Chapter 20
Twenty
“Is this all your luggage?” James stared aghast at the pile of hatboxes higher than a man’s head and the trunks piled haphazardly atop the men’s belongings on the back of his coach.
“Or is there more I can’t see in the dark?
” He peered at the sections of the vehicle that lay beyond the circle of light cast by the courtyard torches.
“That is all of it. I packed as lightly as I could; I didn’t know how long we’d be gone.” She paused as James held open the door to the carriage, one foot on the step. “How long will we be gone?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “But I’m quite certain it will feel like an eternity.”
“An eternity?” she said, climbing into the coach. “Perhaps I should have packed more hats.”
The seats, she found as she settled her skirts, were uncomfortably high.
She supposed it was to accommodate James’s long legs.
The upholstery smelled strangely of sawdust and fresh varnish.
It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the carriage she’d arrived in—the carriage she’d sent on to Arabella’s, with its trunks and valises stuffed full of novels, fabric scraps, piles of ladies’ magazines, and the letters she’d written describing the wonderful time she was having at Hartsdale.
She hoped she’d written enough. Lord knew how long an eternity might actually turn out to be.
The coach rocked as James and Marcus Tyndale, the man whom he’d introduced as his secretary, settled in around her.
Elizabeth leaned back and closed her eyes.
She was fairly certain that no one in the poorly lit courtyard of the Hart and Hounds had noticed her carriage had been empty of passengers.
She had the coachman’s word he’d tell Rafe he’d delivered her safely.
It made her uncomfortable to think of how she’d secured that promise—by telling the coachman she’d seen his sister, a downstairs maid at Moreham Hall, pocketing silver spoons.
She’d suggested that if such behavior were exposed, then both brother and sister might lose their jobs.
Elizabeth winced, recalling the look of panic on the man’s face.
She’d almost abandoned her plans at that moment, wanting to reassure him she’d never tell, wanting to slip him some coins.
But if Rafe were to discover what she’d done, he’d be more sympathetic to the coachman’s dilemma if he knew she had not bribed but blackmailed him.
She allowed her eyelids to flutter open a fraction, sliding a glance at James.
Him, she hadn’t felt bad about blackmailing, not a bit.
In fact, it was his meeting with her brother that had given her the idea.
One could even say he was the one responsible for setting this whole plan in motion.
She closed her eyes again, resisting the urge to let slip a smile of satisfaction.
Elizabeth almost wished her brother could see her now, though she knew he’d have an apoplexy.
He was always excoriating her for not planning ahead.
Well, she’d done it this time, and she had to admit things had worked out awfully well.
All the time she’d spent thinking through and rehearsing her arguments as to why James should take her to France.
She frowned, remembering the only part of her speech that hadn’t been rehearsed, the part that had taken her unawares, spilling from her lips with unexpected passion—the part about not wanting to marry him.
Oh no, he’d protested. We are not getting married.
He’d been so vehement; the memory made her cringe.
Until that moment, she’d thought she did want to marry him.
Well, not anymore, not if every English man and woman in France saw them together, formed a choir, and sang the news at Almack’s.
She resisted the urge to slide her foot over and kick him in the shins with her pointed shoes.
The miserable cad. He was every bit as bad as Rafe and Alix and Phoebe and Cole had said.
If there had been a stack of Bibles in the coach, she’d have put her hand on them and sworn, right there and then, not to waste another moment thinking about James Dinsmore and how he was throwing away his life.
She was only eighteen. She had her whole life ahead of her—and this adventure offered her a chance to change everything, forever.
For the better, she amended quickly. And who knew?
Perhaps she might even change someone else’s life—not James Dinsmore’s, of course—but some poor unfortunate Frenchman’s.
She imagined herself, arm around the waist of a wounded young nobleman, supporting him as they ran through the fields, a company of gendarmes hot on their heels.
She pictured the looks of surprise on James’s and his companions’ faces—they’d be sitting at dinner or cards, or even better, carousing with loose women—when she’d stagger in with their fugitive.
As the rocking of the darkened coach lulled her into exhausted sleep, she found herself wondering about the fugitive.
What did he look like? And where was he now?
Amaury de Joley, Comte Verignac, former financial adviser to His late Majesty, Louis XVI of France, stared warily at a sleeping hen.
The roof of the henhouse was low. Crouching, he quietly stepped closer to the bird.
Then, with lightning speed that had made him an admired fencer in the court of Versailles, he snatched at the speckled egg he knew was hidden in the nest. It felt warm and heavy in his hand.
God willing, it would feel even more so in his stomach; he hadn’t eaten in days.
If he weren’t afraid the peasants would notice the missing bird, or that someone might see his campfire, he’d have taken the chicken as well.
Saliva flooded his mouth at the thought of crisp brown roasted chicken sprinkled with herbs.
Swallowing, he slipped the egg into the pocket of his coat—the coat he’d stolen from the back of a wagon parked in the yard of another farmhouse.
This was what he’d been reduced to, stealing eggs and the filthy vestments of peasants.
He’d tried to convince his daughter to flee with him to England—not that she ever listened.
He supposed she and the funds he’d transferred under her married name to prevent the regime from confiscating them were safe enough for the moment.
Her late husband had been a Girondin; the Girondins were moderates, yes, but still revolutionaries and a majority party in the National Assembly.
And however Marguerite was faring, it had to be better than skulking in the countryside, living in a hole that used to be part of an ancient Roman plumbing system.
As for his money, when the English spies came to get him and he reached London, he’d direct Marguerite to transfer it into his accounts there.
Invite her once again to join him. Set about arranging a suitable marriage for her.
His daughter was widowed, but still young and attractive, and he’d need connections in his adopted homeland.
Joley fingered the eggs in his pocket, wondering if he dared take another.
He didn’t want the old woman who owned the coop becoming suspicious, though in truth, she appeared half blind.
Which was why he’d chosen her coop in the first place.
He hefted each of the three eggs in his pocket, savoring their weight.
They would have to be enough. He couldn’t take a chance, not now, not knowing that the Englishmen were on their way.
With a reluctant glance back at the rows of nests, he slipped out of the henhouse and vanished into the darkness of the French countryside.
James turned to look at Elizabeth, at what he could make of her in the darkened interior of the coach.
Now that she was asleep, he felt free to examine his unwelcome travel companion.
There was the outline of her profile, the high forehead, the little tilt at the tip of her nose, the faint curve of her lips—was he imagining things, or was she smiling?
Probably she felt fairly pleased with herself after her outrageous performance at the inn; she probably thought she’d won a victory.
A skirmish. He wanted to wake her up and tell her the battle was far from over.
She might force him to take her to France, but he’d be damned if he’d let her have any “adventures.”
Adventures. The power to change her life. What was she thinking?
His eyes rested on her hair, her curls nothing more than a dark mass falling down over her shoulders, down the back of her cloak, the cloak that covered her body down to her ankles.
His gaze traveled to her ankle, a gleaming curve in pale silk.
He stared at it, forcing his breathing to remain slow and calm, which was unfortunate.
Each deep breath brought the scent of her to his nose, a scent of soap, warm skin, clean hair, and wool.
Elizabeth Harcrest. The woman he’d enthusiastically toasted out of his life not more than an hour ago.
How could he have imagined he’d be so easily shed of her?
He grimaced. He supposed keeping her trussed in the carriage, or locked in whatever chambers they could find, would attract too much attention in France.
But he’d keep a close watch on her. Of that, my lady, you may rest assured.