Page 70 of The Chaperone
Nobody had ever called her Sukie. How dared he decide what to call her as if she were a skivvy.
‘My name is Susan, sir, not that as yet you have my permission to use it.’ She tried to sound imperious, but his eyes mocked her, and his response was chilling.
‘You have given me the right to call you what I please. You did so from the moment you stepped into this chaise.’
Susan said nothing. She had no words, and even if she had possessed them, her throat seemed so tight shut he might as well have been strangling her. She wondered if her Uncle Chelmarsh might be in pursuit. What had at the outset been something she wished to avoid, she now desired wholeheartedly. The voice of reality in her head told her that if she had been as successful in her escape as she believed, nobody would have any idea where she was, and would spend fruitless hours looking for her in London. There was also the thought that she had become so obnoxious that perhaps her relatives would simply shake their heads and let her disappear, whilst concocting some excuse for Society. She remembered, with stunning clarity, what Sir Esmond had said to her in the ballroom, and that she had not made a friend of either of her cousins nor anyone else in London. And if her uncle did find her, then her fate would be only marginally better than being with this monster of a man. She would be without honour, however well the affair was wrapped in clean linen, and would be sent … somewhere. Her brother would have every excuse not to have her at Tyneham. She thought he might own small estates in Dorset and Devon. Perhaps she would be incarcerated on one of those.
For the first time in her life, she looked at herself from an outside perspective, and what she saw did not please her. The world had pushed her into this corner, but she could see that to the world she was not the victim, but the orchestrator of her own downfall. That was also what Sir Esmond had warned her. As the chaise passed through Baldock, she was weeping silently.
Lord Rothley’s pursuit demanded a degree of concentration that precluded dwelling upon just how he would deal with his wayward sister when he found her, or indeed exactly what he would like to do to Lord Pinkney. He was a good whip, but the road was busy and even at a canter he had to keep his wits about him. His own horses were good to reach as far as Hatfield, and the pair he obtained from The Eight Bells were both a good match and in excellent condition. He hoped they would suffice him until he caught up with the eloping couple. He had ascertained that they were indeed travelling in a chaise and pair, so he had no doubt that he would overtake them in good time. It was a simple matter of time and distance, not a matter of chance. However, as Lord Pinkney would have assured him, chance was very much part of life, and in this instance appeared in the form of a cast horseshoe a little over halfway between Stevenage and Baldock, and just when he was expecting to catch sight of his quarry every time he turned a bend. He had, of necessity, to drop his pace to a walk, and it was a very frustrated viscount who obtained a fresh pair of horses at The White Horse. No chaise and pair had changed recently there, but as the ostler said, they might have done so at The George.
The stretch of road to Biggleswade was a good straight run, and with fresh horses, Lord Rothley dropped his hands and let them gallop a good three miles before an approaching mail coach made him lessen his pace. He still had no sign of a vehicle which might contain the runaways, but as he slowed through Biggleswade he saw a chaise and pair turn under the arch of The Sun, and pulled up across the entrance, instructing his groom to hold the horses there unless some other traveller required entry.
He strode into the yard, as an ostler yelled at him to move his vehicle. He ignored this, since he had just seen Pinkney’s profile as he stepped down from the chaise to stretch cramped limbs and take a tankard of ale.
‘Good afternoon, Pinkney. Do not rush, because you are travelling no further.’
Pinkney turned, surprise vying with irritation upon his face.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I would have thought that blindingly obvious. I am come to restore Miss Tyneham to her relations,’ Lord Rothley explained, calmly.
‘Mighty public-spirited of you, but unnecessary, since her closest relation is shortly to be me.’
‘Now there you are in error, but then you are so frequently wrong.’
Mr Cass, the proprietor, at this moment came forward, polite but wary. There was something in the demeanour of the two unknown gentlemen which hinted that their encounter was not friendly, and an altercation in the very entrance of his premises was not good for trade.
‘If your honours would care to step into a private parlour …’
‘No, need, I am not staying,’ declared Lord Pinkney, summoning a second ostler with an imperious finger.
‘But I am.’ Susan, dragged from her misery by the recognised voice, stepped down from the chaise, and bestowed a bright smile upon his lordship. ‘And refreshment would be welcome.’
Mr Cass, appreciative of the lady’s good looks, and responding instinctively to her air of assurance, indicated a room to his right, and she swept past to take possession of it. Lord Rothley smiled.
‘That is clear enough, do you not think? The only problem is that it would not be polite to knock you down in front of a lady.’
‘Please, gentlemen, I am sure any differences …’ Mr Cass looked worried.
‘You think you could knock me down, Rothley?’ Lord Pinkney felt quite confident, since, whilst their height was not dissimilar, he was of a heavier frame and must have an advantage in weight.
‘Convinced of it.’ Lord Rothley smiled, slowly, insultingly.
‘Presumably because of a mistaken belief that virtue always wins? I can assure you it does not.’
Mr Cass gave in. These two men were clearly squaring for a fight, and given the choice between his back yard and a parlour where they might be seen or heard and where the furniture was at risk, he suggested that any insurmountable differences be resolved within the former. As he saw it, a bloody nose here or there would not create a fuss outside his walls.
‘Remain here, Miss Tyneham,’ commanded Lord Rothley as he followed Mr Cass, ‘and enjoy your tea.’
This, of course, fell upon deaf ears, since the thought of two men fighting over her, even engaging in fisticuffs, was too exciting to ignore.
The cobbled courtyard was some thirty-five feet wide and fifty feet long with an aged pear tree in one far corner, and a bench beneath the window of what, from the noise within, must be the kitchen. Lord Rothley shrugged himself out of his drab driving coat, laying it along the bench and following it with his coat and hat. He then began to roll up his sleeves. His opponent placed his coat over the arm of Mr Cass, and did likewise. Susan stepped from the doorway and stood against the wall, unsure whether she would find the spectacle exciting or revolting.
The two men squared up to each other, and there was a degree of jostling before Pinkney put in the first hit, which caught Rothley in the ribs and made him stagger back, half tripping on the uneven cobbles, and bored in to build upon his advantage, Pinkney’s guard dropped and he only just managed to duck in time for a blow that would have landed squarely to glance off his jaw. If Pinkney had the advantage of weight, Rothley was the more nimble, and Mr Cass found himself, very reprehensibly, enjoying what was a very evenly matched bout. However, time worked for Lord Rothley, as his opponent began to labour, and he found an opportunity to throw him in a cross-buttock which sent him sprawling on the hard cobbles. Pinkney rose grimacing, but still game. Mr Cass thought the result a foregone conclusion from this point, and was proved right. Unsettled by the fall, Pinkney’s blows were increasingly wild, and Rothley was able to pick his target. A sharp blow to the face dropped Pinkney once again to the ground, where he remained a good minute, dazed.
‘Enough, gentlemen. Accept defeat and victory as the fight has dealt it, and shake hands.’
