Sebastian inclined his head, stifling his irritation.
The archbishop rose and went to a small escritoire near the bookcase, pulled out a drawer, retrieving a sheet of vellum. He dipped his quill in the inkpot and began to write. Seconds later, he sprinkled the sand and tapped it away.
In the swipe of a pen, Sebastian’s life was destined for change. He couldn’t explain the relief had anyone asked.
The archbishop tri-folded the letter and stood. He moved gracefully back to Sebastian and held it out. “I do not grant this lightly, Your Grace. But as the notice has already posted in the press, and by her father, no less”—he shrugged—“my felicitations on your impending nuptials.”
“I am most grateful,” Sebastian said.In more ways than you could imagine.
Twenty-Four
Finch lifted ’is eyes to the sun rising high in the sky. He’d followed Lady Rebecca to Huntley House, frustration biting at him like flea-ridden straw. She’d gone without her maid. Patience wadn’t his strong suit, but still he waited. It was temptin’ to nab her and sell ’er to a boat headed for the colonies but Finch weren’t no jolter head. Once ’er ladyship’s rig reach the Huntleys’, he’d set his own stratagem in motion. The waitin’ was interminable. He ain’t seen hide nor ’air of the urchins she’d claimed as ’er own.
He flipped open his stolen fob then studied the blue door across the cobbled street. The afternoon was swiftly moving along. He’d spent the past week waitin’ and a watchin’ and the only activity had been the old man’s daily jaunts to the Royal Society, drowning Finch in a murderous fury. How temptin’ to off the old man, but after the fiasco at Vauxhall almost two weeks ago he daren’t.
The air split with the clops of hooves on the pavement, yanking Finch back to ’is surroundins’. A footman on fine horseflesh trotted in sight and slowed before number fifteen. He pulled something from the inside of his fine coat, then dismounted. He looked about and called out to a nearby child of nine or so to deliver whatever note he’d taken from his coat.
Curiosity whipped through Finch; he squelched it. Grunting, he yanked his hat down, afraid some aught might start recognizin’ ’im because he’d been about so much and bided ’is time. The boy handed off the note to a butler who’d answered the door. He dashed back down the stairs and the man on horseback flipped him a coin. The child bit down on his prize, grinning then sauntering off.
Finch started after him but held fast at the sight of the now familiar carriage stopping before number 15.
To his utter astonishment and thrill, the lady herself stepped down. “Weel, weel, weel,” he hissed through the gap in his teeth. She did come back. And, she was still alone.
Twenty-Five
Despite the plans Rebecca made with Gabby for their escape out of London, she walked over the threshold of her apartments in her father’s home with a heavy heart and sank down on one of the wing-backed chairs. She threw her reticule at the table in a frustrated pique. The book and knife inside threatened to take a chunk out of the wood.
“Good heavens, what was that?” Serena leaned her head around the door of the wardrobe.
Rebecca hunched over, an elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her palm and met Serena’s concerned gaze. “Just my reticule.”
“Are you still carrying that dagger, or have you taken up a dueling pistol I didn’t know about?”
“There’s a book in there too,” she said glumly.
“Oh, my lady. Whatever is wrong?”
“The wedding is being slightly delayed,” she said.
Serena moved in front of her, holding a stack of brightly colored, if slightly outdated frocks. “I don’t understand. He’s on his way getting a special license, he is.”
“We are, um, going to Scotland instead.” Rebecca felt as if her heart would burst beneath the pressure binding her.
Serena’s mouth gaped. “Scotland?” she managed after a moment.
Rebecca straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she said firmly. “In fact, there maynotbe a wedding at all.”
“No wedding. Oh, dear.” Serena tossed the dresses on the settee and lowered to one knee before Rebecca. “You’re frightened, aren’t you?”
Rebecca’s hand squeezed into a fist, hating this vulnerability gripping her. She did not like being on the weak side of the wall. She was the proponent for change. For lifting others. She wasn’t the one who needed lifting. “What have I to be frightened of?” She shook off her melancholy mood. “I don’t wish to speak of this again.”
“No, I suppose not, but might I say one thing?”
“One. And then the subject is closed.”
“I think the duke cares for you very much.”
Rebecca snorted. “He cares for his honor.”
