So, they locked the sitting-room door and took it in turns to sit by it and peer through the keyhole for marauders.
Time passed.
*
Hazel woke with a start, uncomfortable and alarmed. The last candle was guttering, and the other ladies were talking in whispers.
Hastily, she wiped the dribble from around her mouth. “What’s happening.”
“It’s been quiet for about half an hour,” Miss Shelby said. “We’re discussing what to do next. Don’t worry, you haven’t been asleep longer than thirty minutes.”
“Is the princess awake? Have the revelers gone?”
“We haven’t heard a thing. And dawn is breaking.”
It was summer. Dawn came early.
Hazel rose stiffly from her uncomfortable chair. “We have to go out and look.”
Her heart hammering, she opened the door. The passage was indeed empty. And the house was quiet. She crept to the stairs. Two men and a scantily dressed woman lay near the bottom. She might have thought they were dead, except for the stertorous snoring.
“This is insane,” Hazel said angrily. With decision, she strode toward the princess’s door and knocked loudly.
The others clearly agreed with her strategy, for Juliet murmured, “Knock again. Harder.”
Obediently, she did, and on getting no answer, she drew in her breath, met the nervous gaze of the other women, and tried the door.
It opened at once.
Most of the furnishings had gone. Worse, the connecting door to the bedchamber stood wide open, and the bed was stripped and empty.
In horror, the four of them walked across the sitting room and saw that the open wardrobes and cupboards were empty, too.
“She’s gone,” Hazel whispered. “She was never here. Not last night.”
“Which means,” Lady Meg said flatly, “we have just spent an entire night unchaperoned at an orgy.”
And Miss Shelby uttered what they all knew. “We are ruined.”
There was a moment of utter silence.
“Ruined?” Hazel repeated with determination. “Not necessarily. But we need to get home to our families at once so that they tell no one we were ever here.” Her own difficulties were slightly more complicated, so she forced herself to focus on the others, looking first at Lady Juliet. “Are your parents in London?”
“No, they’re in the country.” Juliet straightened her shoulders. “But I can return to my betrothed’s family in South Audley Street. I was staying with Lady Alford before I came here.”
“Miss Shelby?”
“I think you should call me Deb. In the circumstances, it seems silly to cling to formality! I shall have to go home at once. But I can manage. I have enough money to travel post back to Cheshire. I just didn’t plan on using it so early… What of you, Meg?”
“My parents are still in London. We should walk together as far as we may, Juliet, so as to attract less attention. Hazel?”
“My father has just gone to sea, and my grandmother to Scotland.” She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough money to follow her to Scotland, even on the stagecoach.”
“We must pool our resources,” Juliet decided, “according to what we need. But is there no one closer to you? To deny that you were here?”
Hazel brightened. “There is my old governess! She has recently married a clergyman and lives now in Essex. I can easily afford the stagecoach there—although I think it is a long walk to the Blue Boar in Aldgate to catch it.”
“An unsafe walk,” Lady Meg said. “Take a hackney.” She pushed some coins into Hazel’s hand.”
“I shall pay you back,” Hazel said earnestly, for she could not bring herself to refuse.
“When you can,” Meg said. “Now, let us be gone from this place.”
They donned their outerwear and bonnets, picked up their valises, and left the room. The bodies on the stairs grumbled as they fought their way past but barely troubled to move. Several people were stirring in the drawing room, so the young ladies turned their faces away and fled down the next flight of stairs to the entrance hall. Juliet threw open the front door, and they fled outside.
Only as she closed the door did Hazel see the dark figure standing at the entrance to the reception room.
Outside was chilly, the street perfectly quiet in the pale light. She hurried after the others in the direction of Oxford Street.
“Lord Barden is still there,” Hazel said worriedly. “I don’t know if he saw us.”
“If he did, it is our word against his,” Deborah Shelby said grimly.
“Then let us hope he is more of a gentleman than his master ever was,” Juliet said. “Goodbye, my friends, and good luck.”
They embraced each other, which they had never done before, and fled in their different directions.
*
With considerable satisfaction, Lord Barden watched the princess’s young ladies scurry out of the house like frightened kittens. His plan was working better than he had ever hoped.
Hazel Curwen, who was last to leave, probably saw him in the doorway, but that was all to the good.
After a few minutes, he also left the house, looking forward to a few hours of sleep in his comfortable bed. Tomorrow would be time enough to follow Hazel back to Captain Curwen’s house. By then, her ruin would be complete, and he could begin the next stage of his complex and really quite ingenious plan.
Chapter Two
By the time Hazel’s hackney reached east London, the streets were coming alive with yawning men and women, loaded carts, and scavenging dogs. Market stalls were opening up and smells of fish and meat and others decidedly less pleasant assailed the carriage as she traveled. Beyond wrinkling her nose, she barely noticed.
It had been a bizarre and largely sleepless night. But what bothered her most—more even than the possible loss of the young ladies’ reputations, which she still thought they could prevent with luck and parental influence—was the disappointment of the princess leaving without her. There would be no Paris, no Italy for her.
