Chapter 19
The next two days passed like walking on cracked glass.
Gwen kept out of Howard’s way. She rose early, took breakfast in her room, read until her eyes ached, walked briefly in the garden when she knew he had gone to his club, and returned before he could.
At night, his voice carried through the walls, sometimes raised, sometimes low and vicious. Doors slammed. Her mother’s choked replies drifted up the stairwell, torn between devotion and fear.
Gwen lay awake, listening, her fists clenched in the sheets, counting her heartbeats until the front door banged and his tread faded into the night.
On the second afternoon, as grey light bled thinly through the clouds, Martha entered with a letter on a tray.
“For you, My Lady,” she said. “Just arrived by express messenger. The seal looks unfamiliar.”
Gwen’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Cousin Edith’s firm, looping script. Her fingers shook as she broke the seal.
My dearest Gwen,
Your letter startled me, but I am very glad you wrote. I will not ask for details you cannot give. It is enough that you feel you must leave.
If you can come to Cheltenham, my door will be open to you. We need a governess for the boys and a steady influence in the schoolroom. You are more than qualified. Your room will be modest, but your independence will be your own.
Come as soon as you are able. Send word when you are on the road, that we may expect you.
With affection,
Edith Fairchild.
Gwen read it twice, her vision blurring. Relief crashed over her so suddenly that she had to sit down.
She had a way out.
“Is it good news?” Martha asked tentatively.
“Yes,” Gwen whispered. “It is everything.”
Martha nodded once, satisfied, though a line of worry creased her brow.
“Do not worry, all will be well,” Gwen added.
Martha’s brow smoothed slightly, before she curtsied and left the room.
That night, Gwen packed only what she could carry without drawing attention.
Plain gowns. A few books. Her father’s miniature.
The pouch of coins. Eleanor and Arabella had promised to manage the rest: the hired carriage, the quiet questions about service times, the diversions necessary to keep Howard’s attention elsewhere.
“We have one chance,” Eleanor had said. “If he has the slightest suspicion, he will lock you in your room.”
“Or worse,” Arabella had added softly.
They chose a night when Howard planned to dine at his club and stay late. Cordelia was told only that Gwen intended to visit Arabella for a few days. Gwen could not bring herself to say goodbye properly. It would have broken her.
She left the house through the servants’ door at half past nine, cloaked and hooded, trunk already carried ahead by a boy Eleanor had bribed. The hired carriage waited at the corner, plain and unremarkable.
The driver touched his cap. “Cheltenham, miss.”
“Yes,” she said. Her voice shook only a little. “Cheltenham.”
She climbed in.
The interior was dim, lit only by the occasional wash of lamplight as they rattled through the streets. Her heart pounded with every turn, waiting for a shout, a hand on the door, Howard’s voice calling her back. But none came.
At last, the city gave way to sparser houses, then to an open road. The night wrapped around the carriage like a cloak. Gwen sagged against the worn squab, pressing her hands together in her lap.
It was done.
She had left.
She should have felt nothing but relief. Instead, unease threaded through the triumph.
The road stretched long and dark. The hour was later than was quite respectable. The driver seemed competent, but she had no chaperone, no maid, no one at all.
Victor would scold her, she thought irritably, then immediately scolded herself for thinking of him at all.
The wheels hit a rut. The carriage jolted. Then, suddenly, it lurched to a halt.
Gwen’s stomach dropped. She caught the strap. “What is it?” she called. “Why have we stopped?”
There was a murmur of male voices outside. Then the door opened. A figure climbed in, broad-shouldered, filling the small space with the cold night air and a familiar scent that made her heart flutter.
Victor.
He settled into the seat opposite, as if they had arranged to meet there and at that hour. The door shut behind him with an efficient click, and the carriage jolted back into motion.
For a moment, Gwen could only stare at him.
“Your Grace,” she forced out, her voice thin and incredulous. “What are you doing?”
“You are a fool,” he grunted.
It stung, mostly because fear still fizzed under her skin.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is nearly midnight,” he said. “You are a gently bred lady traveling alone in a hired carriage on a half-deserted road, with no maid, no companion, no protection beyond a driver who would likely sell your whereabouts for an extra crown. Forgive me if I find that tragically idiotic.”
Her temper flared, swift and hot. “You had no right to interfere! This is none of your concern!”
