The face disappeared, the window went up, a space opened in the crush on St. James’s Street, and the hackney pushed into it.
He stared for a moment at the place where the vehicle had been and told himself he’d imagined the whole thing. Lexham would never allow a daughter of his to drive about London in a hired vehicle, especially a broken-down one like that.
“That was a deuced pretty girl,” said Adderwood.
“Which girl?” said Worcester.
“Hanging out of the window of the hackney. The oldest one in London, I vow. The vehicle, I mean. Not the girl.”
“Didn’t see her,” said Worcester.
“Pity,” said Adderwood. “She was a peach. Put me in mind of somebody but I can’t think who it is. Did you see her, Marchmont?”
“Yes,” His Grace said tightly. “That reminds me. I have an appointment.”
While his friends began betting about how old the oldest hackney was, he made his exit.
He did not hurry out of the room. He told himself that Zoe Octavia was her father’s responsibility. If she was wandering about London in a ramshackle hackney—and thus couldn’t possibly have a family member with her, because they’d all rather set themselves on fire than be seen in a hired vehicle—this was not Marchmont’s problem but Lexham’s.
The duke told himself that if Lexham chose to let her loose, to get into who knew what kind of trouble, this was Lexham’s decision, though one would think the man would know better.
On the other hand, this was Zoe Octavia, who had a pernicious habit of running away….
His Grace took care not to run out of the club and race to the hackney stand in St. James’s Street.
He walked at his usual unhurried pace. He selected the least disgusting vehicle he could find. He described the one he’d seen.
The driver knew it. It was famous, apparently, for it was, as Adderwood had asserted, the oldest London hackney in operation.
“I shall pay you fifty pounds to find it,” said His Grace.
“I’ll wager anything he didn’t see me,” Zoe muttered. “That would be like him, not to notice. I should have given him more time. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he was too drunk to focus clearly.”
“Miss?” said Jarvis.
“Never mind.”
She should have waited longer before moving away from the window, Zoe chided herself. She’d watched ladies of the harem do it countless times when they traveled outside the house. If they saw a handsome stranger, they’d let their veils fall “accidentally.” Then they took their time about covering their faces again. Even at home they found ways to show themselves to attractive men passing in the street below. They’d peep through curtains or window shutters and be slow to close them or to move away from the window.
She might not have been slow enough.
Marchmont might have been looking at another vehicle or a rider or a pedestrian. She’d shown herself for only a moment. Even if he’d spotted her, he might not have recognized her. He might be in a haze. He had been in a haze when he agreed to introduce her to his world. Perhaps he had only a vague recollection of what she looked like.
She should have allowed for the haze and his not being overly intelligent.
Ah, well, too late to mend it. Either he’d recollected her existence or he hadn’t.
A short while later, as the hackney was proceeding westward along Piccadilly, she became aware of shouts nearby.
She looked out of the window. She saw only passing vehicles, horses, people, and, farther to the left, a stretch of hilly meadow dotted with a few clumps of trees.
“That’s the Green Park, miss,” said Jarvis. “And there’s Hyde Park Corner ahead, and on the right-hand side is Hyde Park, where—”
Louder and nearer shouts made Jarvis break off midsentence.
It was their driver who was shouting.
Zoe moved to the opposite window.