Instead, she had to inflict herself upon Miss Sprigg—now Mrs. Armitage—and pray they would let her stay while she worked out the best thing to do. Which might be to chase after her grandmother to Scotland, only she would need a companion for such a long journey, especially considering the precarious state of her reputation.
She only realized they were in Aldgate High Street when she glimpsed the sign for the Blue Boar Cellar, the inn from where most of the stagecoaches left to travel eastward. Hazel alighted and paid the driver the agreed fair with Lady Meg’s coins.
He saluted her with his whip. “Take care, Miss. Don’t let them fleece you,” he said by way of farewell. It didn’t comfort her. She had never traveled on a public coach before.
She had to wait for a cart full of barrels to turn into the High Street before she could enter the already bustling inn yard. The building was three stories high, with three irregular sides, but she quickly found the office to buy her ticket to Waltham Abbey. “Leaves in five minutes, Miss,” she was warned.
Luck was with her. She certainly didn’t want to be hanging around the inn for very long, for despite the courtesy she received, there were several unsavory looking characters sitting on benches and helping load up carts. And occasional bouts of laughter spilled out of the taproom, even at this time of the morning, that reminded her of last night’s drunken party.
What on earth had that been about? Just the greedy hangers-on finishing the last of Her Highness’s food and wine before the house was closed up? No, there was more than that involved, she thought, as she carried her valise across the yard toward the coach. More likely some last nastiness on the part of the princess’s husband.
With a start, she realized several gentlemen were strolling out of the inn’s taproom as though it were White’s. They seemed surprised to see daylight. Several of them blinked owlishly, and Hazel recognized one of them. She could not remember his name, but he
had visited the princess several times and even escorted her once to the theatre.
Hastily, she swung back the way she had come and dodged behind a tall wagon. It only gave her a moment, though, for the wagon was rolling out toward the street. In panic, she whipped around behind one of the supporting pillars and stared sightlessly at the waybills outside the coaching office.
Raising her hand to hide her face, she glanced back over her shoulder, leaning out beyond the pillar. The gentlemen still stood together in the yard, weaving slightly as they talked, perhaps about the best way home. Even worse, another gentleman strolled out of the taproom to join them, and this time her stomach plunged in dread, for she knew his name.
Sir Joseph Sayle, diplomat and rake, who would, surely, be highly entertained to recognize her here. He would tell his friends who she was. Ruin rushed on her once more. She straightened, facing the wall.
Go away, go away, go away…
But their voices kept going, a little slurred, a little too loud. Their accents were easily distinguishable in this place of cheerful working men. What in God’s name were they doing here? Surely, they were not meaning to travel on the stagecoach? She could not imagine them doing so. But it was not unheard of for wealthy young bucks to bribe the coachman into letting them drive for some usually drunken wager. As often as not, the vehicle ended overturned in a ditch.
Go away, go away! She was going to have to find a way to get to the coach without them seeing, or it would leave without her.
“Surely it cannot be,” intoned a man behind her.
She froze. Sir Joseph.
She would have known that hateful, mocking voice anywhere, low and pleasant on one level, sardonic and derisive on another. She elected to ignore him. A gentleman, surely, would understand and back away. Or at least assume he was mistaken. She even imagined for a moment that he had done so, for he did not speak again.
Then she sensed movement, and his shoulder appeared against the wall in front of her eyes. She kept her gaze firmly on the waybill.
“But yes, it is,” he observed. “O, most furious of handmaidens, tell me how I might serve you?”
“By walking away,” she said between her teeth. “And taking your friends with you.” She risked a glance upward and found those amused hazel eyes fixed on her face. Ringed with dark shadows, they glittered oddly, not the eyes of a sober man. He stank of wine.
“I think we could do better than that,” he murmured. “I am at your disposal.”
“Joe!” came the shout of one of his friends. “Joe, put her down and come with us. There’s a coffee house—”
“Go on,” Sir Joseph called impatiently while blood flooded into her mortified face. “Ma’am, allow me to drive you wherever you wish to be. You should not be traveling on the public coach.”
“By what right,” she demanded furiously, “do you dare to tell me how to behave?”
He blinked, perhaps to hide his surprise. “By no right at all. I merely made a civil offer.”
“Civil!” She glared at him, and his eyes twinkled, infuriating her even more.
“Civil,” he maintained. “Madam, your charms are legion, but I have been up all night, and I am not entirely sober. Even if I had any designs upon your delightful person, I assure you, I am quite incapable of carrying them out. You are perfectly safe with me for—oh—at least eight hours.”
“Sir, I would not walk as far as that coach with a man who spoke so to a lady!”
He straightened, easing his shoulder from the wall. “You mean that coach?”
She snapped her head around in time to see the stagecoach disappearing into the High Street. Instinctively, she started after it.
“Don’t,” he said, catching her arm. “You’ll only draw more attention to yourself. And my friends, you know, are probably not far enough away.”
