Sighing, Glynnis rose to her feet. She would bid the Prince Regent and his mother good evening and then —Blast!She had lost her escort, and she knew better than to traipse around Brighton by herself when such revelry was occurring.
Hopefully, Lord Aberavon would do her a good turn and take her back to James’s home later, but she would have to stay at the party until then.
***
IT WAS ALMOST TWO O’CLOCKin the morning, and Glynnis had decided Lord Aberavon wasnota farmer! At least, he didn’t keep farmer’s hours. He had wanted to eat and drink and dance as long as he could, and Glynnis stayed with him. She’d seen Lord Payton once more in the crowd but decided to leave the man alone. She could hardly demand he leave the birthday celebration to escort her home after having led him on.
And James had disappeared entirely.
After Lord Aberavon finally deposited her on James’s doorstep, Glynnis decided she would talk to the viscount that night while she was still armored in her finery, feeling attractive albeit weary. However, the house was silent except for Polly who’d insisted on sleeping on a cot in Glynnis’s room so she would be readily available to help her undress and take down her hair.
It was kind but unnecessary, as Glynnis was well able to take care of herself and would soon, once again, be forced to live without any assistance at all. Regardless, Polly had hoped to hear about the food and the dashing men and what Queen Charlotte was wearing.
Instead, after handing the maid her wrap, she told Polly their chat would have to wait. Then she changed into house slippers.
“Now what, miss?” the girl asked, stifling a yawn.
Glynnis shivered with anticipation. “I need to speak with the master of the house. I think Lord Hargrove came home before me as I didn’t see him toward the party’s end.”
Polly nodded. “Yes, miss.” But then she frowned. “I mean, he did come in, and quite early, too, as all the staff was still up. I was having a cuppa with Cook.”
She paused and yawned again. “But you can’t speak with him, miss.”
“Did he turn in?” Glynnis asked.
“No, miss. The master left hours ago.”
“I don’t understand.”Was Polly addle-pated with tiredness?She wasn’t making any sense. James hadn’t returned to the party. Then Glynnis realized the worst. He’d gone to that blowsabella on the Steyne!
“Lord Hargrove went to London, miss.”
Glynnis took a step backward.
“His valet packed his bags, rather hurriedly, too,” Polly added.
The atmosphere of the house changed entirely, knowing James wasn’t sleeping down the hall. Suddenly, it was a vast, empty place, and she wished with all her heart she was home in Wales.
However, unless she asked Lord Payton or Lord Aberavon, she couldn’t even afford the coach from the Old Ship. Then she had an idea.
“What about the art? Did his lordship manage to crate it all up?”
“No, miss. Lord Hargrove left in his traveling coach, but the crates are going in a wagon, just as they came. Pity about their quality,” Polly added. “I’ve looked at ’em myself a number of times. Some of it isn’t half bad, if you like that sort of thing.”
Glynnis laughed without mirth, thinking of the precious paintings that even the maid didn’t care for. Sitting on the end of the bed, she let Polly begin to pull the pins from her hair. She would miss her.
She would miss James, too, but unknowingly, he would do her a good service one more time.
***
THERE WAS NO COMFORTin a wagon ride, especially a long one. Glynnis’s backside was bruised and her back ached after merely a couple hours on the dodgy and rutted road. Luckily the trip to London could be accomplished in one day barring a broken wheel.
James’s valet had accompanied his master, so Glynnis sat beside one of his footmen and another rode behind on horseback. Trying to maintain her dignity while being jarred right and left, she clasped her parasol in one hand and held the edge of the seat with the other.
Her companion was from Scotland and a talkative fellow, who called London “Romeville,” and fervently wished he’d gone to sea to make his fortune.
“I never imagined I’d be driving a crude tumbler like a country Nevis,” he complained.
“I never thought I would be riding on the dickey of a crude tumbler,” she returned.
