Not Quite a Lady; Not Quite a Knight Read online

  Contents

  Also By Isabella Thorne

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  Not Quite a Lady Not Quite a Knight

  I. The Fortune Teller

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  I. The Christmas Fortune

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek of The Healing Heart

  Chapter 1

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  Also By Isabella Thorne

  Also By Isabella Thorne

  The Ladies of Bath

  The Duke’s Daughter ~ Lady Amelia Atherton

  The Baron in Bath ~ Miss Julia Bellevue

  The Deceptive Earl ~ Lady Charity Abernathy

  The Hawthorne Sisters

  The Forbidden Valentine ~ Lady Eleanor

  The Nettleford Chronicles

  The Countess and the Baron ~ Prudence

  Almost Promised ~ Temperance

  The Healing Heart ~ Mercy

  Other Novels by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke ~ Miss Georgette Quinby

  The Duke’s Wicker Wager ~ Lady Evelyn Evering

  Short Stories by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress' Cousin and the Hunt

  Mischief, Mayhem and Murder: A Marquess of Evermont

  Mistletoe and Masquerade ~ 2-in-1 Short Story Collection

  Colonial Cressida and the Secret Duke ~ A Short Story

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  Not Quite a Lady Not Quite a Knight

  The Nettlefold Chronicles

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Not Quite a Lady Not Quite a Knight Copyright © 2019 by Isabella Thorne

  Cover Art by Mary Lepiane

  2019 Mikita Associates Publishing

  Published in the United States of America.

  www.isabellathorne.com

  1

  “…and just like that!” the speaker paused to snap his fingers, “she was gone. I dinna know where. One moment there, the next, as if she never ha’ been. If I had nae seen it wi’ me own eyes, I would call any a liar who told me such a thing.”

  His mates shoved against his shoulders, with a quiet murmur, a good-natured twitting, coupled with uneasy chuckles and more than one wary glance to the darker corners of the room. Addie Walker paused in wiping down a table to shake her head. Such stories! Truly the tale-telling was the best part of working at the Bell and Whistle in Upper Nettlefold. She shivered deliciously, happy for the ghost story as such had long been her favorite.

  Not that any such creatures exist, she thought as she slung the rag over her arm and reached to grab a pair of empty tankards from the next table over, hauling them with a half dozen others to the kitchen. The hour was late; most of the patrons had long since retired with the exception of the travelers in the corner, who reeled back and called for more ale as Addie reached the door.

  “Aye, good sirs,” she called back good-naturedly, backing through the door into the kitchen.

  She set the tankards down thankfully, pausing to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Outside the wind might be rattling the shutters, but here the hearth was never empty, and in the main room with the blaze in the corner, the rooms tended to be warm, especially to one who was always in motion.

  “Do they ever sleep?” she asked the other tavern girl who was busy cleaning out a pot near big enough to crawl into.

  “That sort? Hardly likely. They will run out of stories around dawn I suppose,” Trudy answered, using her forearm to push the hair that had escaped from her cap out of her eyes. “So long as their coin holds out, they are welcome to stay.”

  “With our good Mrs. Truscott providing a room when they have quite worn out their stories, I suppose,” Addie said with a laugh. “And when do we sleep, if we stay to make sure ale flows freely throughout the night, and then rise before dawn to put the breakfast on the table?”

  Trudy laughed, ducking her head back into the depths of the pot, giving her voice a rather hollow ring. “It has been quite a day. Hang on…there.” She emerged from the pot rather more disheveled with soap upon her nose. “I am near done here. I doubt they will need more than another round or two, before even they canna drink more,” she said, imitating their thick brogue on the last words.

  “You are a wicked thing,” Addie said, taking a moment to stretch. “I thought I was well fit for this task, but farm work is nothing compared to what you do. My admiration grows for you, my lady.” She curtseyed prettily to Trudy who laughed and shoved her toward the door.

  “Go. Pour your ale.” Trudy replied. “Laugh at their stories, and throw them a wink, and they will like as not slip you an extra coin for the trouble. Two if they’re deep enough into their cups.”

  “Then deepen their cups I shall. You go up, Trudy. I can stay. I like listening to what they have to say.”

  Trudy untied her apron gratefully. “You can have them. I find such tales frightening.” She shuddered. “Remember Mr. Martin is near to hand if you need any help.”

