Activities? Bloody hell, what had Alexandra gotten herself mixed up with?
“It was a last-minute thing, miss,” the coachman said. “’E’s my nephew. Just found out he was willin’ ta leave his London post.”
A wealth of dark and shadows separated the lady and Keats, but she peered at him through it as if she could see him as clearly as she could see her own reflection in the daylight.
“Very well. Quick now. No more dawdling. Lady Alexandra deserves our greatest care.” Then she pulled a dark velvet hood up over her head and stepped back into the coach.
She took all of London’s air with her, leaving none for Keats to breathe.
“Who was that?” he asked as the coachman whipped the hack into a lurching trot forward.
“Not telling.”
“Please?”
Silence and the stubborn set of a chin.
No matter. “I’ll find out one way or another.”
“Men likeyou!” the coachman exploded. “That’s why Miss Jones does what she does. That’s why Hawthorne House exists. Bounders, rakes, scoundrels, rogues. Devils, you are. Vipers. I should throw you from the coach, bullet to my chest or no.”
“Miss Jones, then… that’s her name.” Too common a name for a goddess.
The coachman cursed, and the horses trotted a bit faster through the London streets, headed south. “To hear her name on the lips of a rogue like yerself.” He cursed again.
“I’ll not argue with you on my moral failings, but I’d rather not be thrown from the coach. Tonight is proving much moreinteresting than a duel. And again, you’ve got my sister inside. As well as my future wife, probably. I don’t know. Probably not. Butdamn.” He whistled. He’d not seen much beneath her voluminous cloak, but there’d been no doubt—she was voluminous, too.
Voluminous? Not quite the right word, but the letters would rearrange themselves in the whisky fog. Perhaps it wasn’t clearing after all.
Ah. Now he had it.Voluptuous. Curves for days, likely. Paired with bright eyes and a heaven of hair, with a sharp nose and a chin that tipped up with defiance, confidence… What a woman. He needed a closer look. To see if she had freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks, or a beauty mark near the corner of those kissable lips or?—
“Get off,” the coachman demanded.
“I don’t think so. I’d like to see this Hawthorne House.” What was it? Where was it? Hell, if only his whisky-muddled brain could fully grasp the half thoughts yelling warnings at the thick walls of his skull, but they were like bouncing bumblebees, and if he ever managed to catch one, it would sting.
“Don’t you have a date with a bullet in Green Park?”
“Or the other fellow does.”
Mr. Sacks snorted. “Not in your state.”
“Then it’s best for me to do something else, don’t you think?” He tickled the man’s ribs with the gun barrel, though—damn—his arm had started to tire from holding it up.
“You’ll lose what remains of your honor.”
Keats’s turn to snort. “I abandoned notions of honor ages ago. Let all of London say what they will. I want to know what sort of place abducts a young woman in the dark hours of morning.” And as soon as he found out, he’d take her away from there. He’d bring Alex back home and convince his father to lock her up in her room. “Now, my good chap, settle in for the driveand find something entertaining to converse about because I’m already bored.”
“You can take your conversation and shove it up your arse.”
“Oh, that’s a delightful start. I find conversation terribly dull unless there’s some conflict to make it exciting.”
“What do you think is going to happen when we arrive? What are you going to do in the country? Where will a toff like you go?”
“I’ll take my sister and return?—”
“You won’t touch her, do you hear? You’ve got the gun, but I’d jump in front of a bullet for the ladies that find themselves needing Hawthorne House. But what would you know about honor?” He snorted. “I’d place money on it—you’ve likely sent a lady here yourself at some point. Or if you haven’t yet, you will one day.”
“I could answer those uncertainties for you, if I had any idea what Hawthorne House was.”
