Page 59 of Better Off Wed

He would realize that Lord Sterling didn’t have to go on working alone.

Three days later, with no word of Lord Trenton’s fate or anything else, Laura walked to the breakfast table with only a slight limp and addressed herself to Lady Sterling’s neglected correspondence. Nothing like a pile of desperate, tear-stained pleas to put one in a proper frame of mind about men.

Only a handful letters awaited her. The first was a scathing critique of the damage she had done to the nation’s “fine, upstanding gentlemen,” accompanied by a collection of newspaper clippings; Laura tossed the lot into the fire.

The second was from the housekeeper of a clergyman, who had, in her own words, “caught the master messing the scullery maid about.” Laura considered how such a man might be shamed into better behavior. Surely a clergyman would not want his parishioners, or the bishop, to know what he had done. She wrote out a reply to that effect, directed to the housekeeper, with a postscript indicating that she was to write again if he dared to dismiss the girl or if either of them wished assistance in finding a new post. Before sealing the letter, she enclosed one of her cards, hinting that it might conveniently be left lying about for her employer to find.

The sight of the words Lady Sterling, thief-taker had humbled more than a few.

When she broke the seal on a third letter, she was still gleefully picturing the vicar’s face when he spied the card propped on his mantelpiece. Several moments passed before she realized she was holding another shakily written missive from Emily Godfrey.

My dear Lady—

He knows. While cleaning the blue room in preparation for his guests, one of the housemaids found a calling card. Unable to read and thinking it might be something of importance, she showed it to her ladyship, who told her husband, who is most seriously displeased. He spoke with every female domestic, trying to determine who had contacted you. I am, regrettably, a poor liar. He immediately wrote to delay his friends’ arrival and returned to London in search of you and your husband. My dear lady, please take care.

E.G.

Laura refused to allow her own hand to tremble. Thornton relished women’s fear, and she did not mean to give him the satisfaction.

She pushed to her feet, returned to her bedchamber, and dug her now-shabby reticule from its hiding place behind her dressing table mirror. With a shake she spilled the contents on her bed. Penhurst’s watch bounced on the coverlet, colliding with the tiny glass vial of Phelps’s tonic and a few coins. Another shake dislodged the lone stocking and a crumpled handkerchief.

The card she had tucked in Penhurst’s fob pocket, the card Jeremy had returned to her, was nowhere to be seen. It must have fallen onto the floor with Miss Godfrey’s letter and gone unnoticed.

With measured movements, she restored those items to their hiding place. In a clean reticule, she placed Miss Godfrey’s second letter, a fresh handkerchief, and a few other items. Then she put on her pelisse and bonnet, gathered up her gloves, and stumped down to the kitchen, where she found Betty with Aunt Mildred’s other servants: Mrs. Whyte, who served as cook and housekeeper, and her son Daniel, a good-looking lad of twelve who did odd jobs about the house and dreamed of growing tall enough to be a footman at one of the elegant houses on Grosvenor Square.

Betty, who had been seated at the table chopping vegetables, leaped to her feet. “Good gracious, Miss Hopkins, what is it?” Laura knew from having stood before the looking glass to tie the ribbons of her bonnet that the strain of Miss Godfrey’s letter showed on her face. “Did you have bad news from Mrs. Hayes?”

“No. That is, it is not news from or of my aunt, but it can hardly be described as good.” She looked among the three anxious, wide-eyed faces, as she spoke. “I must go out. While I am gone, do not leave the house. If someone comes to the door, do not answer it. Say nothing of me or my aunt to anyone, not even to someone you trust.” Here she gave a pointed look at Betty, thinking of Penhurst’s servant. “And do not,” she added, turning to Daniel, “try to be brave. There is something I must do, but you must promise not to interfere.”

Mrs. Whyte and her son looked at one another before nodding solemnly. Betty was nearly in tears as she followed Laura to the door. “Is it to do with—?”

“It is,” Laura acknowledged before the name could be spoken. “Someone is looking for her. For me. And as you may guess, he is not the sort of man to scruple at doing harm.”

“N-n-not Captain Addison?” It was the first time the girl had mentioned her encounter with Jeremy.

“No. In fact, he may be in more danger than I.” Which was precisely why she needed to find him. To warn him. “Now, bring me one of Aunt Mildred’s walking sticks. And remember.” She laid a finger to her lips in a call for secrecy. Betty nodded her understanding.

Within the hour, Laura was in a hackney rattling across the Thames. On Audley Street, she ordered the driver to wait while she ascended the steps of General Scott’s home, one painstaking tread at a time, and rapped at the door with the head of Aunt Mildred’s ebony walking stick.

Mr. Highsmith himself opened the door. “Miss Hopkins. I am pleased to see you so well recovered from your injuries.”

She nodded her acknowledgment. “May I come in?”

“General and Mrs. Scott are still from home.”

“I assumed as much. It is you with whom I wish to speak.”

Surprise flitted into the man’s dark eyes, though nothing else about his expression betrayed any emotion whatsoever. He bowed, admitted her into the hall, and then directed her toward the study with a wave of his arm. She shook her head, refusing to go farther. “How may I assist you, ma’am?”

“I wish you to direct me to Captain Addison, please.”

“I’m afraid I cannot.”

“Cannot or will not?” She laid her free hand atop the one already holding the walking stick.

“It amounts to much the same thing, Miss Hopkins.”

“But the other night, you seemed to know him.” She fought against the rising note of desperation in her voice. It might be misunderstood.