Better. He breathed slowly, steadying himself before he took a few steps toward the bedroom door.
By God, if he was going to die, he’d rather go out swinging his fists at Death than to cower in his bed alone.
*
“What are youtalking about?” Emma demanded. “The auction wasn’t supposed to be until next week.”
“Apparently, your stepmother sent out a change,” the headmistress answered. “Tonight is the viewing. Of you.”
“No.” The thought horrified Emma. “She can’t do this. I am not something to be bought. This is illegal.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Harding said. “But if she is questioned, she will only claim that they are selling a painting or another work of art. There is no crime against auctioning that.”
She knew the matron was right. Lucy would never admit the truth about her plans. “I have to leave,” Emma insisted. “I can’t stay here.”
“I have a coach waiting outside,” Mrs. Harding offered. “It can bring you back to my house, and we can reconsider our plans. I will stay a little longer. We need to know what your stepmother intends to do next.”
“I’ll go now,” Emma agreed. But as she walked with the matron to the doorway, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of remorse that Lord Dunmeath had not come.
But then, she should have known better. His proposal was born out of an apology, not because he liked her. And yet, she couldn’t suppress her foolish disappointment that he’d gone back on his promise.
“My footman Ned will escort you back to the school,” Mrs. Harding promised. “Wait here for him, and I will see you there.”
Emma waited among the other ladies, and soon enough, a footman approached. “Miss Bartholomew?” he asked.
“Are you Ned?” she inquired.
“I’m here to escort you,” he answered. “If you’ll just follow me.”
It was dark outside when she got into the hackney, and there was a slight delay with the driver. But soon enough, the wheels rumbled through the city streets.
Emma glanced outside at the darkness, expecting to arrive at Mrs. Harding’s within a few moments. But to her surprise, the hackney continued driving. Had the coachman taken a wrong turn? Where was the driver taking her?
She knocked on the window, trying to get the driver’s attention. Though it was difficult to see, she realized there were two drivers. Or was one of them the footman? Strange.
Her instincts tightened, and she wondered if she was in danger of some kind. Where were they going?
“Pardon me!” she called out. “You’ve gone past the school already.” But either they ignored her, or they couldn’t hear her. Instead, they continued going in another direction.
She was starting to grow afraid. And when she tried to open the door while the carriage was moving, it seemed to be wedged shut.
Her blood turned icy, and she struggled to catch her breath. But panic would do her no good. She needed to concentrate and figure out where she was.
Emma knew she couldn’t rely on her limited vision—not in this darkness. But she knew exactly how long they’d been traveling and which directions the carriage had turned. As a child, she’d gone out driving with her father many times, and she’d made a game of trying to guess the streets. She had a fairly good mental map of London.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, and then realized they were just past Mayfair. She tried to listen to the sounds to determine where she was, but there were too many noises of horses and carriages.
She had no doubt her stepmother was behind this. But it made little sense.
Her questions died off a moment later when the carriage came to a stop. The door lurched open, and one of the men ordered, “Get out.”
Emma didn’t move. “Who are you, and where are we?” she demanded.
“It don’t matter who we are,” one said. “We were paid to bring you here.”
“By whom? What are you talking about?”
They didn’t bother answering her questions, but one of the men reached in and grabbed her. He hauled her forward, and Emma started to lose her balance before the driver caught her.
