Lora was startled by the question, her heart skipping a beat. “Absolutely not.”
Her father raised an eyebrow, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “And Lady Harriet has not been successful in finding you a suitable match?”
A surge of anger welled up inside her. “Not for any lack of trying, Father.”
“Well,” he said, his tone firm, “what you and she cannot accomplish, I will.”
Lora’s curiosity got the better of her. “What do you mean? What are you doing?”
“I’m writing to the king,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I am making the arrangements where you and Harriet have failed.”
Her anger flared, her mind racing. “You can’t be serious! You’re deciding my future without my consent?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, dismissing her concern with a wave of his hand. “You’ll love his garden.”
Lora’s breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to argue, but her father had already turned back to his writing, dismissing her as if she were a child. Fury and disbelief surged through her. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed out, her pulse hammering with outrage.
Chapter Eighteen
12 October 1822
Lora arrived atRockford Manor at exactly eight o’clock. The air was crisp with the promise of a new day. She had no time to enjoy the gentle, golden glow and the early morning light casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. She dismounted, her heart racing with the anticipation of the day’s events.
At the door, Rockford’s valet greeted her with a respectful bow. “Good morning, Lady Lora. I’m Jeffers. This way, if you please.” He stood to the side as she entered.
Lora nodded, offering a polite smile. “Thank you.”
She followed the valet through the halls, her eyes catching glimpses of familiar family portraits and antique vases. Her concentration focused on the job ahead. She was eager to see Rockford and, if anything, wish him well on today’s adventure.
Entering the study, she was struck by the masculine elegance of the room. Dark wood paneling covered the walls, and shelves lined with leather-bound books filled the air with the comforting scent of aged paper and polished mahogany. A large, carved desk dominated the space, its surface cleared except for a single rolled document.
Her gaze was drawn to a single riding glove draped over a satchel, her satchel by the foot of the desk.
“Would you care for some breakfast, Lady Lora?” Jeffers asked.
Lora shook her head gently. “A cup of tea will suffice, thank you.”
Moments later, a footman entered the room and placed the tea service on the desk.
“Mr. Jeffers, will His Grace be joining me?”
“No, my lady. He has gone. He has left me instructions to assist you. You only need to engage the bell pull if you need me.” He gestured to the velvet cord hanging against the desk wall.
“Thank you.” Sitting at the desk, she poured her tea. This was Rockford’s domain, a place where critical decisions were made. As she sipped her tea, she realized the gravity and importance of what she, Barrington, and Rockford were about to undertake were paramount in her mind.
She reached into her pocket for her handkerchief and felt the crinkle of paper. Puzzled, she pulled out a letter. Letting out a deep sigh, she closed her eyes. She closed her eyes at her father’s letter to the king. It had been on the hall salver waiting to be delivered, a stark reminder of her predicament. In a moment of defiance, she swiftly snatched the letter and hid it within the folds of her dress.
Now, here it was, reminding her of the lengths she was willing to go to control her own fate. She stuffed it back into her pocket with a sigh, knowing she needed to focus on the task.
She set the half-full teacup down and spread the map across the desk, her fingers tracing the routes with focused precision. The quiet of the morning amplified the urgency in her heart, each detail on the map taking on heightened significance.
Lora pored over the map, reviewing the two identified routes in detail. She knew both well from riding in this area often. As the minutes ticked by, the soft chime of the mantel clock’s rhythmic ticking was a constant reminder of the looming deadline.
Her fingers moved slowly, almost methodically, over the map, her mind racing to search out anything they had overlooked. The early morning light shifted, casting different shadows on the map as the minutes turned into an hour, then an hour and a quarter. The soft hum of activity in the manor outside the study seemed distant, her focus entirely on the task at hand.
Her gaze locked onto an area near Stonefield Farm, and her heart quickened. The old private road wasn’t marked—it had been forgotten, overgrown after years of disuse. A jolt of realization struck her. A third route. The highwayman’s escape path.
She grabbed the bellpull behind her and gave it a hard tub. “Jeffers,” she called out as she marked the place on the map and began to roll it up.
