Chapter 6 #2
Ginny was a bright spot among the gray, and our friendship was often the only thing to keep me afloat.
But reading the papers and books and magazines and gossip sheets .
. . It gave me something to focus on, to dream of, to find fascination with.
It helped, however little, to imagine that my life would not always be summed up by a handful of repetitive tasks.
I turned the page and began to read the section on reported crimes and court appearances.
It was a subject I found more interesting than the rest, letting me imagine what might drive a person to commit a crime.
I was reading almost lazily, gaze drifting across the page, when a sentence caught my attention.
A housebreaking occurred on the twentieth of October at Peak House, the London residence of Lord Osterson. A rare diamond brooch was taken. Further inquiries to be made.
“Odd,” I murmured. Hadn’t I just read something about Peak House? I flipped back through the paper, skimming over the tiny black print until I found it—a bit of gossip tucked in among the news of the royal family.
A certain young miss of lately questionable morals was seen emerging from the gardens during the ball at Peak House on Thursday last. Whether she met with a Mr. Falmouth, who exited soon after, remains to be determined.
“Very odd,” I said again, my voice low.
“What is?” Mr. Rawlings sounded frightfully uninterested.
I flicked a glance at him, debating whether I should keep my insights to myself. But the coincidence was too strange. “This here,” I said, pointing to the newsprint, “says that a robbery occurred at Peak House on the twentieth.”
“And?”
“And,” I said, pushing on despite his clear indifference, “does it not seem odd that Peak House should have hosted a ball just the evening before?”
He considered it. “Perhaps,” he said, “but not terribly unusual. I imagine that guests often wander off with valuables that don’t belong to them.”
I shot him an exasperated look. “I may not currently enjoy the good graces of the ton, but even I know there aren’t a great many hot-handed thieves among them.”
“Just one would be enough, I imagine,” he said.
“Hmm.” I tugged on a curl as I gazed out the window.
“You have another theory?”
I shrugged. “No, not really. I was simply stating something I found curious in order to pass the time. And it worked splendidly. Why, we enjoyed an entire two minutes of stimulating discussion.” I flashed a saucy grin at him, expecting nothing beyond a look of long-suffering at my mouthiness.
Instead, he raised one eyebrow as he held my gaze, his posture as poised and proper as one could be in a coach. “Stimulating indeed.”
His voice was serious, but I could not shake the feeling that he was toying with me, laughing at me somehow. Well then, he did not deserve my delightful company. I looked back down at my paper, determined not to speak again unless necessary.
We passed the rest of the day with little to no conversation, stopping every few hours to switch horses and stretch our legs.
I read the newspaper through twice, composed a terribly rhymed poem in my head about endless rutted roads, and tried not to think about all I was missing back in London.
The excitement over the case, the hustle and bustle, the sense of purpose.
This was still an adventure, I tried to convince myself.
I’d never been to this part of the country before.
Surely Mr. Rawlings and I could avoid each other well enough once we arrived.
I could go on long walks and explore the nearby countryside or write letters to Ginny and Mother.
I wished I could look forward to escaping into a book, but I doubted Mr. Rawlings’s house would have much of a library, if any.
Likely, it was a tiny, derelict cottage with little in the way of luxury.
But it would be safe, if Mr. Rawlings was to be believed, and that was certainly the most important quality a house could have at the moment.
As the day wore on, the clouds overhead grew thicker and darker.
I watched with no small amount of apprehension, and I knew Mr. Rawlings did as well.
His posture was tight as he looked out the window, foot tapping restlessly against the floor.
No doubt he wished to be done with this miserable journey as much as I did, and rain would do nothing but delay us.
Sure enough, the rain began to fall late in the afternoon, and the road grew muddy and slick. Twice, the coach’s wheels stuck fast, and it was only by the coachman’s expertise that we managed to continue on.
But finally, the coach came to a stop, and the door opened. The coachman looked half drowned, hat soaked through and limp.
“Very sorry I am, sir and miss,” he said. “But I don’t think we can be continuing much longer. We’ll need to find somewhere to stop for the night.”
