Rayne eyed the traveling chariot Farring’s parents had insisted he borrow for the wedding—shiny, black, sleek, and expensive. Something that would have suited him perfectly…before.
“Certainly,” he answered. “You’ll find your father’s travelling chariot is exceedingly comfortable. Your mother has an eye for detail.”
“Aneye for detail. You should have been a diplomat.” Farring chuckled. “His Grace insisted you use the carriage. Amply encouraged byHer Grace, of course. You know what a stickler my mother is for appropriate pomp. She would not allow Clarissa to be driven to her wedding in a”—he shivered with exaggerated revulsion—“hiredcarriage.”
For Clarissa, Rayne had swallowed his pride and accepted—through Farring. However, he’d never expected the Duke and Duchess of Shepthorpe to go so far as adorning the sides with the Rayne crest. The two-day ride here had left him feeling like an impostor.
But that was over now, too.
Farring would take charge of the carriage. The horses belonged to Markham, the coachman in Markham’s employ. Tomorrow, Rayne would be riding with the mail—anonymous once again, at least until he reached his estate. Even then, there’d be nobody but the caretaker to greet him…just as he preferred.
“You will thank your father for me when you return the coach, won’t you?”
“Actually”—Farring drew out the word—“the carriage was never meant to go back to my father…which brings me to my proposition.”
Rayne frowned. “Your proposition?”
“My request, more like. Travel by mail is dashed uncomfortable. And crowded.” Farring peered over his rims. “One never knows who one will meet. The Rayne I knew wouldnever.”
The Rayne Farring knew was dead.
“Travel by mail is fast,” Rayne countered. “No tolls. I can reach the Grange in just a few days.”
“Ah, but why rush when you could travel in comfort…at least to the outskirts of Appleton.”
Appleton?“Are you asking me to deliver the carriage to Periwinkle Gate?”
Farring nodded.
Rayne hadn’t been to Farring’s eccentric step-grandmother’s even more eccentric estate in a long time. He definitely did not wish to go now. The place was a testament to a time before he’d so deeply disappointed his friends and himself.
“Their Graces are expecting me to take the chariot to the dowager.” Farring turned to contemplate a group of ladies. “However, my sister, her husband, Bromton, Katherine, andKaterina”—he emphasized their mutual friend, the Dutch widow Katerina van Heldt’s, Christian name—“are traveling back to London in a three-coach caravan.”
“Let me guess.” Rayne sighed. “You are angling for Mrs. Van Heldt’s open seat.”
Apparently, some things never changed.
“Respectable privacy,” Farring replied. “Relative, anyway. You know a chance like this is rare.”
True.
Also true? With Katerina’s secrets and her past, she was not an acceptable choice for the sole heir to a powerful duchy. His Grace would never allow—
Farring placed a hand on Rayne’s shoulder, halting Rayne’s thought.
“Please?” Farring asked.
Rayne squinted at the shining coach.
For years, Farring had stood by his side, seen him at his best—a long-past incident involving Periwinkle Gate—and his worst—his final night in England. Farring, of all people, deserved Rayne’s help, but—“Where am I going to find a coachman on such short notice?”
“Use postilions, as I intended to do,” Farring suggested. “You’d be doing me avastfavor.”
Damn Farring’s boyish, expectant expression. “Very well. I’ll deliver the coach.”
Periwinkle Gate could well be the one place in England he’d still be welcomed. And, at the very least, with a private conveyance, he needn’t wait until the morrow to depart.
Considering the spark Julia’s mere glance ignited, delivering his apology was going to be as risky as dancing atop a gun powder keg in a pair of flint-bottomed shoes.
