Page 14 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 5

Alistair had some experience with young ladies who told untruths.

He had immediately seen through his sister Freddie’s explanation for her ten minutes’ absence during the Montlake ball—and her feigned surprise at his observation that Lord Cowell had been absent for the same interval. And after the girls’ governess had left them for a better situation, he had known better than to put much stock in Harry’s claim to still be studying her German every day.

He felt certain Miss C. was lying. About several things.

She remembered him. And herself. But she wouldn’t admit to either. She was keeping secrets—her name, the little painting, and something more besides. Given that he suspected her of dishonesty, he would have been well within his rights to laugh off her suggestion of accompanying him to Rylemoor.

Three things had pointed him in the opposite direction.

The first was Lady Stalbridge’s letter. The word danger still burned in his mind’s eye like a brand.

The second was Miss C.’s obviously desperate state. The sight of her bruises and the bandaged wrist, along with the memory of her limp weight in his arms, were as difficult to brush aside as Lady Stalbridge’s words.

The third was her invocation of his promise. Not, he was almost ashamed to admit it, the promise itself, though he generally prided himself on acting as a gentleman ought to act. But her expression as she’d reminded him of it . . . impossible to know, of course, where pleading ended and performance began. Still, he could tell it had cost her something to ask.

And if the disparity between the state of her belongings and the contents of her purse had told him anything about her at all, it was that she was accustomed to hoarding everything of value she possessed until she had no other choice but to surrender.

So, against what was probably his better judgment, he had done as she had suggested. He’d hired a coach and driver, both serviceable if a bit worn. He’d haphazardly finished sorting his belongings, overseen the loading of the last crates and trunks, and turned over the key to his house to his solicitor. And he’d urged her to accept three drops of laudanum in what had been an abominably weak cup of morning tea before assisting her into the carriage and signaling to John Coachman to be off.

She was lying now on the seat opposite, her legs curled to accommodate her height to the length of the forward-facing bench. One honey-colored curl had escaped its pins and fluttered with her breath as she slept through the first hours of their swaying, jolting journey.

Having hardly slept the night before, Alistair almost envied her repose. But a sense of unease, mingled with curiosity, kept him from closing his eyes.

Where had she acquired such a sum of money? Had she stolen it? Hocked the family jewels—or perhaps their paintings?

Done something more scandalous yet?

In spite of the potential for disaster, instead of insisting on the truth, he’d gone along with her wild scheme. He was taking her to his ancestral home, where she—a stranger with a sketchy past—would be in the company of at least four and probably more of his sisters for some indefinite tenure. Worst of all, he’d agreed to let her teach them to draw and paint.

He liked to think that he had done it out a sense of gentlemanly duty. Noblesse oblige, or some such stuff.

A less noble part of him was worried that he might have done it for the sake of his backside. Even a hired post chaise was preferable to the travails of being tossed about like so much Royal Mail.

And if a sliver of him had done it because he found Miss C. . . . intriguing, well, it was only a sliver and didn’t bear acknowledgment.

She slept through the first two changes of horses. He was glad to see it; she’d rested relatively peacefully the night before, too, which he knew because he’d checked on her three times, in between stuffing books in crates and pacing the entry hall. Her color had improved. And when they’d left the house, he had not needed to carry her. She’d walked away under her own power—leaning heavily on his arm and moving stiffly, to be sure, but without limping or other signs of pain.

If he had dozed, too—either the night before or during the first forty miles of their journey—then it could not have been for more than a few minutes. The pink of her cheeks and the bounce and flutter of that unruly curl were too familiar for them to have been out of his sight for long.

“Will you be studying me this intently for the next hundred and fifty miles?” she murmured as the next change of horses approached.

Her eyes were still closed—or appeared to be. Her question was the first hint he’d had that she might not be sleeping quite as soundly as he’d assumed.

“I beg your pardon.” He dragged his gaze to the window, though a sleety sort of rain had rendered it all but opaque. Not that it mattered. He knew what lay beyond the glass as well as he knew the back of his own hand, having made the journey between the metropolis and Devon many, many times in his twenty-eight years.

A stretch of silence followed as she pushed herself into an upright position and made a futile attempt to neaten her hair. He did not look away from the murky window, but he was aware of her movements on the periphery of his vision and in the shadow of their reflection in the glass.

“It’s I who should apologize,” she said at last in a surprisingly conciliatory tone. “I daresay I’ve been guilty of the same at some point. I suppose artists must do more than their fair share of staring.”

She spoke of her work as if she couldn’t quite believe that the sketches he had shown her were her own.

“If it helps, I wasn’t thinking about you,” he replied, the slightest edge to his voice.

A tinkle of laughter broke from her lips. “I’m cut to the quick, Lord Ryland.” It could not have been clearer that she did not believe him.

It was, he supposed, only fitting. After all, his answer hadn’t been entirely truthful.