But her body shook with cold fear as she slipped out of his study and closed the door behind her without making a sound. In her bedchamber, she snatched up her reticule and black furlined cloak, then as silent as a specter sprinted for the stables on shaking legs, encountering no one.
It wouldn’t take long for Bolingbroke to work out that it was her instead of Reddington who was in his study after he awoke. Especially once Phoebe vanished. She doubted he would send the constables after her for the humiliation she caused him. His ego wouldn’t want anyone to know. Besides, she’d done no permanent damage to his person, nor had she taken anything. Yet she still had trouble breathing through the tightness in her chest as she bridled and saddled Bolingbroke’s fastest horse. If the constables did come after her, horse theft would be a certain charge.
CHAPTER 15
HILL HOOK, SUTTON COLDFIELD, ENGLAND
Slade groaned when the persistent knocking metamorphosed into an annoying banging. Ignoring the blaggard wasn’t working. His eyelids pushed open in the dark as he sat up and swung his feet down the left side of the bed. Who could possibly be banging on the door at this unholy hour? When his bare feet sank into something plush and soft, he recalled the bear rug and where he was. He’d been used to the cold floors of the officers’ quarters in Burntwood but had availed himself of the Hortons spacious and comfortable hunting lodge ten miles south of Burntwood for the past two nights since selling his colonel’s commission.
The banging grew louder. He made his way out of the bedchamber and down the hall towards the receiving area of the lodge, but not before slipping his trident dagger into the back waist of his breeches. Even though only Peter, the stable hand, and the cook were privy to his whereabouts, he wanted to be prepared. But then he rolled his eyes.
“A prowler with ill intentions wouldn’t bother to knock, MacLean,” he grumbled to himself.
The banging turned into a full-blown assault on the front door. “I’m coming!” Slade bellowed.
Taking the Betty lamp, he marched to the front door, slid the bolt, and hauled the door open. Slade blinked in disbelief, fumbling with the cold metal handle. Fifi? Was he still sleeping?Every single muscle in his body tensed as he stared at her, shocked. Someone cleared their throat and Slade’s head snapped to the person standing next to her. Not one of his dreams of Fifi, then. Peter would never be a part of those.
“What has happened? Are you well?” Slade asked, his pulse picking up as his eyes snapped back to her. Alarm stabbed his gut as he scanned the length of her from head to toe for any signs of injury or distress.
“We are quite well,” she said. Her tone too calm and her expression far too placid and practiced for the earliness of the hour. Her words abated some of the alarm, yet the muscles on his brows contracted.
It was Peter who spoke next. “Apologies for the inconvenience of the hour, Colonel.”
It seemed his rank of colonel would survive the actual position itself. He readily stepped aside, allowing them to pass, then closed the door and pivoted around taking in the windblown strands of Fifi’s coppery, unbound hair. She was covered from neck to the tips of her dainty leather boots in a sweeping hooded cloak the color of onyx, the bottom edges lined with fresh brown mud splatters. Pale hands clutched a small reticule.
“What has happened?” Slade said his own voice ladened with concern and disquietude.
“You did say to seek you out if I ever require assistance. You however did not specify it had to be at a respectable hour,” Fifi said, with a rueful expression.
Unease prickled against his skin, and his brows shot up. “I don’t understand,” Slade said.
“I require an escort to a local inn, so I can let a room for a few nights,” Fifi said, pulling the lapels of her cloak closer around her as if cold.
Slade ushered everyone further into the receiving area closer to the great hearth. He proceeded to throw two thick logs atop the embers. Then he lit a gray tallow candle from the ledge atop the mantle and stirred up a crackling blaze. He used the candle to light the five-arm candelabrum on the polished wooden table that stretched across half of the receiving area, before blowing the taper out.
The candelabrum’s light highlighted Fifi’s coat. He’d had the pleasure of undressing a number of women in his adult life and could swear she was missing her hip roll. She was too casually—or perhaps hastily–dressed.
He frowned, pursing his lips when he took in the exhaustion seeping into her expression. Slade dragged a cushioned mahogany chair nearer to the heat of the hearth, making a grating sound against the floor.
“Please, have a seat,” he said to her.
She obliged.
Slade pulled Peter aside. “What happened?” Slade whispered.
Wide-eye concern played across his friend’s features.
“Mistress Dunbar showed up at the gunsmithy asking for you. It’s a good thing I’ve been sleeping there this week to finish up a late order. I brought her straight here.”
Had Fifi ridden from the manor to Hortons Gunsmith and then to the Hortons lodge?Bloody farthing hell. Altogether she must have been on a horse, in the dark, for the better part of five hours. His shoulders tightened even as his stomach muscles clenched. What would make her not only risk her safety, but risk running into highwaymen or brigands at this hour?
But then Slade stilled and considered where Fifi had come from and in whose manor she was employed.
He gritted his teeth as icy coldness rose up his spine. One of his knuckles cracked against his curling fist.
CHAPTER 16
“Did he hurt you?” Slade asked Fifi, with a voice that was deceptively low.
