rat-a-tat-tat until we are like to go mad. And you have such a lovely voice. I always did like listening to you sing.”

Lavinia turned her head to look out the window again. Lucas and his horse had disappeared from view. Part of her wondered if he’d decided he’d had enough of dealing with her and her friends and had ridden off in escape.

But another part of her thought he might just be the gentleman she’d told him he was last night at the inn. It was difficult for Lavinia to imagine a man who actually kept his promises—although Artie was a dear and was very loyal, so perhaps there were a few such rare men who existed.

Perhaps Lucas Jennings was such a man. Perhaps.

“‘When that I was and a little tiny boy, / With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain,’” Artie crooned softly in his low baritone voice. “‘A foolish thing was but a toy, / For the rain it raineth every day.’”

It was a sweet, melancholy little song Shakespeare had penned and wholly appropriate for the occasion, and not only because it was raining. The words spoke of a man’s efforts to improve his station only to continually encounter hardships regardless. Lavinia felt that way—or, more precisely, she felt her life thus far had allowed her to be nothing but a toy—a whimsy, an actress whoflaunted herself in breeches and whom men longed to treat as a plaything.

There had to be more. Life couldn’t always be about the rain.

* * *

Lucas was up to his neck in water, but at least now it was steaming-hot bath water, not the cold rain that had been running down his neck and soaking through all the layers of his clothes. The tub was too small to accommodate his tall frame, so he was sitting with his knees poking out well above the water, but such had been the case since achieving his adult height at the age of fourteen.

He rubbed soap on a cloth and scrubbed his right foot and then his left. While he did, he could hear Mr. Drake puttering around on the other side of the privacy screen. They’d managed—barely since there were other travelers who’d chosen not to continue their journeys in this weather—to find two small vacant rooms at the Rose and Crown near the town of Stevenage, and the innkeeper had been good enough, despite the bustle of extra business the rain had caused, to send his servants up with the tub and pails of boiling water. They’d also lit and stoked the fire, which was blazing nicely now. Lucas’s coat, waistcoat, and breeches were currently draped near the fire in the hope that they would dry sufficiently for Lucas to actually dress in them after his bath.

He still had his clean change of linen; last night, since circumstances had compelled him to share his room with a strange female, he had not shed some of his usual clothing.

On the Peninsula, a soldier slept in his clothes out of necessity because it enabled him to respond quickly and, therefore, more successfully during an attack. And although Lucas had spent the past several weeks enjoying a comfortable bed and the luxury of sleeping in nightclothes if he so chose, his encounter with the enigmatic Lavinia last evening had resurrected all his old precautionary military behaviors.

Now, for the second night in a row, Lucas was sharing a room with a stranger. This one, however, concerned Lucas significantly less. Case in point: presently, Mr. Drake was humming to himself as he moved about the room, occasionally letting loose a “heigh ho.” Lucas had wondered during the coach ride today if the elderly man had all his wits about him, as he’d occasionally made comments that had seemed rather off-topic—that is, until right now, when Lucas finally had time to consider the words in retrospect.

For example, Lucas thought as he soaped up his chest and under his arms, there had been that moment when the others had been discussing their plans when they arrived at Primrose Farm. Hannah had been fretting over the condition of the house, while Miss Weston had been expressing her desires to create a flower garden.

And then Mr. Drake had opened his mouth and said he was looking forward to playing the butler.Playingthe butler.

Lavinia and the others had given him a sharp look, which had caused the old fellow to withdraw into himself, mumbling something along the lines of using the wordplaybecause he’d never been a butler before and expected the challenge to be fun.

At the time, Lucas had considered Mr. Drake’s words merely eccentric, but now he wasn’t so sure, especially when added to the man’s propensity to spout Shakespeare.

Lucas slid under the water to rinse his hair, causing the water to slosh over the sides of the tub.

“You all right back there?” Mr. Drake called when Lucas resurfaced and began sluicing the water from his face and head. “Sounds like you brought the storm inside.”

“I’m fine.” Lucas rose from the tub and dried off. “Are my clothes dry, Mr. Drake?” he asked.

He heard the man move across the room to the fireplace. “Not quite, but making fine progress. Not long now, I should think.”

Blast.That was an inconvenience, to say the least, but there was nothing that could be done about it but attempt patience. He may as well use the time the best he could.

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