When she smiled at her husband, the young man blushed. Steadman met the eyes of the duchess, who was trying mightily to suppress a smile. “What will we do with these two, Your Grace?”
“Leave them alone for a while, so they may…converse.”
“Capital suggestion. I should be leaving anyway. The morrow comes early for me.” When he stood from the settee to go, Lucy rose with him and clutched his arm.
“Please be careful.”
He covered her hand with his. “Am I not always?”
“As a matter of fact…”
“Do not answer that.”
Henry shook Steadman’s hand. “Take care, sir. And know this. If your plan runs aground, I and the rest of Bow Street stand ready to render aid.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beaumont.” He bowed to the duchess. “Your Grace. You again have my gratitude for your hospitality and your kind treatment of Lucy.”
“Indeed. Now, do not disappoint me by stirring up torrents of trouble after we have all dedicated ourselves to your reform.”
“Of course.” He hated to lie to the duchess, but knowledge of his plans would only upset Lucy. Yes. The less they all knew, the better.
Chapter Three
Morgan, huddled beside the fence at Westminster Abbey, ready to run if threatened, and desperately tried to appear manly. A drizzle of icy rain promised to fuel her misery hour by hour. Just when she had decided to return to her dismal rented hovel, the clatter of approaching hooves drew her attention. Steadman emerged from the gloom on a lithe mount while leading a second horse by its reins. Even in near darkness, the shadowed planes of his remarkable face threatened to overwhelm her.
“Mr. Brady?”
“Yes, sir. It is me.”
He halted the horses by the fence. “Do you not own an alternative hat?”
“No.”
“A pity.” He straightened his fashionable John Bull top hat, dismounted, and offered Morgan the second horse’s reins. She accepted them gingerly and stood rooted in place while staring at him. She couldn’t help herself. His meticulous clothing contrasted with her dingy suit and ragged overcoat. Steadman’s white teeth flashed in the twilight. “Well, boy. Will you affix your baggage to your mount, or do you await the aid of a footman?”
Morgan kicked herself. With attention to male posture—elbows out instead of in—she wrapped the reins around a fence slat, retrieved her damp bag and a length of rope, and tied the bag behind the bedroll. Steadman seemed content to watch until she had finished. She faced him.
“Ready.”
He studied her for a moment longer, fanning the flames of her unease. Then he unfolded his arms. “You’ve not done this before.”
She gulped. “Sir?”
“Your baggage. It will break loose inside of two miles.” He handed her his horse’s reins. “Now, watch and learn.”
Panic seized her. What if he opened the bag? What if he found the dress, bonnet, and pelisse she had packed in the event she was discovered and forced to abandon her disguise? However, he merely untied her knots and resituated the baggage. Morgan squinted in the darkness while trying to follow the complex operation of loops and knots executed by the former highwayman, but his fingers moved too fast.
“There,” he said. “Good for a thousand miles. Did you see how I tied it?”
“Yes.” Only a minor lie.
Steadman retrieved the reins and mounted his horse while hardly touching the stirrup. She eyed her mount and gulped again. If Steadman did not see through her thin disguise in the next half minute, she would consider it a miracle of no less magnitude than walking on water. After slipping the reins from the fence, she grabbed the front lip of the saddle and placed a foot in the stirrup. When she jumped to mount, the horse skittered away. She chased it, hopping on one foot as the horse spun in a half circle away from her futile attempts. Just when she had decided to give up and confess to Steadman, a sharp yank on her jacket collar flung her upward to drape over the animal’s back. She managed to find the saddle and corral the horse before it fled down the street in the wrong direction. She wrangled it around to face Steadman. He sat with hands folded across hishorse’s mane while shaking his head as if he’d just caught her sneaking pudding.
“More accustomed to a coach, are we?”
Her cheeks burned from embarrassment and his mocking tone. She opened her mouth before she could bite back annoyance. “Why, Sir Steadman? Would you rob me then?”
Fortunately, he chuckled rather than striking her from the saddle. “No. I only robbed the rich. You appear to own absolutely nothing of value. You are quite safe from me.”
