He went back into the sitting room, and hefted Margo’s wool cloak in his hands. It hadn’t really dried, and it was heavy with damp. It smelled disturbingly like a sheep.
He spread it across an end table to dry, ducked back into his bedchamber, and tossed his greatcoat over his shoulder for her instead.
“Fine,” he said to the cloak as he passed. “You win. I’m taking her to Scotland.”
Margo left a note for Spencer. Her brother was due back from Wales in a week, and though he’d long since abandoned any attempt to leave her and Matilda in the care of a chaperone—they’d run off two maiden aunts and one well-paid lady’s companion—he certainly would expect them to be in residence when he returned.
But she’d left him a note, Margo reassured herself. He wouldn’t worry overmuch. Perhaps if she was unusually lucky, she would encounter Matilda in the next day or so along the road, and they could be back at Number Twelve before Spencer had even returned!
Margo was not, as a rule, unusually lucky, but there had to be a first time.
“My lady, I implore you to reconsider.” Fairhope, the family’s butler, appeared to be wringing his hands as he followed her into the mews.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I only mean to travel a verylittledistance, Fairhope.”
This was true, in a literal sort of way. She meant to travel a short distance, followed by several more short distances, which added together made up quite a long distance indeed.
So, notpreciselytrue. But Margo did not have time for precision.
“Thomas and James”—her coachman and the most obliging of the footmen—“will see me safely to Alconbury. I’m certain Matilda meant to stop a while there. You’ll see.”
This part was an out-and-out lie. Once she arrived at Alconbury, she meant to abandon the Halifax family carriage, hitch a ride on the mail coach, and travel the rest of the way to Scotland alone. The idea didn’t exactly fill her with confidence, but she’d come round to it. She’d be perfectly safe on the mail coach, so long as she didn’t advertise the fact that she was traveling with hundreds of guineas.
She hoped she’d brought enough money. She’d need to purchase food—and a spot on the mail coach—and bribes for every resident of Gretna Green if it came to that…
Margo’s nerve threatened to fail her, but she set her teeth. She only had to focus on the next step, that was all. That was how she’d approached each trial thus far in her life. When their parents had died. When she and Matilda had been sent down from finishing school. When the scandal sheets had taken to calling them the Halifax Hellions, and her favorite bookshop had refused to admit her.
One foot in front of the other, and if she kept on walking, she’d make it through.
She tipped her chin up. “All will be well,” she said to Fairhope, and tried to believe it.
The trio of men must have been as worried about Matilda as she was, because somehow, she persuaded them all to listen. She was halfway through helping Thomas attach the traces to the horses’ collars when a leather-gloved hand closed over her own.
She squeaked in alarm, whirled, and crashed directly into a large male body.
The man grunted, and she practicallybouncedoff his torso. She would have toppled backward into the black mare if the man hadn’t caught her in both arms.
She looked up into his rain-dampened face, and felt a trifle lightheaded. “Henry?”
That wasHenry’srigid abdomen she’d just encountered? For all she’d been weeping into his shirtfront not so very long ago, she hadn’t realized his torso was quite so… taut.
“God only knows how many men you’ve attempted to persuade to accompany you on this mad journey,” he said, “but yes, it’s me. What in blazes are you doing?”
“Only you.” He was still holding onto her arms, and Margo noticed the travel bag slung across one of his broad shoulders. “You—Henry, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question. I thought you wanted to travel in a hurry.”
She couldn’t stop staring at the travel bag, pleasure ballooning in her chest in a fashion she found most uncomfortable. “I do. I thought to ride to Alconbury and take the mail coach in the morning.”
Fairhope gave an audible groan from the other side of the carriage.
“For Christ’s sake,” said Henry. “Alone, I take it?”
“I wasn’t going to try to stuff Thomas and James into my reticule, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Henry sighed. “Come on, then.” He waved a hand at the groom, who was frozen with indecision and—Margo could admit it—burgeoning relief. “Unhook your horses, Thomas. We’ll hire a post-chaise.”
Delight was spilling through her, but she tamped it down ruthlessly. “No.”
