Page 59 of Souvenir of Love

“Jervis told you it appeared to be an unpleasant encounter. No doubt she was too embarrassed or upset.”

She reached over and smoothed the crease that had appeared between his eyes. “If you are so concerned, you could ride over to Hartsdale in a day or two.”

“If she’s there, she’ll know I’ve come because I don’t trust her, and the Norcrofts will know it, too… And if she’s not there, well, then…”

“You’ll create a scandal far worse than the one in London.”

He nodded; Alix slid her hand behind his neck, pulling him down against her.

“You’ll just have to trust her,” she whispered into his tawny hair.

“I know,” he whispered back. “That’s what worries me most.”

Twenty-One

They were angry with her. Elizabeth could understand that, but they’d been traveling in the coach for hours, and neither James nor his man Marcus had uttered a single word. They’d ridden through the night, and that was understandable. Clearly, the men were in a hurry. But after the sun had risen, and they’d stopped for a brief breakfast and then continued on, it was inexcusable.

“It’s a lovely day today, isn’t it?” she said.

The interior of the coach remained resolutely silent.

“Not a cloud in the sky. Delightful traveling weather.”

Still no answer.

“It bodes well for the crossing, I should think. I’m sure you’ve heard the tale of the poor Duchess of Northumberland. It was many years ago, of course, but my mother loves to tell the story. A storm blew up, with wind and waves so violent, the duchess was nearly swept into the sea, chaise and all. She insisted the captain turn back. I don’t think I should have done anything so foolish; I’d at least have gotten out of the chaise.” She paused. “Though, do you suppose a chaise might float?”

The only sound in the coach was of horses’ hooves, jangling traces, and wheels grinding over gravel.

“Shall we stop this evening or ride straight through? Not that I’m complaining,” she added hastily, at the same time thinking longingly of her toothbrush, and her hairbrush, and her lemon soap. “I was just wondering how I shall enter the inn without attracting too much attention. I could pretend to be the maid…”

James turned to her. “I don’t think so,” he said dryly.

“Oh, but I could, I’ve got a terrific ear for accents.”

“Yes,” he said, “but can you start a fire in the chamber hearth?”

She pursed her lips.

“How are you at making beds?”

Her lower lip twitched.

“Ironing shirts?”

Her lip twitched again. “I can make a pudding,” she offered.

“Well, that changes everything,” he said, clearly unimpressed.

Marcus made an odd sound in his throat and purposefully bent his head and his graphite pencil to the sketchbook open on his lap.

“Well, then, what’s your bright idea, James Arthur Evan Dinsmore?”

“You’ll pull up your hood and enter on my arm.”

“But people will think…”

“Precisely what they think whenever I enter an inn with a hooded lady. That you’re my mistress.”