Chapter One
The fine sleet beyond the window did not beckon. Alexander, Lord Dymond, comfortable and warm in the coffee room of the Swan, regarded it with distaste.
Replete with a sustaining meal of a thick wedge of an excellent pigeon pie and several slices of ham, washed down with a flagon of ale, he found the prospect of resuming his journey unwelcome.
On the other hand, if the sleet should turn to snow, he might be forced to remain at Alton for several days. Best to make all speed home. Or risk his mother’s wrath. She’d kick up stiff if he was not at hand with Christmas in the offing and all the bother of entertaining the gentry round about Dymond Garth.
Sighing, he picked up the hand bell and sent a peremptory summons pealing through the inn. He’d lingered too long at Purford Park, seduced by the warmth of his cousin’s domestic felicity. Truth to tell, he envied Justin. A quirk of circumstance had given him his heart’s desire, lucky dog. Marianne too. To see the two of them, one would never suppose there’d been a moment when Fortune had not blessed them.
His reminiscences were interrupted as the door opened to admit the waiter.
“Ah. Tell my fellows to put the horses to. And bring me the reckoning, if you will.”
Alex rose from the table and picked up his greatcoat, shrugging himself into it. Absently, he fastened the buttons, his mind dwelling on images from his visit to Purford Park. Small chance of his acquiring such happiness. In all his years on the Town, he’d not found one eligible damsel who caused his heart to flutter. Pity, because he’d got to throw the handkerchief at some point. Even his father was showing signs of impatience. As for his mother —
The landlord appeared, thankfully cutting off the memories of the last lecture Lady Luthrie had read him on the subject of what she called his dilettante attitude towards the future of the earldom.
“It’s none too pleasant out there, my lord.”
Alex ignored the hopeful note and took the scribbled paper the fellow was holding out. He pulled a roll of bills from one of his capacious pockets and peeled off the necessary amount, waving away the landlord’s bleat about getting his change.
“Keep it. An excellent luncheon, my dear Hawkins. Compliments to your cook.”
The landlord thanked him and pointed out that his coach had just come through from the yard.
Glancing out of the window, Alex saw two coaches and a gig outside, and a glimpse of the Luthrie crest on the panel reassured him as to the presence of his own. Satisfied, he donned his gloves and hat, which he’d left on a side chair, and wrapped a muffler around his neck, which he was heartily glad of the moment he stepped out of the inn into the biting cold. He was relieved to find the sleet had stopped, though the air was damp and it looked as if the day would remain overcast.
His groom hailed him and moved to open the coach door.
“A bit brisk, my lord, but we’ve plenty of daylight left. Laycock thinks he can make two stages before dark, if the sleet don’t come back. We can change at Winchester and carry on to Romsey. I know you’d prefer to stay at the White Horse if we can’t get through to Salisbury.”
“Doubt we’ll make Salisbury. Tell him to go steady. Don’t want to come to grief in this lot.”
“No fear of that, my lord. Laycock has ’em well in hand.”
A glance at the restive team harnessed to the coach, shifting but quiet enough, reassured Alex that his coachman was more than capable of controlling them.
He put his foot on the step, leapt nimbly into the coach and took his seat, blowing out air and rubbing his gloved hands together. Only then did he see there was another occupant in the coach.
Crouched in the opposite corner of the forward seat sat a slight figure wrapped in a cloak, its face almost entirely concealed by the hood.
“What the deuce?”
The figure shrank back, shifting a fold of the cloak so that it fell away to reveal a dark-coloured gown beneath.
“Good Lord! A female? Who the devil are you? And what in the world are you doing in my coach?”
A hushed voice answered him. “Oh, pray don’t betray me! They will come looking for me at any moment.”
She sounded young, and scared. His brain seething with question, Alex went straight to the point. “Who will?”
“My guardian and Mr Cumberledge. Pray, pray don’t give me up to them!”
Bewilderment wreathed Alex’s brain. Was the girl off her head? The coach began to move, and he shifted to the window and let it down, sticking his head out.
“Hi, Carver! Hold a moment!”
As he drew in his head, the girl’s hushed tones assailed him again.
