Chapter 16 #3
Rowton frowned when he saw the state of their clothes. “Happen I’m glad I waited here. Seems we’d have spent the day stuck axle-deep.”
“The lane was passable,” Emma said, fighting a grin. “The Carsons had four wild dogs and a rabid donkey.”
“Pity they weren’t bloodhounds,” Rowton said. “I’d have sent them after my tricorn.”
“And they’d have torn it to shreds. When I fetch your hat, I shall make sure it’s intact.”
Rowton watched water drip from the hem of Hugh’s coat onto the lane. “Happen I’ll have enough to occupy me without hunting tricorns. First, I’ve to get the mud off those seats.”
“Head to Fleet Street. We’ll change vehicles for the longer ride to Staffordshire. Pullman can hire someone to deal with the seats.”
Hugh shrugged out of his coat, then removed his shoes and set both aside. Emma tugged off her half boots, one surrendering with a squelch that made Rowton wince. Hugh handed her into the carriage and climbed in after her.
She didn’t make another joke about being wet but sat quietly, gripping the seat as the carriage lurched forward.
“You’re worried about returning to town?” he said, trying to gauge the shift in her mood.
“If I had my way, I would never go back. It’s easier to pretend my problems don’t exist when I’m venturing through the countryside with you.”
“We’ll make it brief and be on the road to Staffordshire before nightfall. There’s a quiet inn south of Dunstable. We can stay there.”
He said it plainly enough, but his mind had already wandered elsewhere, to another place and another bed.
That night at Shadowmere would remain with him. When this was over, he might persuade Hawke to rent them the marquee for a week.
His gaze slid over her, and the thought took a dangerous turn. They could be lovers. He could be careful. There need be no child to inherit his sins.
He paused.
The letter still sat between them.
He considered her damp reticule on the seat beside her, and one question burned on his tongue. “Were you carrying Howden’s letter? You should check the ink hasn’t run. It might be ruined.”
Even he could hear the jealousy in his voice. The fop had two things Hugh didn’t: legitimacy and a blasted title.
“Yes, it’s in my reticule. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“You were afraid you might lose it?”
“No, but you sound as though you wish it were floating in the Thames.” She reached for the clasp. “Would you care to read it?”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” He didn’t care what Howden offered, only how she felt about it.
She removed it from her bag and gave it to him. “Do what you will with it. I won’t need it back.”
Had she studied it beneath the lamplight?
Had she learnt every line by heart?
He stared at the paper, at her name written with a weak hand. Never had he hated a man’s penmanship more. He didn’t need to bring it to his nose to know it smelled of treachery.
He unfolded the page.
You once asked whether a man must answer for the stories told about him.
Hugh’s mouth tightened. A clever opening. Make himself the injured party. Make Emma feel understood.
Perhaps we are not so different, Miss Vane. You have been judged by the choices of others, and I by rumours grown savage in the telling.
Devious bastard.
He read on, each line worse than the last. Howden offered her an escape from those who thought they knew what was best for her. A household of her own. Charities. Good causes. The freedom to become someone other than Melinda’s troublesome sister.
I will not name the men who would see you ruined for their own ends, Miss Vane. I ask only that you consider whose interests truly serve yours.
There was no mistaking who he meant.
And then the killing blow.
As Lady Howden, no door would close against you.
He gripped the page until the ink threatened to smear beneath his thumb. Howden offered her freedom wrapped in rank. Hugh offered ruin, scandal and a newspaper full of enemies.
Her voice broke through the noise in his head. “You may burn it, if you like. I won’t need it back.”
He wanted to ask when she’d read it. Before last night, or after. Whether she’d known exactly what she was giving up when she gave herself to him.
He didn’t ask. He’d been damned by one man’s confession. He’d not be damned again by hers.
“Half the debutantes in the ton would sell their souls to receive such a letter.” Though he wanted to toss it out the window, he dropped it into her lap. Telling her to ignore every word would make him as manipulative as Melinda. “It’s clear he’s set his sights on you.”
“Then he’s a poor judge of character.” She looked at the letter, then at him. “The future he describes sounds very grand, but I like mud and marquees and the promise of something wicked.”
Another man would punch the air in triumph, but the hope in her voice cut deep.
He’d never hated his father more than he did in that moment. Not for the coldness or the contempt that had shaped his youth. He hated him for making his blood feel stained, for making this happiness feel stolen. Emma thought him a gentleman. A Stanton. A man she might choose without shame.
Soon, he’d tell her she was wrong.