“On the contrary,” he replied. “It is entirely my concern.”
“How dare you—”
“Did you truly think I would sit comfortably in my house, knowing you had slipped out into the night like this, and do nothing?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “That is precisely what I thought. You made your position very clear. Our arrangement was business, nothing more.”
His jaw tensed. “A man may revise his calculations when the figures change.”
“Do not dress this in numbers,” she snapped. “You do not own me. You do not decide where I go or when I travel.”
He looked at her, his eyes dark in the dim light. “You are right; I do not own you. But I am the only gentleman who knows where you are at this moment. That places certain obligations on me.”
She laughed, the sound short and bitter. “Obligations. You cannot keep rewriting your motives to suit yourself. First curiosity. Then business. Now duty. Which is it, Your Grace?”
He held her gaze. “At present, it is fury that you would risk yourself so carelessly.”
“Carelessly,” she huffed. “I brought enough money for the journey. I hired a reputable carriage. I chose a route at a time when the roads were still traveled. I—”
“You left your mother without a word,” he interrupted. “You left your friends to face the consequences. You put your fate in the hands of men you do not know. That is carelessness.”
“Do not dare speak of my mother,” Gwen said, her voice low and fierce. “She made her choice. I am making mine.”
“And your choice may cost you more than you think,” he retorted.
She glared at him, her heart hammering. “You have no authority over me. You had no right to stop this carriage.”
“I purchased the right when I bought the seats,” he said.
She stared. “You what?”
“I instructed the driver to stop at my signal,” he explained. “I caught up to you at the last coaching inn before the outskirts of town. I have been riding behind you since then.”
Outrage and reluctant gratitude warred within her. “You followed me!”
“Yes,” he said bluntly.
“You are insufferable,” she muttered.
“Likely.” He shrugged. “But I am also correct. You should not be traveling like this, and you know it.”
Gwen pressed herself against the seat, trying to still the tremors in her hands. She had imagined many obstacles—highwaymen, broken wheels, Howard. She had not imagined Victor climbing into her carriage like the personification of every inconvenient truth.
“This is my life,” she protested. “Not a section of your accounts to be balanced. You cannot simply appear and reorder it to your liking.”
“I am not attempting to reorder it,” he said. “I am attempting to prevent you from coming to harm.”
“Why?” she demanded.
The question hung between them as the carriage trundled on through the dark.
Victor did not answer at once.
For one wild moment, Gwen wished that he would lie. That he would say something soothing and false about affection, about admiration, about love. Anything to soften the sharp edges of his presence.
Instead, he said, “Because I have not yet fulfilled your request.”
For a heartbeat, she did not understand.
“My request,” she repeated.
“The one you made when you came to my study,” he clarified. “When you threatened me. You asked for money. You asked for my help. I agreed to provide it in a very specific form. Seven nights. Seven opportunities to understand why you wish to flee. I have not yet fulfilled that request.”
Gwen gaped at him. “You cannot possibly mean that you have chased down my carriage in the middle of the night because you feel morally obliged to keep your end of a sordid deal.”
“I can, and I do,” he said. “I keep my word, no matter how ill-advised.”
“You told me yourself that I could not ruin you,” she reminded him. “That even if I shouted your secrets from the rooftops, no one would believe me. You are safe, Your Grace. Your reputation is armored. You owe me nothing.”
His jaw ticked. “You forget that reputations are built over years, not mere nights. Even dukes are not invulnerable.”
“You do not fear me,” she said. “We both know that.”
“No,” he agreed. “I do not fear you. I fear what might befall you while you cling to your pride.”
“Do not call it pride,” she said. “Call it survival. I am trying to live in a way that does not depend on the whims of men like you and Howard.”
He looked at her steadily. “And yet you came to me.”
“In desperation,” she emphasized. “And now I regret it.”
“Do you?” he asked quietly.
Her throat closed. “Yes.”
He regarded her for a long moment, as if weighing the lie and finding it wanting. “Regardless, you cannot pretend that my involvement in your affairs is arbitrary.”
“I can, and I do,” she replied, using his words. “You chose to overhear my conversation. You chose to intercept my carriage. None of that was required of you.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, and she narrowed her eyes at him.
“How did you know exactly when I would leave?”
He looked past her for a second. “I told you, I overheard you speaking with your friends.”
“At the ball,” she said. “You heard everything?”