“Gentlemen, I’ll be returning with you to town, if you don’t mind,” Godfrey explained to the disinterested men.
The one that seemed to be in charge looked to me. “Where do ye want these, then?”
Behind me, a familiar bleat rang from the doorway.
“Oh, ye’ll want to keep Fenella oot of the house. She’s nae trained,” he added.
“You know Fenella? Where does she belong? I will pay you double if you can make her be elsewhere.”
“Wishin’ I could. But Fenella does what Fenella wants. Besides, ye’ll be needing a new bed in a week if she’s decided yer house is her house. Dinnae need the extra.”
“Can you bring the beds inside at least?”
“Aye. Just as soon as Fen moves oot of the way.”
Dread filled me as I turned. There in the doorway stood Fenella. It was clear from her expression and her frame that she hadn’t the slightest interest in moving forward or backward, regardless of Miss McAllen’s half-hearted shooing gestures and gentle coos.
My head tipped back toward the sky as I shouted, “Fuck!”
Unfortunately, the satisfaction of the gesture was somewhat lessened when my curse was covered by the sound of Fenella’s bleat.
Twenty-Two
GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON - JULY 5, 1816
TOM
I was toofrantic to wait for a hack. It wasn’t until I was halfway to Grayson House that I began to lament my choice to run through the streets of London at full speed and recognized that my efforts might be—not necessarily overly dramatic—but fruitless. If one of the maids had taken the letter with the intention of posting it on my behalf as I suspected, then the five minutes I saved by sprinting, shouting my pardons over my shoulder as I brushed past lamplighters, servants, and gentlemen alike, would not be the five minutes they posted the letter.
By the time I reached the black double doors under the sharp archway and Grecian columns, I was breathless, sweat-soaked, and disheveled. That was the moment I recognized I hadn’t bothered to grab my coat or retie my cravat but raced through London half undressed. I could only pray Mother was not in residence as that lecture may actually kill me.
One hand braced on my waist, panting, I banged on the door. Weston’s face shifted from irritation to astonishment at the sightof me and he ushered me inside. If he said anything, I couldn’t hear it over the rushing of my ears and my harsh breaths.
Kate’s soft soprano successfully cut through the panic. “Tom, good Lord! Are you well?”
She reached my side, her tiny hands grasped my shoulders, soothing down them before turning me around. It took me a moment to understand she was searching for injury.
“Letter,” I wheezed.
“Pardon?”
“Letter—”
“You received a letter? Good lord, is it Michael? Juliet? Did something happen to the babe?”
I could only manage a continuous headshake through heaving breaths at her frantically peppered questions. She did stop fondling me so at least I’d convinced her of my physical health.
“I,” gasp, “wrote,” gasp, “it?—”
“You wrote a letter?”
Irritation finally overwhelmed the lack of air. “Would you let me finish?”
She nodded, eyes still frantically casting over my form.
“I had a letter on my writing desk. It’s gone. Do you know if one of the maids took it to post?”
“All this over a letter posted? I’ve no idea. It is that important?”
