least he was alive. Able to savor the rain on his skin. Able to harass poor innocent criminals like herself.
The higgledy-piggledy outline of the Bertie Arms finally came into view, and she let out a sigh. It was even worse than she remembered. Torrents of water streamed from the low-pitched roof and the timber-framed facade barely looked capable of supporting the upper floors. The entire structure seemed to be held up by a wish and a prayer.
Harland’s features became more distinct as they staggered into the inn yard, lit by a feeble lantern flickering valiantly against the gusty wind. Emmy’s stomach dropped at the thought of spending a night in such a place, but anywhere was better than being out here in the dark and the rain. Even if the place had fleas, rats, and cobwebs, at least it would be warm and dry.
A scrawny youth scurried out of the barn and led the horse away, and Harland headed for the ramshackle front door, which looked as though it was barely hanging on by its hinges.
“We’ll pose as man and wife,” he muttered. “We’ll share a room.”
Emmy scowled, but didn’t argue. Whether it was for her protection, or simply because he didn’t trust her not to run, she didn’t care. She was too cold and too miserable. She clutched her travelling bag to her stomach.
In very little time, the greasy-haired landlord—no doubt having ascertained the quality of Harland’s clothing in one practiced glance, despite the mud, and identifying a wealthy patron—had shown them past a crowded taproom and up an unreliable set of stairs to what he proudly told them was “the best room in the inn.” He clearly didn’t believe Harland’s introduction of them as “Mister and Mrs. Brown.”
Harland took charge, ordering a warm brick to be placed in the bed, and a hot bath to be sent up immediately. Warm soup, bread. Candles—beeswax, not tallow.
The landlord touched his forelock respectfully. “Yes, sir.”
The man had probably never had a member of the aristocracy under his roof before. Emmy kept forgetting that Harland was an earl in his own right, as well as the second son of a duke. Even without using his title, he had a natural air of command that elicited almost universal respect. It must be a result of his army training.
She exhaled in relief when she saw the fire in the hearth. Harland strode forward and kicked it with his foot to rekindle it, then added two more logs, and she held her hands out to the feeble warmth, pathetically grateful.
The room was small, with one canopied bed, a single drop-leaf table flanked by two chairs, a washstand, whose broken front leg was propped up with a gilt-edged Bible, and a rickety-looking chest of drawers that lacked all but two knobs.
Harland let out a deep sigh, then turned and extended his arm out toward her. “Grab hold of my cuff, would you? There’s no way I can get this jacket off without assistance.”
Emmy was still shrouded under his greatcoat, clutching the edges with fingers that seemed frozen in place. Her hair was wet through, the ends dripping mournfully down her back, and her skirts were making a puddle on the threadbare rug beneath her. Bracing herself for the rush of cold air, she shrugged the coat off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor in a sodden heap along with her bag, then grabbed Harland’s sleeve and tugged hard as he pulled first one arm, then the other, from the wet garment.
He tossed it onto one of the chairs, then unknotted the rumpled cravat from around his neck and laid it aside.
“You need to get out of those wet things. You’ll catch your death. Sit near the fire and dry your hair. I’ll see about something hot to drink.”
He left before she could frame a response.
Emmy sank onto one of the hard chairs. She’d never been so cold, nor so despondent. This storm was a disaster. Danton had only given her until tomorrow evening to get the jewels, and they still had a good six hours to travel in the morning—assuming they could procure a new carriage. She didn’t want to imagine what would happen to Luc if she didn’t get back in time.
Nausea racked her body. Could she persuade Harland to hire a horse and take the jewels back to London without her? Could she trust him to send them to Danton, so that he released her brother, before he set his trap