Captain Durant's Countess - By Maggie Robinson Page 0,67

would have to have her again, and the hour was growing late. Breathless, he looked down at her flushed face. “Beautiful,” he whispered, and made himself get off the chaise and dress.

Chapter 17

There would be no chance meeting with his countess in the garden tonight. Reyn finished his dinner, rang for the tray to be taken away, and actually picked up one of the books Maris had put in his room for his edification. It didn’t take long for his eyes to droop and his head to swim. But if he went to bed, he’d be wide awake in the middle of the night with nothing to take his mind off his restlessness.

Best to leave his suite, perhaps cadge another cigar, wander about, and have a word or two with some servants. Maybe even walk down to the village pub. One always picked up a good bit of gossip at a pub.

He put on the smudged spectacles, then removed them so he could clean them with a handkerchief. They were growing on him, not that they improved his vision at all. They gave him something to hide behind, though.

How often was one judged on one’s appearance? He thought of Maris, who’d come to him buttoned-up and spotless, obscuring her looks with an excess of respectability. He much preferred her rumpled and flushed from a good fucking.

Enough of that. He was damned lucky to have bedded her twice today. Now that he was almost thirty—well, in another year anyhow—he’d have to anticipate that his capability would diminish, just like the poor old earl. Reyn hoped he still had some good decades left, but one never knew. He’d been lucky so far, despite the ball embedded in his shoulder and the saber scars. Tomorrow he could prick his thumb on a thorn in Maris’s garden and die from sepsis, or break his neck falling from Phantom, or be shot dead in a duel by David Kelby.

Hadn’t Maris said he was staying in the village? The cigar became even less of a possibility as Reyn clapped his hat on his head, hurried downstairs, and walked through the massive front door that a John held open for him.

He’d ridden through Kelby. It was not very big and not very far from the house, an easy jaunt for a man who’d marched through most of Europe and eastern Canada. A thousand stars lit the clear night sky as Reyn walked between the copper beeches, listening to the owls hoot and the bare branches rattle.

Reyn preferred the solitude of the night. He’d never had trouble staying awake on patrol. Every sense came alive and he could practically hear the universe thrumming all around him. In the dark, no one could read and other skills became much more useful.

He didn’t expect to encounter the enemy on the road, but once he got to the pub, he’d have to be careful. Reyn was anxious to hear what the local populace had to say about the Kelby family. And if he was lucky, he’d find the earl’s nephew over a pint with his informant.

A haze of wood smoke stung Reyn’s eyes as he approached the tiny village. Kelby was mostly dark, but the inn and its front-room pub were lit up like Christmas. He could smell roasting meat and years worth of sour ale that had spilled in the alley.

He pushed open the door and all conversation stopped. He should have expected that, and slouched, trying to look as much like a distracted antiquities expert as possible.

There was no sign of David Kelby. Reyn plunked himself in a corner and ordered ale from a very pretty barmaid. Talk resumed and he wondered which of the men would approach him first to ask for his curriculum vitae.

He didn’t have long to wait. Two fellows came over to him, both looking somewhat familiar.

“Sir, you’re the man the earl hired to go through his attics, ain’t you?”

“I am indeed. Do I know you?”

“I’m Bob Hastings. I took your horse when you came the other day. Fine animal. This here’s John.”

“Francis Smith,” the other man said with a black look to his friend.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Night off?”

“We do get them regular. The earl’s good that way.” Bob took a mouthful of the brew he’d brought with him.

“He seems a very nice old gentleman,” Reyn agreed.

“Not like his nephew.”

“Shut your gob, Bob!”

That had the effect of reducing Bob the groom to helpless laughter.

Reyn wondered how steadily he’d been drinking. Well, this is altogether too