“But you don’t understand,” she blurted, so appalled that she failed to shake off his detaining hand. “I have no more money to buy another ticket, and I don’t know if they will let me change it. Oh, why could you not just have walked away when I asked you to?”
“Where are you going?”
She blinked at the unexpectedly blunt question. “To my old governess near Scorton in Essex.”
“I’ll take you. My own horses and curricle are here. In fact, they’re being readied now.”
Surprised, she frowned up at him.
Despite his condition, his eyes seemed serious and not unkind. “It wasn’t deliberate, you know—causing you to miss the stagecoach. But it was my fault. I would like to make amends.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “You know I cannot go with you.”
“It’s an open carriage,” he pointed out. “And no one will know either of us.”
“I would rather wait for the next stagecoach.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I don’t even know if there is another today.”
She stared at him in dismay.
“Come. You may quarrel with me the whole way,” he offered. “And I will engage to get you there before dark.”
“Sir, in your own words, you have been up all night and are not entirely sober. I don’t believe either of us will be safe in your curricle.”
“Nonsense. I’ve driven in much worse conditions. All I need is the occasional sip of brandy, and we’ll be right as rain. Here we are.”
The ostler came toward them, leading a fine pair of perfectly matched grey horses harnessed to a smart curricle. Sir Joseph held out his hand to her, graceful but supremely casual.
A frown tugged at her brow, for she distrusted everything about him. “Why would you go out of your way to help me? You don’t even like me.”
A smile flickered across his face. “I suppose I must be drunker than I thought. And I believe it would please Her Highness.”
Oddly, it was his reference to the princess that finally convinced her. He probably meant to join Her Highness in Europe, in which case, he would not lay a finger on Hazel, but meant only to curry favor with his royal mistress.
In truth, she didn’t have a great deal of choice.
She lifted her chin. “Very well. I accept.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. He took the valise from her and turned to the ostler. “See if you can strap that onto the back, Jonesy.” Then, with perfect politeness, he handed her into the vehicle and climbed up beside her.
This brought him rather closer than she would have liked, for he was a physically imposing man. But she refused to be intimidated and forced herself not to shrink too obviously to the far side of the seat.
In no time, it seemed, they had driven out of the yard and were bowling along Aldgate High Street. Hazel clung to the edge of the seat and divided her wary gaze between the road ahead and his casual hands. At every moment, she half-expected he would drive the curricle into a wall or an oncoming cart. If she could just grab the reins from him in time, perhaps she could prevent it.
But whether it was his luck or the horses’ good sense, their passage remained smooth through busy streets and docks and at last into more open country.
Only then did his silence strike her, and she wondered if he had actually fallen asleep. In alarm, she gazed up at him, but his eyes were open and focused on the road ahead—until he glanced down and caught her staring.
“Better?” he inquired.
“Better than what?” she countered.
“Whatever you are running away from in London.”
“I have never run away in my life!”
“Then I beg your pardon. Whatever you were hurrying from.”
“I am visiting my old governess,” she said repressively.
“I can only imagine her gratification.”
Hazel scowled at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he said hastily, but she wasn’t stupid or without humor.
“Are you saying my Friday face might not be welcomed by an old friend?” she asked wryly, and at last, she thought she had surprised him, f
or he glanced at her quickly before he laughed.
“Why, Friday faces are rarely welcomed anywhere, but one smile, and I’m sure she will greet you with open arms.”
She was silent.
“I was only jesting,” he said. “You may ignore me with impunity. In my cups, I occasionally forget I’m not the most amusing man who ever lived. Have we even been introduced? I’m Joseph Sayle.”
“I know.”
“You’re meant to return the favor, Miss Hazel.”
She frowned at him. “Miss Curwen,” she corrected.
“Princess Caroline called you Hazel.”
She flushed, wondering what cause the princess would have had to mention her at all. “That is my Christian name.”
“And a very pretty one it is, too. Unusual.” Looking thoughtful, he transferred the reins to one hand and took a flask from his pocket. He unscrewed it with practiced ease and raised it toward his lips, before lowering it again as though remembering his manners, and offered it to her. She shook her head, and he took a sizeable swig. “There is a beautiful, big hazel tree on the edge of my garden. Great for hiding in.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
He shoved the closed flask back in his pocket. “You don’t like me much, do you, Miss Hazel?”
“Miss Curwen, and since we barely know each other, I neither like nor dislike you.”
He smiled amiably. “Liar.”
“However,” she added hastily, realizing how ungracious she must have sounded, “I am most grateful for your assistance.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. Although his eyes still glittered a little wildly, they didn’t lose focus like those of other drunks she had had the misfortune to encounter. But she had no idea what he was thinking.
“What will you do now?” he asked unexpectedly. “Is your visit to the governess necessitated by Her Highness’s departure?”
She gazed out over the fields. “Partly.”
“Don’t you have family?”
“My father is at sea, my grandmother in Scotland.”
He frowned, as though dredging up something from his memory. “Captain Curwen,” he murmured. “Is he your father?”
Pursued by the Rake Page 2
