Six

THE ANTLERS BOASTED ONLY ONE SMALL PARLOR beyond the taproom, with just space enough for two tea tables and a small sofa set before the fire. The whiff of baking gingerbread gave the atmosphere a pleasant aroma. Mr. Rankin stood with his hands behind his back, leaning a little toward Mrs. Farr with a good innkeeper's solicitous attention while that lady wavered between the choice of the bohea or the souchong.

Trev excused himself to negotiate the cost of sending his letter postpaid. He had just come to an amicable agreement on mileage and postal notations with Mrs. Rankin when the blare of a tin horn made her hurry back into her kitchen. An open landau came rolling to a smart halt in the street outside. Trev glanced toward the door, his eye drawn by the sweep of a large cocked hat and a glimpse of uniform. He paused, watching the officer descend.

A dragoon guardsman, though he couldn't make out the badge. Since the war had ended, British uniforms had changed, aspiring to such stylish splendor now, that this fellow fairly glowed with heavy gold and scarlet, draped in braids and plastered with massive gilt facings across his chest. A tempting target for a marksman, Trev thought. He turned back to pick up his coins from the bar and toss his letter into the postbox.

The innkeeper did not quite abandon his other guests, but he came out of the parlor with a rapid step. Trev looked round again as the officer entered the door. The newcomer had a distinct familiarity about him. Trev caught the man's moment of hesita tion as they glanced at one another brief ly, and saw that he also was recognized. But he couldn't place the face. A square-jawed, handsome English face; light blue eyes and a high forehead… it could be from any of a thousand past encounters. Trev had dealt with innumerable English gentlemen and officers, named and nameless, in smoky, dim-lit quarters and thronging crowds.

He gave a faint nod, received the barest acknowl edgment, and they went their own ways, having agreed to ignore whatever passing acquaintance they might have had. Trev doubted it was the sort of thing a regimental officer would care to recognize in public. He was not eager to be forthcoming himself. It was bound to happen, of course-he would encounter gentlemen who had known him under other names and circumstances, but he hoped that they would match his discretion with their own. It was to no one's advantage to make a case of it.

He rejoined the ladies, sitting down to a conversa tion about the price of tea carried on largely by Mrs. Farr, with the occasional nod and "yes, ma'am," from Callie. She did not seem to be paying strict attention, for which Trev could hardly blame her.

"I don't care for your green teas," Mrs. Farr said decisively. "The half of them have been doctored with such abominable tricks that there's no saying what's in them. I won't have green tea in my house, I tell you."

"No, ma'am," Callie said. "Certainly not."

Mr. Rankin appeared at the parlor door with the officer behind him. "If you'll just take a seat beside the fire, sir." He ushered the new arrival into the room, accepting the man's hat and cloak. "The boy will see to your baggage. Will you be taking a refreshment? There's gingerbread just coming out of the oven."

"Cider will do," the officer said brief ly.

Callie suddenly sat up and threw a look toward the newcomer. Such a horrified expression came into her face that Trev almost reached out to support her as she blanched, but then she put down her teacup and bent her head toward her lap, hiding any glimpse of her face under the brim of her bonnet.

Mrs. Farr entered into a discourse on Congo, with a pekoe additive, versus a good Imperial. The officer glanced toward their table with the brief disinterest of a stranger obliged to share a public space-and then looked again. It was a penetrating look directed at Callie, at the nape of her neck, where those singular red curls were as recognizable in Shelford as any sign hanging outside a shop. Trev watched a play of emotion in the man's face-the instant of detection, followed by a tightening of his thin lips, a straightening of his shoulders. The officer turned away abruptly and sat down on the sofa.

Callie was hidden, but her breasts rose and fell with a rapid rhythm. Trev moved his leg, pressing it against her knee in silent support and question. She turned her face entirely away from the fire, staring toward the window as if she could escape by f lying through it. Her eyes were wide with alarm.

"But if you care for a black tea, duke," Mrs. Farr said, "you cannot go wrong with the Congo mix. Green gunpowder will kill you in a month."

"I'm sure it would kill you with one lucky shot, Mrs. Farr," Trev said. He looked at Callie. "Are you feeling quite well, Lady Callista? Would you like to go out into the air?"

She nodded, standing up, clutching at Trev's arm as he offered it. Behind her, the officer stood up at the same time.

"My lady," he said clearly.

Callie stood still, frozen like a deer at the sound of his voice.

"If you don't desire to acknowledge me, Lady Callista, I'll submit to your wish," the man said. His nostrils f lared. "I will not inf lict myself upon you." He glanced an instant at Trev, his aristocratic brows drawn together. Then he stared at Callie again. "But I would call upon you, if you would… if you would kindly give me consent to do so."

She wet her lips. "Oh, I-no, I-" She took a deep breath, staring down at the f loor. "It would be very uncomfortable for me."

The officer's pale eyes snapped to Trev again. There was something… Trev held the look. It was as if the other man grew taut with a personal chal lenge, directly marking him. He might have thought it was jealousy, the way the two of them stood with their lips buttoned and their faces rigid, like a pair of thwarted lovers, but Trev had a strong suspicion otherwise. Unless Callie had participated in more romantic encounters than anyone who knew her could believe, this would be one of the infamous jilts. A major of cavalry, at that; Trev could read the insignia of rank now.

A fine coincidence. He didn't see how the fellow had any claim to resentment of another man at Callie's side.

The officer looked again at her, his jaw set hard. "My lady, if you might consider-"

"I believe Lady Callista has made her answer known to you," Trev interrupted.

The man ignored him. "If you would see fit, my lady-"

"How curious." Trev gave an audible sniff. "I could swear I smell a day-old fish."

Callie's fingers nearly cut off the blood in his arm. She made a sound somewhere between a choke and a whimper. The other man grew as scarlet as his uniform coat. White lines played at the corner of his mouth. "I'm speaking to Lady Callista, not to you, sir."

"I don't wish to speak to you," Callie said in a rush.

The officer stood very still for a moment. "As you wish, then, ma'am." He bowed stiff ly and walked out of the room, casting Trev one more venomous glance as he left.

"Oh." Callie's voice trembled. She sat down with a plop.

Mrs. Farr leaned over, patting Callie's hand and peering into her face. "Poor dear, you're ashen as a sheet. But the nasty gentleman is gone now. There, you see, he's calling for his carriage."

Callie put her fingertips to her cheek, drawing a deep breath. "Pardon me, I didn't mean to cause a scene. Thank you, Mrs. Farr." She lifted the cup that the widow poured for her and took a convulsive gulp of tea.

"Number One?" Trev asked matter-of-factly.

She swallowed again and made a face, wrinkling her nose over the cup. "Major Sturgeon." The saucer rattled as she put down the tea and looked at Trev. "What a peculiar shock," she said weakly. "So odd, as we were just…" Her voice trailed off. "Forgive me. I'm very startled." She gave an unsteady smile. "I must thank you for skewering him so neatly."