Ariana raised her fur-lined hood. “Do we know which route they’ve taken?”
“They’ll be heading north.”
She suppressed irritation. North was the direction of Gretna. “There are various routes that lead to the Great North Road.”
He steered neatly around a coach. “I assume they’ve taken the fastest one, but they can only have about two hours on us. We’ll catch them.”
Ariana no longer knew what to wish for. No one could want the scandal of a clandestine marriage, but it could be the only choice for Norris and Phyllis short of waiting for years. If her brother had been enamored of a girl like Cessy Weathersted, she’d believe it a passing thing. But Phyllis Delacorte? It had to be true love.
Lady Phyllis herself was no flibbertigibbet. If she’d consented to this, it would be only after careful thought. It had probably been she who’d insisted on a chaperone, and Kynaston had driven her to the scandalous course. He was unbalanced on the subjects of marriage and birth.
He had his emotions under control now and was keeping the spirited horses to a steady pace. But then they escaped the boundaries of London, and even though they’d also escaped the traces of street lighting, he gave the team their heads. Ariana clutched the side of the flimsy seat. Her purpose here was to prevent bloodshed, and that included her own!
She couldn’t protest the speed through the dark. She’d insisted on coming.
There was little traffic on the toll road this late at night, but a half-moon showed the way and the carriage lamps added a little detail. She hoped it was true that horses could see better in the dark than humans. When they paused at the next tollbooth, having to wait as the keeper hurried out half-dressed, she said, “We could ask if he’s seen them pass.”
Without waiting for Kynaston’s opinion, she called to the gatekeeper. “We’re following my aunt and cousins— a young gentleman and an even younger lady. Have they passed by?”
“There was a carriage a while back, ma’am. Four horses and postilions. Gentleman looked a lot like you.” He began to slowly open the gate.
“How long ago?” Kynaston demanded.
“At least an hour, sir. Likely more. I could check my record book.”
“No matter,” Kynaston said, and gave the order to the horses to hurtle through.
So they were on their trail.
“Postilions,” Ariana noted.
“Frequent changes,” he agreed.
“We’ll have to change horses eventually, and we’re unlikely to get such fine ones.”
“I know.”
He was irritated by her stating the obvious, and she was annoyed at herself for doing so.
Over the next hour or so, they encountered a variety of coaches heading into London, but at their speed, nothing overtook them in a northerly direction.
Would Norris be planning to travel through the night? Probably, and there he had the advantage over the curricle. Even if Ariana took the ribbons for a while, they couldn’t drive through the night and the horses certainly couldn’t go that long. If they didn’t catch up within a couple of hours, all would be lost.
Or won.
Ariana had nothing to do but endure the journey, which gave too much time to think. This was hardly a romantic situation, but she couldn’t help but be aware of Kynaston’s presence at her side. His skillful handlingof the team only added to her admiration. Which was good fuel for love.
Why couldn’t they also be en route for Gretna Green and marriage?
His dread of another dead wife approached insanity.
Yet, apart from his drunkenness on those few occasions, it seemed he lived a normal life. She’d encountered him out riding, and the excellent way he drove meant he must do so now and then. And, she realized, must have done so when abroad.
Where had he traveled, and what had he done then? Caroused, she’d assumed. Wine and wenches. But if he was resolved never again to get a woman with child, didn’t that mean celibacy?
Swaying and bouncing, nose icy from the wind, she reassessed what she knew of the Earl of Kynaston. It was only ten days since she’d reencountered him in the Albemarle Street library, and that had been only a week after the funeral of Princess Charlotte.
The funeral had taken place two weeks after her death, so Kynaston would have been suffering from three weeks of grief and gloom over the death of a lovely young wife in childbirth. Even in the countryside no one had spoken of much else. It must have been more intense in London. Perhaps he’d begun to pull himself together, when he’d been confronted by Cleo. Later that night she’d been afraid that he might kill himself.