I couldn’t help my relief. As anxious as I was to reach our destination, the ride had grown increasingly bumpy, and a chill crept through even my thick cloak. Mr. Rawlings exhaled deeply, though his expression remained unchanged. I couldn’t tell what he felt at the news.
“Very well,” he said. “I believe there is a town another mile or two up the road. We can seek shelter there and hope the storm passes quickly.”
The coachman nodded eagerly, and for the first time, I realized that he had to be utterly exhausted. He’d slept not a wink last night, all because we needed a quick escape from London.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “Mr. . . . ?”
He flushed, touching his hat. “Barton, miss.”
“You’ve been very helpful today, Mr. Barton.” I offered a grateful smile. “Truly, thank you.”
He grinned and bowed. “You’re too kind, miss. Thank you, miss.”
He closed the door behind him. I looked over at Mr. Rawlings, and he was regarding me strangely.
“What is it?” I asked, already defensive.
But he only shook his head and glanced away.
We arrived in a small village shortly after, the rain a steady thrum on the roof of the coach.
I peered through the window as we came to a stop outside a rather rickety-looking inn, its walls in peril of toppling over in the wind.
But light glowed in the windows, and the thought of a warm fire made my heart lift.
Mr. Rawlings did not bother to wait for the coachman. He opened the door and splashed down into the mud, his boots sinking a good three inches. My sudden enthusiasm for a fire was doused. I had only my half boots, which would surely be sucked into the mud as though it were quicksand.
Mr. Rawlings held out his good hand to me, but I hesitated at the door of the coach. I didn’t have any other boots for tomorrow. Even if I cleaned these tonight, would they dry by the time we set out in the morning? How would I—
“Shall I carry you?” His voice was dry even as rain dripped from his hat.
I raised my eyes to meet his, which held a daring gleam, as if he thought his challenge would drive me into the mud to prove a point—that I did not need his help.
But it was abundantly clear that I would never win Mr. Rawlings’s good opinion. So why would I ruin a perfectly good pair of boots over it?
I spread my lips into a wide, catlike smile. “Oh, would you, Mr. Rawlings?” I said with gushing relief. “Such a gentleman. So kind.”
He stared at me, completely caught off guard. He’d expected me to refuse and stubbornly wade through the mud.
Mr. Barton appeared around the corner of the coach. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You assist the lady, sir, and I shall see to your things.”
I grinned and batted my eyelashes, holding out my hand. “If you please, Mr. Rawlings. I do think my hem is getting damp.”
He made no move, the rain soaking through his jacket and his boots sinking deeper with every passing second. Then his eyes narrowed. My heart skipped one significant beat.
In a single, fluid motion, he stepped forward, grasped me behind the knees with his uninjured arm, and threw me over his shoulder.
I gave a small, unladylike yelp as my stomach hit his sturdy shoulder. He turned back toward the inn, swinging me haphazardly, with no thought to my comfort.
I pushed myself up on my elbows against his back. “Mr. Rawlings!” I gasped. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Carrying you, as requested.” His ridiculously deep voice rumbled in his chest. He tromped through the mud, kicking up great clods that no doubt speckled my dress with brown. “If you prefer to walk . . .”
He would delight in that, dumping me here in the mud because I protested his so-called chivalry. I grasped the fabric of his jacket with both hands in case he tried to follow through.
“You should not cling so, Miss Lacey,” he said shortly. “Someone might have the wrong idea.”
“Oh?” I asked in a clipped tone. “Concerned about mixing your sterling reputation with mine? I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how well informed you are about my past.”
“It is my job to be informed.”
Even using one arm, the other still in a sling, he carried me with ease. I wished I’d eaten a few more sweets lately to make it more difficult on him. I could just see the corner of the inn as we approached. He jostled me to the side as he reached his slinged hand for the door.
“A pity,” I said hotly. “I was under the impression you were good at your job.”
He stiffened—whether from some pain in his arm or the insult in my words, I could not say. But in the next second, he swung open the door and dropped me unceremoniously to the floor. I just managed to get my feet under me, throwing a hand against his chest to catch my balance.
“Here we are,” he said abruptly, as if I’d been a load of firewood.
He looked down at me, and I realized then how very close our faces were.