A Difficult Disguise (8 page)

“She sounds like an ugly customer, although most dead-old distant aunts are not known for their
joie de vivre
. And I agree. Sermons can be murderously off-putting,” Fletcher said, his tone commiserating, “as can evening prayers, come to think of it. But, Smith, your aunt must be worried to death, wondering what has become of you. You’re much too young, halfling, to be out on your own.”

Now Billy became belligerent, for she believed it was time she showed some hint of spunk. Sticking out her small chin, she retorted, “I’m ten-and-three, sir—no sniveling infant. There’s many a fellow my age who has already been out on his own for years.”

Fletcher pushed himself up to a sitting position, a move Billy countered by standing up, for she had found she liked it better when she was looking down on him rather than straight into his eyes. “I suggest we leave further discussion of the right and wrong of the road you have chosen for later this evening when we are settled at an inn, although I must tell you I applaud your candor in telling me the truth, even if I did have to listen to that whopping crammer about George and his ladylove before you decided to make a clean breast of things.”

“Thank you, sir,” Billy mumbled humbly, feeling rather proud of herself.

“However,” Fletcher added warningly, rising so that he, whether he knew it or not, had the upper hand on her once more, “I would very much appreciate it if you would tell me your real name. Master Smith is much too ordinary an appellation for a quick-witted fellow like yourself.”

Billy bent to retrieve the blanket, shaking it free of crumbs and refolding it carefully so that it would fit behind her saddle. She had done it! He had actually believed her! She could afford to be magnanimous. Holding the folded blanket against her breast, she sniffed once more, for effect, and said quietly, “It’s Belchem. William Belchem. My father was a teacher near Keswick.”

“Keswick,” Fletcher repeated conversationally, heading for his mount. “Lovely place. Near Ullswater, isn’t it?”

“Keswick is several miles from Ullswater. You mean Derwent Water, don’t you, sir? But then there are so many lakes, aren’t there?” Billy corrected politely, although she longed to box his ears. It was depressing to think that Fletcher could be so obvious, as she had begun to hope for better from him. Really, did he think he would be able to catch her out so easily?

“Do I? Oh, yes, of course I do,” Fletcher said reflectively, mounting Pagan, who danced about, eager to be on the move once more. “I have been away too long. Silly mistake. My apologies, Master Belchem. Are you ready to ride?”

Billy bent to retrieve her hat, slamming it down over her ears as she approached She-Devil, not at all mollified by his apology for having doubted her. If he wasn’t going to show a little more curiosity, keep her on her toes, as it were, this could prove to be a depressingly boring excursion. “I’m always ready to ride, Mr. Belden.”

They cantered into the dusty yard of the Stag’s Head in Bowness-on-Windemere while it was still light, Fletcher ordering Billy to leave the horses in the care of an ostler so that the groom could accompany him into the coffee room.

Billy’s gaze moved apprehensively about the foul-smelling, low-ceilinged room. It was heavily populated with loud, boisterous men who would have laughed had anyone addressed them as gentlemen. She asked Fletcher, “Aren’t you going to ask for a private dining parlor, sir?”

Fletcher looked down at his groom in amusement as he stripped off his riding gloves, for he had been noticing all day the odd squeamishness Billy seemed to exhibit at the silliest things. Take the stop they had made among a stand of trees when Fletcher had felt nature’s call, for instance. Billy had all but run into the privacy of the woods to relieve himself, his temper flaring hotly when Fletcher had accused him of being missish.

“If you have something I haven’t seen anywhere in my travels from here to the Peninsula and beyond,” Fletcher had teased, “I should feel sorely deprived if you won’t share a peek with me,” earning himself a darkling look and, he was sure, a muffled curse, for his pains.

“You have something against downing your mutton in the company of strangers, hafling?” Fletcher asked now, seeing the innkeeper approaching. “Damned stuffy for a snotty-nosed runaway adventurer, ain’t you?”

“It’s not that,” Billy told him peevishly. “It’s just that I never before ate in a private parlor, and I should like to see one. And my nose isn’t snotty,” she added in an undertone. “It only runs when I cry.”

“It does? How silly of me not to notice. I stand corrected,” Fletcher said quietly before turning his attention to the innkeeper, who, having completed his mental totting up of Fletcher’s person and deciding his latest customer was one of the quality, was busily bowing and scraping and touting the magnificence of his best private parlor and bedchamber.

Ten minutes later Fletcher and Billy were ensconced in a private dining room, for if the truth be told Fletcher hadn’t really relished the idea of sitting elbow to elbow with a gaggle of strangers, whether it be to make polite conversation or watch in awe the magnitude of their ineptitude in the handling of simple eating utensils. He’d had enough of both during the celebrations in London. The plank table in front of them was piled high with cold meats, two whole chickens, and a variety of fruit, and the array of local foodstuffs warmed his heart. “Make the most of it,” Fletcher said, pulling off a chicken leg for himself, “for tomorrow night we will be sleeping beneath the stars.”

Billy, who had been in the act of securing the other drumstick for herself, sat back, Fletcher’s words effectively destroying what had until that moment been a raging hunger in her belly. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked, aghast. She had known he had spoken of doing just such a harebrained thing, but she hadn’t really brought herself to believe it.

After all, what sensibly minded person would give up clean sheets and a roof over his head to sleep in a damp field surrounded by smelly sheep and all sorts of creeping things, and with the chance of rain pelting them at any moment? It was ludicrous, that’s what it was. Besides, after two months of bedding down in the Lakeview stable, Billy had been looking forward to stretching out in a real bed.

