Page 44 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Sitting next to Margaret, Connor Jackson shifted and turned his face in her direction. “We should be there soon,” he said.

The image of the man sitting in the window superimposed itself over her vision, his vile expression, his threats. Had she returned to a greater danger than running from the law?

“I need a gun.” The words popped out of her mouth before she fully formed them in her mind.

“Excuse me?” he added, part incredulous, part cynical. He clearly thought her mad for asking him to give a gun to a murder suspect.

Undaunted, she explained, “In case he finds me. I need a way to protect myself.”

“He?”

“The man who killed Hennessy, who threatened me.”

He stared at her through unreadable eyes. “It is unlikely he will find you. Just don’t go out and about parading around like a confounded duchess.”

She stiffened. “I never parade about like a duchess—I’m a marchioness—nor do I parade, although I have been known to promenade in the past. Seeing the members of the haut ton putting themselves on display, trying to outdo one another, can be an interesting diversion, from time to time.”

“I’d find it a terrible bore.”

“No doubt.” She eyed him. In such poor lighting, she could barely make out his features though she knew them well enough by now to know he frowned slightly.

She returned to her original line of thought. She needed a gun. Her mother’s pearl-handled gun would be nice to have. “I wish to stop at Hennessy House so I may retrieve my gun.”

“A gun,” he repeated as if to reassure himself he heard her correctly. If he still doubted her innocence, he didn’t believe she might be in danger. Would he even try to find the killer if he thought he already had?

“I need a way to defend myself.”

“Use a knife. Or a big stick.” He tossed it out lightly, but his meaning came with it in cruel clarity. She inched away from him.

Was he really taking her to her brother’s house? Or had he instructed the postilion to drive them directly to a holding cell until they could throw her into Newgate to await her trial? Had he lied about Christian hiring him?

She fisted her hands and glanced out the windows, looking for a familiar landmark. When the carriage stopped for a coach to cross in front of them, she leaped for the door, wrenched it open, and ran out into the night.

A curse and a thud followed behind her. She ran as if the very devil pursued her. Footsteps followed. Margaret turned a corner in an alley and ducked behind a refuse bin. She sat curled up, making herself as small as possible. The footsteps slowed. Stopped. She held her breath.

“Forgive me, Lady Margaret. Please come back so I may escort you safely to your family.”

Was he in earnest? She daren’t trust herself to be a good judge of character.

He tried again, his voice growing closer. “Meg, I’m not your enemy.”

She made no sound, no movement.

“Meg?” Soft footfalls neared, and a dark form passed her. “Come back. I mean you no harm. Surely you know that.”

He may not mean her harm, but he was an avowed lawman. If he took her before a magistrate, she had no way of knowing if he would be fair and reasonable. The law seemed designed to protect men, not women. Her heart thudded so loudly she feared it would give away her hiding place.

His footsteps, so light they might have belonged to a cat, ceased. Either he had moved on or he’d stopped again. She took a tentative breath.

The odors of the streets turned her stomach. She put a hand over her nose, closing it off, and breathed through her mouth. Long minutes passed. The cobblestones pressed against her, cold and hard. A rat scurried by, squeaking. The lithe form of a cat crept out, noiseless as a shadow, and leaped. Did she dare peek out? What if Connor Jackson was there, patiently waiting for her to emerge? Chilled and numb, she took a chance. Leaning out, she looked both directions. The alley appeared empty. Fighting stiffened limbs and a sore posterior, she climbed to her feet and took a step out. Two women strutted past, their legs showing through slits in their skirts in the manner of soiled doves who sold themselves to any man with a bit of coin. They paid her no heed.

Margaret pulled her shawl around her and headed down the alley to the adjoining street. After another cautious look around, she made her way to the townhouse Christian had let for the Season. As she turned the corner to his house, she halted. What if Connor Jackson anticipated she would come here?

Perhaps a more unconventional approach would be wise. Forgoing the front entryway, she moved to the gate leading to the servants’ entrance, opened it, and descended the steep stairway to the kitchen door below ground. Margaret didn’t know Christian’s servants, except the butler. Would they help her? She had to try. Light poured out between the door and doorframe, carrying the smells of food. Voices called, and the clanging of kitchen utensils painted a picture of dinner preparations. Margaret pulled the paper with her name and alleged crime from her bodice, smoothed it, and tugged her bonnet low over her face.

After she rapped on the door, a young girl opened it and peeked out. “Aye?”

Margaret held up the folded paper and said in her best cockney accent, “An urgent message for Mr. Amesbury.”