“You can, but that doesn’t mean I’ll believe them.”
Richard reached inside his coat and produced an oilskin pouch, opening it with great deliberation. “This should do.” He handed over a folded piece of paper. “Be careful with it.”
The officer opened the letter and scanned the brief lines, then gasped. “Lord Liverpool? The prime minister?”
“Yes. Would you prefer a letter from Lord Castlereagh? As foreign secretary, he might be appropriate under these conditions.” Richard smiled with knife-edged arrogance. “Or if you hold on a moment, I believe I have a letter from the Duke of Wellington, who is most relevant of all.”
Suppressing his rage, the lieutenant handed back the letter from Lord Liverpool. “What are you doing in a conquered enemy capital?”
Richard folded the letter, tucked it in the oilskin pouch, and returned it to his inside pocket. “That, Lieutenant, is none of your damned business. Now let us pass!”
The officer gestured to his men and an aisle opened up through the middle of the patrol. Callie’s skin crawled as they rode through the group of scowling soldiers. One exclaimed, “That’s a bloody woman riding behind him!”
“You brought your own whore?” the lieutenant snarled.
Richard whipped around and said with lethal intensity, “The lady is mywife. Last night a group of British soldiers attacked Lady George and I barely rescued her in time. Since our troops cannot be trusted to behave properly, do you blame her for going in disguise for her own safety? Now, let us pass or there will be blood!”
The lieutenant paled. “Get yourself gone and stay away from British patrols!”
“Believe me, I intend to.” Richard turned again and they continued through the patrol and down the street. Callie’s back itched as they rode away from the soldiers. She murmured, “What are the chances that one of those soldiers will fire?”
“Slim, but not impossible,” was Richard’s honest reply.
“I was afraid of that,” she said grimly. “That horrid lieutenant looked ready to do murder just because he could.”
In an impeccable aristocratic accent, Richard said, “May all his rabbits die and he can’t sell the hutches.”
After a moment of shock, Callie burst into tension-relieving laughter. “I haven’t heard anyone say that since I left Lancashire!”
Richard chuckled. “One reason I like ‘the lower orders’ is because they often have such wonderful turns of phrase.”
“I miss the directness of northern England.”
“Cooler there, too. The rain this morning did nothing to ease the temperature.” He ran a finger around the edge of his cravat to loosen it a little. “I’ll be glad to get back to theZephyrso I can take this blasted coat and cravat off.”
“They must be very uncomfortable,” she said sympathetically. “But looking and talking like a lord does help when dealing with the British soldiers. It wouldn’t work as well with Americans.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said, his accent moderating to one that would suit an educated man on either side of the Atlantic.
“Americans are odd,” she mused. “They both despise and are fascinated by the British nobility. Since I had no desire to be noticed, I never mentioned that my father was a lord.”
“Or that you were married to one,” he said teasingly. “You handled our reunion scene very well. Most touching.”
“The playacting we did as children came in handy then. But usually I prefer a combination of honesty and saying as little about myself as possible.”
“Truth has the advantage of being easier to remember than multiple lies.” He guided Samson to one side of the road as a British military wagon rattled by with several soldiers inside. They gave Richard curious glances but no more.
He continued, “We didn’t finish our name discussion. I noticed Mrs. Turner called you Catherine, which is common enough not to draw attention.”
“I asked my husband to call me Callista, not Catherine, so I was Miss Callista in Jamaica. What name do you generally use? Or have you had dozens over the years?”
“Notdozens,” he protested. After a moment of thought, he said, “Well, maybe two dozen, but I’ve only created false identities when it was useful. Mostly I’ve gone by Gordon. As you say, it has a harder, tougher sound than George or Richard, and Augustus was never in the running. Gordon can be either a first or last name, so it’s nicely ambiguous.”
“Like you.”
“I like being ambiguous. It’s safer that way.”
She could understand that need for safety. After all, she’d created a new identity for herself when she moved to the United States. “With all your traveling and shifting identities, is there any place you call home?”