“I do some of my best thinking out of doors,” Fletcher responded, “not that I owe you an explanation. What, ho! My, my, and what have we here? Hello there, sweetings. Aren’t you a pleasant surprise!”

Billy looked toward the doorway to see a barmaid coming into the room carrying two mugs of ale. Actually, Billy thought nastily, she saw what Fletcher must have seen, which was the barmaid’s absolutely magnificent bosom.

The barmaid plunked down the two mugs, nearly knocking Billy off the plank seat with a swing of her full hips as she turned to Fletcher, to smile and wink, saying, “Will there be anythin’ else yer’ll be needin’, sir? My name is Beatrice, sir, an’ I’d be ever so pleased ter serve yer.”

“Isn’t that wonderful, Billy?” Fletcher asked, never removing his gaze from Beatrice’s mind-boggling cleavage. He’d sworn off women for a while, but that did not mean he had been so foolish as to believe he could forsake fun. “And when would you be free to, um, serve me, Beatrice?”

Beatrice gave a toss of her dirty blond head. “Those louts in the coffee room will be home with their naggin’ wives come midnight. Perhaps yer might loik a bit o’company then, sir? I kin be very, very good company.”

“Oh, if that isn’t above everything wonderful,” Billy exclaimed, taking a deep drink of ale, which was her first experience with anything stronger than goat’s milk. The liquid tasted vile, but she conquered the urge to spit it out. “And what am I supposed to be doing while the two of you cavort all over the place—hiding in the cupboard with my hands clapped over my ears?”

Fletcher slowly turned his head to skewer Billy with his iron-gray gaze. “As I recall, Billy, you spent last night tucked up in one of my stalls. May I suggest you go make friends with the ostler so that he might be so kind as to provide you with clean straw? Or, if you are not too fastidious or too wet behind the ears, perhaps dearest Beatrice here has a friend for you.”

Billy’s mouth opened and closed several times before she stood, reached out to rip the remaining drumstick from the chicken, exclaimed, “I ain’t in the petticoat line,” and stomped out of the parlor, slamming the door behind her.

She stood in the narrow hallway for five minutes—or five years—trying her best to convince herself she didn’t give a tinker’s dam about what was or was not going on behind that closed door. It was no use—and it wasn’t because she wanted the fool man for herself, because that was the farthermost thing from her mind. Wasn’t it?

Put her out with the horses, would he, while he rutted like a stallion in heat? Well, she’d see about that. He was the one who belonged in the stables—him and his overripe mare. A parade of images, the next more perverse and upsetting than the last, invaded Billy’s highly imaginative mind, her blind rage turning quickly to a deep, revenge-seeking anger.

Dredging up every ribald story Hedge had ever told her, and seeking to remember every indiscreet word ever spoken in her hearing over the years by any of the family servants, she scraped together the semblance of a plan.

The door to the private dining room opened at last and Beatrice came out, her smile, to Billy’s mind, nearly as wide as her broad hips, her hands busily retying the strings of her blouse. Her flashing green eyes narrowed with rage, Billy stuck out her arm—still holding the greasy chicken leg in her hand—to block Beatrice’s passage.

“Hold it right there, slut,” she gritted out in her deepest possible voice, hoping she had remembered all the right words. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but hear this: that man is mine! He may trifle with you, only for a bit of slap and tickle, but it’s me he sleeps with, and I don’t want any filthy blowen like you giving him a dose of the pox.”

The barmaid’s mouth dropped to half-mast as her eyes widened to the size of saucers. She looked over her shoulder at the closed door, then back at Billy, running her gaze up and down the groom’s thin body. “But he... But you’re a... But we were goin’ ter... Oh, no I won’t! That’s sick, that’s what that is. I heard ’bout such queer goins-on, an’ I’ll have no part of it, does yer hear me? Yer kin have him. I doesn’t want no man-milliner.”

Billy dropped her arm to allow Beatrice to scamper past her, a small smile on her face as she realized she had achieved her objective. The innkeeper would be lucky if his barmaid stopped running before she reached Crook Common.

Her smile faded slightly, though, as she realized two more things.

First, she had no idea what she had said that had so frightened Beatrice. Had it bothered her so much that a small, flat-chested girl—for surely her disguise, which had so far deceived Fletcher, could not have fooled another woman—had dared to fight her for Fletcher? It made no sense.

And second, and much more damning now that she had rid herself of Beatrice, she had fated herself to sharing a bedchamber with Fletcher.

Chapter 4

F
letcher and Billy climbed the stairs to the bedchamber that had been assigned to them. Beatrice, the flustered innkeeper had informed Fletcher earlier, had retired to her own quarters, complaining of a sick stomach, a scrap of information the innkeeper had imparted to explain why the buxomy barmaid was not there to personally escort them to their room, which was a personal triumph for Billy, who had the comfort of knowing that her tall tale had successfully routed the woman.

Strangely, or so she thought, it also made her happy to see that Beatrice’s defection didn’t seem to bother Fletcher in the slightest. Obviously Fletcher Belden was the sort that flirted with anything in skirts—probably out of habit or some such nonsense—but did not really have a penchant for consorting with chance-met barmaids.

They walked down the narrow hallway, the uneven floor of the old inn giving Billy fits as she readjusted the unwieldy bulk of their belongings. It appeared that Fletcher did not believe in leaving all creature comforts behind when he traveled. She nearly stumbled in the darkness, so that Fletcher at last reached out a hand to steady her, commenting dryly that Beatrice must be very sick to have been too overcome by her sudden illness to light the candles in the hallway, leaving her customers to curse the darkness as they searched for the doors to their rooms.