James gave a curt nod. “Send a note to the duke of Ryleigh,” he added. “Tell him he is not to believe anything he hears about his youngest sibling.”
“Of course, sir.”
He hurried down the hall with Connor fast on his heels. They left the house and went two streets over before Connor took the lead, showing James where he’d left the phaeton. “Back to the house with you. If there is an urgent need to get in touch with me. Send a note via the Duchess of Ryleigh. I expect she’ll know how to reach my wife and that should suffice.”
“Yes, my lord.”
~~~
Gabby huddled in the corner of the hackney, unbothered for once by its revolting interior. Her bared fingers were cold and stiff, clutching Huntley’s greatcoat up past her nose. No matter its comforting smell and heat, she shivered beneath. She feared she would never be warm again. Rain pounded the roof and the dampness seemed to sliver into her blood. The drive to Hope House was slow as every cab in the city was likely occupied and clogging the streets.
She couldn’t shake the image of Stanford’s soulless eyes staring at the catwalk. Her body reacted, quivering uncontrollably. She couldn’t remember coming out of the theatre, but she remembered landing in the hack. What she really wished was to be home under the depths of the coverlets with Lady Macbeth’s small body warming her on one side, her husband on the other. She dreaded facing Mabel. Telling her how she’d failed in finding Florence Groves. Florence. Had the killer chased her to another part of the building? Kidnapped her? Dropped her body in the Thames?
Gabby blinked and tears trekked silently down her face. She should have stayed. Tried to find her. The girl was probably terrified. Gabby was. She wished Huntley was there, wrapping her in his strength. He had an innate ability in making her feel as if nothing horrid could touch her.
The ride to Hope House took so long, and the rain was so saturating, Gabby startled abruptly when the cabby pounded from the roof of the hack. The door flew back, and Huntley appeared before her. She threw herself into his arms. “There are puddles all the way to the door, my lady,” he said mildly. For the cabby’s benefit, she thought. “I fear I shall have to carry you.”
“I doubt I could manage another step,” she mumbled against his wonderful broad shoulder.
Mrs. Keir met them at the door without question. “A bath has been drawn for ye, milady,” she said in her heavy brogue.
“How did—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Keir,” Huntley said, cutting her off.
“We’ve readied a chamber for ye,” she went on. “Second landing at the back of the hall, on the right.” Her matter-of-factness calmed Gabby more than a bracing cup of hot tea.
Huntley didn’t set her down, he carried her all the way up the stairs, before allowing her on her feet. He opened the door. Lady Macbeth started yipping so excitedly, tears pooled in Gabby’s eyes. She dropped to her knees and hugged the small dog. “How did you do it?” she asked softly, the tears trekking freely.
“I made good time. But there is bad news, I fear.”
She set Lady Macbeth aside and held out her hand for Huntley. “Help me out of this atrocious gown. I may die if I can’t get it off.”
He spun her around. Her frock loosened. “The bath is behind the screen.”
“What is this frightful news. Frankly, I don’t see how things could get much worse.” She went behind the screen and stepped into the blessed steaming water.
“Liverpool showed up at Huntley House. I was able to get away before he saw me, but he’ll be relentless in his pursuit of you.”
“Good heavens, why? He can’t possibly believe I killed Stanford.”
“I’m afraid that is exactly what he’ll believe,” he said grimly.
Gabby froze. “And do you believe that?” she demanded softly.
His head appeared around the other end, desire darkening his gaze. She kicked her foot, splashing him. Startling him.
“Pay attention, Huntley.”
“I don’t give a damn whether you did or not. I’m here to protect you from that blackguard and any other nefarious libertine who thinks to take advantage of your innocence.”
“How comforting,” she muttered.
He slid into his predatory cat persona right before her eyes. She followed his path without moving her head. He maneuvered behind her, dipped his hands in the warm water, and brought them up. She caught sight of a piece of castile soap.
Her breasts tingled.
His soapy hands glided over her skin from her neck, over her peaked nipples to her stomach, back up then down her arms. “Does my opinion matter so much?” There was a smile in his tone that set her teeth on edge, even as her body responded to his gentle strokes.
