Chapter Three
Emily’s fingers shook as she smoothed over the paper in her hand. The letter had come addressed to a ‘Miss Brunton’, and she’d opened it without thinking. Now, she sank into the rickety chair by the kitchen table.
Darling Isabella, was scrawled across the top in messy, masculine handwriting, each word splattered with ink as though written painstakingly.
I’ll see you an hour before dawn tomorow morning. Pack worm love and be ready to go at once. Remember tell no one; they will know all when we return.
Yours,
O
Emily’s throat closed. Aside from the atrocious grammar and spelling—she presumed ‘worm’ ought to be ‘warm’—the note made O’s intentions very evident: he was arranging an assignation.
The use of ‘love’ suggested Isabella was someone he was familiar with. Her beau—only this was no mere flirtation.
Tell no one.
Clearly Emily was included in this. Isabella had said nothing to her, only that she had a plan. Emily had believed that Isabella had perhaps secured an offer of marriage, or close to. Not a secret assignation.
Was this truly her plan? To allow herself to be ruined without consequence?
There would be consequences—Emily would be his consequence. For him to have sent this affectionate, careless note, he must care nothing for Isabella’s character or what might happen to her if her transgressions ever saw the light of day.
Emily would not let that happen.
She clenched the paper in her hand, thinking hard. Isabella had not yet seen this; there was still hope. Emily would be the one to wait outside at dawn while Isabella still slept.
She crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it on the fire, where it landed on the embers and burst, briefly, into flame. Then she retired upstairs.
“Is everything all right?” Isabella asked as she huddled under the blankets in the bed they both shared. The air was cold; Emily’s breath turned white in the candlelight.
Emily forced a smile she couldn’t feel. “Everything is fine.”
Emily barely slept as she awaited the morning. Just before dawn, she climbed out of bed. Isabella, unburdened by her foolishness, had slept the night through without stirring, and slumbered on even now.
All being well, by the time she awoke, Emily would have dealt with this latest threat to their happiness.
After creeping into her father’s room, where she found a pearl-inlaid pistol she had been considering selling, she slipped downstairs through the dark.
With a cloak over her head and a scarf wrapped around her neck and mouth—necessary in this weather—the amorous young man would no doubt think she was his sister.
Then, when he got close enough, she would confront him.
She could picture him now, everything Marlbury had been. Arrogant, overbearing, cruel.
Shuddering, she crept down the stairs and out into the frigid night air. All at once, she was glad for her woollen dress, cloak and scarf, and wished she could go back to bed. Her head ached, and that faint feeling of being overworked and underfed plagued her again.
She shook her head, fighting to stay awake, and paced back and forth in the gloom. Dawn was still some minutes away, but the world was lightening every passing second.
If these were the conditions the gentleman thought suitable for seduction, he had a great deal to learn about his craft.
Not for the first time, she wondered who he might be.
She knew everyone in the village, and no one had a name beginning with O.
There was Maximus Orwell, she supposed, but he was pushing forty and although her sister could be flighty, she didn’t suppose such a young girl would be interested in so old a man.
So who was he?
The sound of hooves clopping along the uneven cobbles of the street caught her attention, and Emily turned to see a large black carriage making its way along the street towards her.
Four high-stepping horses drew it, and although she had occasionally seen Lord Rotherham pass through the village, she thought she had never seen such a grand coach.
Who could own such an ostentatious vehicle?
Emily stepped back, her numb fingers slipping on the pistol.
She gripped it more tightly as the driver jumped nimbly down.
In the light of the lamps, she saw he was her age, give or take a year or so, with a shock of curly blonde hair on his head and a startlingly handsome face.
At the sight of her waiting, he broke into a grin.
“There you are,” he said, his voice warm. “Have you been waiting long? No matter—I’m here now, love. Come, we must make haste.”
Emily hesitated, the pistol still in the folds of her cloak. Isabella’s lover was a lord—or close to. A gentleman of means. And if she confronted him here, with that enormous carriage in place to make a spectacle, someone would be sure to see.
After she had gone to such lengths to ensure there would be no scandal, she could not afford to allow him to cause a scene.
Seeing her hesitation, the man took her elbow. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll be comfortable, and I’m a steady driver. Hurry, before anyone sees.”
Steeling herself, Emily obeyed the pressure of his hand and allowed him to hand her into the carriage. The door shut behind her, and she instinctively ran a hand over the smooth panel. No handle. No way out.
Breathe.
This was not the time to panic. They would presumably not be travelling far; there was no luggage on the carriage, and the note had not mentioned packing.
Once they reached their destination, she would threaten him with the pistol and he would take her back home.
Even a cad, surely, upon realising he had the wrong lady, would do that much.
She would make sure of it.
The carriage swayed as the man climbed atop, and a second later, the carriage lurched into motion. Emily assessed her surroundings. There was a heated brick and a pile of blankets; she would not freeze, at least. That was something.
Wrapping the blankets around herself, she sat back on the plush leather seats and waited for the inevitable moment of their arrival.
Three hours later, or thereabouts, they had still not arrived. They hadn’t even changed horses. With every passing minute, Emily’s stomach knotted with worry. This was not the quick trip she had been envisaging.
What could he be planning to do with her this far from home?
Had he been intending to make Isabella his mistress?
If so, then Emily had misjudged the situation; she ought to have confronted him there and then, even if it had risked someone seeing her, rather than allow him to cart her away like this.
Isabella would wake to find her missing. She hadn’t even left a note.
It began to snow. Emily watched the spiralling flakes with dread. They had to have travelled at least thirty miles by now, and here the hedgerows were frosted with white.
Mr Pickett had been right, after all, and what terrible timing it had been. How would she get home now?
The road widened, and she caught a glimpse of houses, huddled as though in defiance of the weather. Another town—one she didn’t recognise. Surely they would stop soon.
When they did, he would get the shock of his life.
She retrieved the pistol from where she had placed it carefully beside her and gripped it tightly once again. Let him face the barrel of a gun and realise the magnitude of his mistake.
They finally came to a halt, and after a second, she heard the man jump down from where he had been leading the horses. She pointed the pistol at the door as he approached.
A latch clicked, and the door swung wide.
“I,” she said grandly, “am not Isabella Brunton, and you, sir, have abducted me against my will. What do you have to say for yourself?”