Miss Culpepper jerked around. Her face paled. She looked as appalled as the man did.
Mayhew didn’t need an introduction to know who this newcomer was. It was blindingly obvious. The man was Sir Walter Pike.
What was also blindingly obvious was that their disasters weren’t over yet. In fact, the expression on Pike’s face told Mayhew that the greatest disaster of all might be upon them.
Miss Culpepper clearly realized that, too. She put a hand to her damp, misshapen bonnet, as if she wished she could somehow hide her appearance, but it was no use. Everything about her was unkempt. And bedraggled. And grimy.
Mayhew put the basket down on a wooden bench and took a hasty step forward. “Sir Walter Pike? I can explain everything.”
The man looked him up and down, visibly dismissed him, and turned his attention back to Miss Culpepper. “You,” he said, a whiplash of anger in his voice. “You are dismissed, Miss Culpepper.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” Mayhew said, and in contrast to Sir Walter, his voice was calm and reasonable.
Sir Walter ignored him. “You were meant to arrive last night!” he snapped at Miss Culpepper.
“We missed the stagecoach at Abbots Worthy,” Mayhew said. “It was my fault.”
Sir Walter paid him no attention. “You are late,” he said, his voice sharp with accusation. “Late and untrustworthy and slatternly and—”
Rage ignited in Mayhew’s chest. “And you are out of order, Sir Walter. You know absolutely nothing about what befell Miss Culpepper yesterday!”
“I know enough that I don’t want her anywhere near my daughters,” Sir Walter Pike said, and his tone wasn’t merely disrespectful, it was exceedingly disrespectful: a verbal sneer of contempt.
Mayhew took a step closer. “You would be lucky to have Miss Culpepper as companion to your daughters,” he told the man. “She’s the most outstanding female I’ve ever met. She has more fortitude and more character than you will ever have! She’s too good for you and your daughters, you small-minded, pompous prat.”
Sir Walter stopped glaring at Miss Culpepper and glared at Mayhew instead. He drew himself up. “You are out of order, Lieutenant!”
“No, you are!” Mayhew thundered back. “You’ve jumped to conclusions—offensive conclusions—without even asking what happened, and then you’ve had the insolence to insult a lady to her face. Heaven help the Empire if you’re an example of His Majesty’s diplomats, because you’re an ill-bred, ill-mannered buffoon.”
Sir Walter flushed an ugly shade of red. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, trying to look down his nose at Mayhew, which, given that he was a good four inches shorter than Mayhew, didn’t work.
“Lieutenant William Mayhew,” Mayhew informed him. “Lord Mayhew’s son.” And he enjoyed saying that ‘Lord,’ because this stout, pompous man was merely a baronet. “I am the person responsible for Miss Culpepper missing the stagecoach, and I am responsible for her appearance. She is entirely blameless! Which you would know, if you’d bothered to ask her what happened, instead of assuming the worst!”
Sir Walter flushed even redder, and glared at Mayhew.
Mayhew glared back at him and realized, suddenly, that they had accumulated a sizable audience. At least a dozen people were watching agog from the doorways to taproom, coffee room, and kitchen.
Sir Walter came to the same realization a split second later. The color in his face mounted until it was almost puce. He took a step sideways, towards the street.
Mayhew stepped sideways, too, planting himself firmly in the man’s path. “Apologize to Miss Culpepper,” he said, in a hard voice.
Sir Walter firmed his jaw. “Out of my way, Lieutenant.”
Mayhew didn’t move. “Apologize to her.”
Sir Walter glowered at him, and then turned to Miss Culpepper and said, stiffly and insincerely, “I apologize if my words were offensive, Miss Culpepper.”
She nodded coolly. “Your apology is accepted, Sir Walter.”
Sir Walter turned back to Mayhew, his face still puce with rage and humiliation. “Your commanding officer will hear about this, Lieutenant,” he said in a low, threatening voice.
“I hope so,” Mayhew said. He bared his teeth at the man in a smile. “Colonel Barraclough, of the Rifle Brigade. He’s a stickler for gentlemanly behavior.”
Sir Water flushed even redder, which Mayhew hadn’t thought possible. He lifted his chin, sidled around Mayhew, and headed for the door to the street. His gait was more scurry than strut.
Mayhew watched until the door swung shut behind the man, then turned back to Miss Culpepper. His audience was still staring at him, agog. Miss Culpepper was staring at him, too. He couldn’t quite discern her expression. She didn’t look angry, although she had ample reason to be. Not only was he the author of every misfortune she’d experienced in the past day and night, he had just subjected her to an extremely unpleasant and very public scene.
“I beg your pardon,” he told both Miss Culpepper and the innkeeper.
“Not at all,” the innkeeper said, and Mayhew had the feeling that the man held no very high opinion of Sir Walter.
Miss Culpepper said nothing.
The innkeeper clapped his hands briskly. “Back to work.”
Half their audience disappeared. The other half didn’t.
Mayhew looked at Miss Culpepper, and at those lingering spectators, and at the open doorway to the private parlor that Sir Walter had occupied.
“May we?” he asked the innkeeper, tipping his head at the parlor and the privacy it offered.
“Of course,” the innkeeper said. “I’ll set the water heating for you, Miss Culpepper. Your bath will be ready shortly.”
“Thank you.” Miss Culpepper glanced at Mayhew, her expression still indecipherable, then turned and entered the parlor, leaning lightly on the walking stick.