Julian looked and saw the man—dressed in a heavy black overcoat and, today, sporting a cap—standing on the opposite pavement a little way along.
As he watched, the man started walking their way, but then a carriage rumbled down the street, two gentlemen came out of another house and started walking toward them, and a messenger came hurrying along, in his haste unceremoniously brushing past the man.
The man halted, then the carriage came between them, blocking Julian’s view.
When the carriage passed, he looked again and wasn’t entirely surprised to see that the man had, once again, disappeared.
Melissa stared. “What on earth…?”
“Come.” Looping his arm with hers, Julian drew her around and set off for Mount Street. He tipped his head toward hers and, lowering his voice, explained, “I think he’s been warned not to approach me while there are others about who might spot him.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He quirked a brow. “I imagine because whatever message he’s carrying is sensitive, and there are fears others might be watching me, ready to ensure, one way or another, that I never receive it.”
Her gaze fixed on his face, sharp and openly concerned. “So you are in danger!”
Anxiety swam in her blue eyes, and he couldn’t stop his heart from leaping just a little; clearly, she cared for him. He would willingly accept that as his advance for the day.
He smiled gently, reassuringly, and shook his head. “No. It’s not me who’s in danger. It’s him.”
The days fled past in a haze of balls, soirées, and formal dinners. A week after their successful outing to Richmond, Julian and Melissa stole away to spend the day at Greenwich.
He’d arranged for them to take a water taxi from the stairs by Westminster Bridge. After stepping into the boat and setting down the loaded picnic basket provided by the Carsely House cook, he turned to where Melissa waited on the stone step. Smiling, he reached up, closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her down. The shift in weight made the boat rock. They held still until it steadied, then he handed her to the plush, chair-like seat in the bow. He waited until she settled her skirts, then sat beside her and nodded to the two watermen sitting at the stern, patiently waiting to get under way.
With indulgent grins, the watermen dipped their oars in the dark water, and in seconds, the boat drew smoothly away from the bottom of the granite stairs.
As the buildings of Whitehall slipped away on their right, Julian and Melissa relaxed on the surprisingly comfortable padded bench with its raised back. He’d told the watermen that they were in no especial hurry, but the river was running strongly, enough that the men had to work to weave the lighter boat past the ferries, barges, and other watercraft likewise busily navigating the space.
Regardless, out on the expanse of murky water, the noises of town were muted, and although the shouts of watermen, the occasional horn, shrill steam whistles, and the raucous cries of jostling gulls were far from silent, they belonged to another world. All awareness of London faded as the experience of the river engulfed them.
They passed under Waterloo Bridge, then Blackfriars Bridge and Southwark Bridge and, eventually, slid beneath the span of London Bridge and left the city behind.
After a time, Julian broke their companionable silence to observe, “Although we’re children of the haut ton, it seems we share a liking for savoring moments without words in the open air.”
Smiling, she tipped her head back, closing her eyes as the weak sunshine bathed her face. “You’re right—that’s another thing we have in common. Neither of us feel we have to be conversing all the time.” She raised her lids enough to glance at him from beneath her lashes. She studied his face and, when he arched a questioning brow, said, “You do realize that the coming weeks—those leading to the height of the Season—are going to be even worse than those we’ve weathered thus far?”
He blinked. “Are they? I thought Sunday bad enough. Whatever happened to the notion of a day of rest?”
She smothered a snort. “This is the ton, and at the height of the Season, there is no rest afforded to anyone, wicked or otherwise.”
“So it appears.” He thought of the crowd that had thronged the porch of St. George’s Church, followed by the luncheon, the party, and two evening events that had forced them to adopt their social façades virtually throughout the entire day.
Monday and Tuesday had been only marginally better, at least for him. Melissa, he suspected, had had luncheons and at-homes to contend with while he had taken refuge in his study with the excuse of having to attend to estate business. True enough, but also a major relief.
“I don’t understand,” he said, “why the fascination with us has yet to wane. If anything, people seem to be watching us even more closely.”
She sighed. “It’s the ‘perfect match’ stigma. They’re all watching to see how matters play out and if we’ll stumble.”
They can watch, but that, they won’t see.Stumbling wasn’t an option. He was determined on that.
The boatmen had their work cut out for them in avoiding all the ships crowding the Pool of London, but eventually, Rotherhithe fell far behind, and they passed through Limehouse Reach and continued toward Deptford.
The farther they traveled down the river, the more the sense of leaving behind the mad carousel of ton events grew, until finally, they fetched up at the appropriately named Garden Pier that gave access to the royal park. They stepped out of the boat and, after Julian paid off the watermen, walked the few short blocks up Church Street, past the church itself and onto the tree-lined paths of the park. Melissa looped her arm in his and, with a smile on her face, looked about her. He carried the picnic basket in his other hand, idly swinging it as they strolled.
While not quite bucolic, the atmosphere was a far cry from that which prevailed in London. Here, children romped and laughed as they raced across the lawns, sometimes with maids or footmen chasing after them, laughing in turn. No one stood on ceremony or dignity; this was a place for enjoying a day free from censorious eyes.
Inevitably, there were members of the ton indulging as they were, but although several others recognized them, no one ventured more than a polite nod in passing.