  “If his lordship will lift a finger,” Addie said teasing. Both she and Trudy knew that Mr. Martin had once been a fine footman, and considered himself better than the rest of the staff, when Addie herself had no such airs. Once she could have. No, she reminded herself. She had left that all behind. She would not think of it. Addie sighed and moved behind the bar to draw fresh ale from the cask. They were nearing the bottom, she noticed with a certain dismay. Collecting another from the cellar would require Mr. Martin’s assistance. She didn’t want to disturb him if she didn’t have to. When has she grown so timid to tell a servant to help her? Maybe the men out front will turn in soon?

  A sudden burst of laughter told her otherwise. Outside the wind howled harder than ever, sending a blast of cold air down the chimney making the flames dance, and sending ash onto the hearth.

  An ill omen, Addie thought as she went to fetch the broom. She bent to sweep the cinders into a pile as the door behind her burst open, the wind catching it and forcing it hard against the wall. Addie jumped, spilling ashes from the dustpan. Even the revelers in the corner went silent as one by one they turned to regard the stranger framed against the wild night sky. Dead leaves swirled into the room, dancing around his feet and under the tables.

  He was taller than most in the village, seeming to be constructed entirely of long, lean limbs. A dark cloak billowed around him; the hood obscured his face until he pushed it back wi
th a gloved hand, showing him to be pale with dark hair, and eyes so black that they glittered in the firelight, like falling stars. He pulled off his gloves showing long aristocratic fingers.

  Addie caught her breath, moving forward automatically to shut the door as he stepped into the room, forgetting the fury she ought to feel at the mess upon the floor, and at the fact that another latecomer was going to keep her from her bed that much longer. For a moment she regretted her generous impulse that had led to taking Trudy’s place. No doubt the other girl was already sound asleep in their shared bed in the attic.

  “Sir, there is not much we can offer so late, but I think there is some stew still,” she murmured as he moved to the fire to shake the rain from his cloak before removing it and hanging it on a peg to dry. It was quite a fine coat, Addie noted.

  He looked at her without speaking, his eyes deep and mysterious, as though he could see past the outer appearance of the girl in the faded blue dress and smudged apron, past her very unladylike sun-browned skin and muddy blonde hair to the maiden that lay beneath. She flushed, taking a step back, suddenly unsure.

  Mr. Martin came forward at that moment, greeting the man and saving her further conversation.

  “Addie,” Mr. Martin called. “Bring the man some stew and a drop of ale. It’s frightfully cold out tonight.”

  Addie went to fetch the stew, all the while thinking Mr. Martin had no right to order her about like that. Still, she went. The bowl left warming upon the hearth had been meant for her own supper, one that she had not found time to eat. With a sigh, she grabbed this and a hank of bread, returning to the main room, and finding that the stranger had been welcomed into the midst of the travelers. Was he Irish then, like they? But no, his voice held no trace of their accent as he laughed with them, something about a mishap over a wheel that had left his wagon abandoned on a hillside just outside of town.

  Addie presented the bowl to the stranger, and for a moment, she lost herself, standing dimwitted before him. He took the bowl carefully from Addie’s hands, as though he were accepting an offering, as if he were an honored guest. Perhaps he was, given the fine cut of his clothing, the fine cravat. A gentleman then? Addie gathered herself and went to the tap to draw ale, another round for the rest. But the cask had run dry, and it seemed she would need a new one after all.

  With a shake of her head, and a promise to herself that Trudy would be the one to stay up late tomorrow, she bent to the task tiredly, thinking how her penchant for ghost stories had indeed led her ill.

  There is a lesson there somewhere, she thought to herself, pausing on the threshold to look back at the stranger who had thrown his head back in laughter over something that one of the Irishmen had said. Though he is truly a well-formed specimen. How do you suppose he’s come to stay here, and not at the more dignified Nettlefold Arms across the way?

  Whatever the case, she needed to find a boy to bring in a new cask before the stranger perished entirely of thirst. Surely Mr. Martin would not do it. He sat with the customers as if he owned the inn. And when she got back, she’d need to sweep the entire floor over again.

  Her bed was seeming a very long way off indeed.

  2

  It was almost as if the man was waiting for Addie to come down the next morning. “Phineas Ainsworth, at your service.” He bowed gallantly.

  He couldn’t have possibly slept; the group in the public room had stayed up until near dawn. Trudy had kindly offered to let Addie sleep in a little extra to make up for the previous night, and so it was past breakfast by the time she came down. The problem was, Addie had the uncomfortable feeling that she had slept far too long, and now this tall, dark-eyed stranger insisted on blocking her way.

