Chapter Seventeen The Pursuit of a Penniless Rogue #3
Minutes later—after a flurry of shouted orders to footmen, a hasty rearrangement of cloaks and hats, and Mr Darcy's muttered complaint about 'the impropriety of impromptu jaunts'—she was bundled into the Viscount's carriage. It was a spacious barouche, but with five occupants it felt a tad cramped.
Caroline was squeezed between Charles, who fidgeted nervously, and Mr Darcy, who sat ramrod straight, his knees knocking against Lindon's with every bump, on one bench, while Lord Keathley and Lindon lounged opposite, the latter's sword hilt digging into the upholstery.
"Comfortable?" his lordship asked with a grin as the vehicle lurched forward, the horses clattering over the cobblestones on the road to Kent.
The driver cracked his whip, and they were off, weaving through London's afternoon traffic—dodging carts, pedestrians, and a flock of geese that had escaped some market stall.
"As comfortable as one can be in a rolling sardine press," Caroline answered, adjusting her pelisse to avoid Mr Darcy's elbow. "Mr Darcy, if you could shift slightly—your elbow is invading my territory."
Mr Darcy flushed, murmuring an apology as he attempted to fold his long limbs into a smaller configuration. "This is highly irregular. Chasing a man across counties like common highwaymen."
"Speak for yourself," Lindon quipped, leaning back with a smirk. "I have chased worse in the Peninsula. At least this quarry will not shoot back. Hopefully."
Charles chuckled nervously, then winced as the carriage hit a pothole, jostling everyone. "Do you think we will catch him before dark? The roads to Kent—I have heard they are treacherous at night. Highwaymen, mud, and whatnot."
"Highwaymen?" Caroline's eyes narrowed. "Charles, if we encounter any, you have my permission to bore them into surrender with tales of your pet trout."
Lord Keathley barked a laugh, slapping his knee. "Ha! I would pay to see that. But fear not—we shall change horses at the first posting inn and inquire after him. Tall chap, long face? Cannot miss him."
"You do realise there is absolutely no need for a chase? We can go at a good pace. The estate will still be there in the morning," Mr Darcy said, proving that he was the only sane person in the lot of them.
Everyone turned to look at him.
"Darcy! Where is the fun in that? I find myself in terrible need to chase my brother in the night, and you are not going to spoil it for me." Viscount Keathley was adamant.
Caroline stared out of the window, her mind racing faster than the horses. Richard was ahead, forging a new path without her—resigning his life as a soldier, accepting an estate to prove his independence.
But not for long. She would catch him and she would tell him everything.
The banter continued as the city blurred past, buildings giving way to open roads flanked by fields and the occasional village. Just as the carriage rounded a bend, Lord Keathley suddenly slammed his fist against the roof.
"Halt!"
The driver obeyed with a sharp tug on the reins, and the carriage lurched to a stop. Before anyone could protest, he flung the door open and descended as if he had just remembered an urgent errand.
A few paces away, an elderly woman stood beside a small cart laden with baskets of hot cross buns, their spiced scent wafting through the crisp air. She wore a shawl of faded red, a wicker bonnet, and a bright toothless smile.
"Ah! Just the thing!" Lord Keathley declared, striding towards her. "Six of your finest, good woman. And a flask of that cider I smell—yes, the good stuff, none of that watered-down swill."
Caroline's patience snapped. She leaned out of the carriage.
"Excuse me, my lord, but might we continue pursuing the love of my life before the century is out?"
Lord Keathley turned, a hot cross bun already halfway to his mouth, his grin unrepentant. "Madam." He bowed with exaggerated grandeur, "one does not chase true love on an empty stomach. It is bad for the gut." He offered a bun to the driver, who accepted it gladly.
Caroline's glare could have melted the butter on the buns, but the Viscount merely winked, tossed the woman an extra shilling—"For your trouble, and may your buns always rise"—and climbed back into the carriage, passing the rest around.
"Now," he said, brushing crumbs from his waistcoat as the driver cracked the whip, "we proceed. With sustenance."
Caroline huffed, crossing her arms. "If we miss him because you had to sample every pie in Kent—"
"Then I shall personally deliver him to your doorstep," Lord Keathley interrupted, biting into his bun with satisfaction, looking like he had just brokered peace between warring nations. "Whole, or his head only. On a silver platter, if you like."
Mr Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot decide if this is the most efficient chase in history of chasing or the most ridiculous."
"Why not both?" Lindon shrugged with his mouth full.
Caroline turned her gaze out of the window again, but this time, the corner of her mouth twitched. The man was insufferable, just like his brother. But he was right about the buns.