  He wore different clothes today. A white shirt, that looked fresh, a red cravat. His jacket was the same, the breeches…well it was hard to tell, as she had never gotten a good look at his breeches, and even if she had, she would never admit it. They seemed clean though, a state they should not have been in after the climb from where he’d said his conveyance had left the road.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” she said, a little uncertainly, not entirely sure of his rank with such an introduction. “Was there something that you needed?”

  “An escort perhaps? I was told you could guide me to the blacksmith on your way to the market.”

  “To market?”

  Mrs. Truscott found them then, her arms full of clean linens for the rooms upstairs. “Addie, there you are. Can you escort Sir Ainsworth across the way? I was going to have you see if you can find some turnips for the beef pie. We seem to be quite out. See what other squash they have as well. I have a mind to make some pumpkin tarts I think. Oh, do hurry, girl, we are already far enough behind.”

  Addie shot a glance at Mr…no...Sir Ainsworth and fled for basket and cloak as the morning was as yet rather chill.

  Sir Ainsworth fell into step next to her as she left out the side door of the coaching inn and headed across the courtyard. “Truly, you cannot miss your way,” she said, waving her hand toward what was obviously the blacksmith shop but a short way down the street. From here she could see Mister James Brassey at his forge. Indeed, he was quite hard to miss, such a giant of a man he was, with broad shoulders and large capable hands. “He should have your cart set to rights again right quickly.”

  “You are in a hurry to be rid of me, then?” Sir Ainsworth’s eyes twinkled merrily as he looked down at her. Addie felt her face grow warm, and pulled the basket tighter against her body, just to give herself something to fuss with, to prove she was paying no mind to his flirtation.

  “I must hurry in my errands so that I not displease Mrs. Truscott who was kind enough to give me employment,” she countered, as they waited for a chaise pulled by a beautiful set of matched bay mares to pass that they might cross the street.

  “Some would say that since you were tasked with making sure I got to my destination that it would please your Mrs. Truscott very much if you accompanied me to the blacksmith.”

  “It is clearly just there,” she said in exasperation. “And I must needs get to the market and fetch what I have been bidden to fetch, lest my mistress take displeasure in how long I am about my duties. I am still new at the inn, and am doing my best to assure my position.”

  “My apologies then.” Sir Ainsworth bowed as though she were some fine lady. “Perhaps later then we might continue our discussion. I am most enchanted by your proximity to the spirit realm.”

  Addie had already half turned to go, but could not resist a glance over her shoulder at this gentleman at such an unusual statement. “My proximity to what?”

  “One could not help but notice it last night.”

  Addie fiddled with the handle of the basket. Did he know something then? Did he know how close she came to being a sprit herself?

  “You were quite drawn to the stories of the gentlemen with whom I sat,” he continued. “I sensed that perhaps you were a kindred spirit. One, interested in what lies between this world and the next.”

  “Oh!” She could not help it. So outrageous were his comments that she had to laugh. “Or it could be, that I was merely listening to the stories that I might stay awake until the last patron left for the night.”

  “I know things,” he said softly as they crossed the street. “I know that you yearn for more than this town. That your home was not a happy one. That you wonder if there is more to this world than you can see with your eyes.”

  Addie stopped as a chill crawled up her spine. She did not care that she was standing in the way of traffic, not that there was much at this hour. Although Upper Nettlefold may lie on a busy road between London and Bath, traffic was generally in the spring and summer. This time of year there was not much travel in either direction, not with harvest not nearly over, and the hiring fair and All Hallows Eve so near.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked. “You say things that could mean something to anyone who would listen. Do you think yourself some kind of spirit
ualist then?” She tilted her head a little to one side to regard him better.

  “Nothing so grand. I am merely a fortune teller, on the road to ply my trade, destined for London, or at least I was before disaster befell me.” He bowed and presented her with his card.

  Sure enough, it read only,

  Sir Phineas Ainsworth: Fortune Teller

  “What an absurd card,” Addie said, handing it back with a shake of her head. “So you are a charlatan then.” Oddly enough she was disappointed to find it so, for she was beginning to enjoy Sir Ainsworth’s company.

  “We have arrived. You may report to Mrs. Truscott that I have seen you safely to your destination.”

  Mr. James Brassey came from his forge wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth. He tucked it in a back pocket and looked at the pair.

  “I am no charlatan, Miss Walker” Sir Ainsworth said softly as she turned to go. “You will find that I understand more than you think.”

  “Given how little I think you could possibly know, it would not surprise me in the least if you do,” Addie replied smartly.