She didn’t move. “You may go now. The driver is anxious,” she informed him.
“We will leave after you have gone inside. It doesn’t appear that Lady Baldwin is awake.”
Lady Baldwin was a close friend to Lady Charlene and Mrs. Pettijohn. Gavin understood that she lived with them. He had been quite accustomed to thinking of the three of them together.
“She is probably asleep. You don’t have to wait. I’ll watch you drive off.”
“And leave you standing on the step? Especially after the near riot at the theater? And the attack in the alley? Once you are safely inside, I shall go.”
“I’ll go inside once you leave.”
Exasperation replaced bonhomie. “Mrs. Pettijohn, go in your house.”
She didn’t even bother to consider. “After you drive off, I will.”
Gavin frowned. Was there ever a more pigheaded female?
He went onto the step and began knocking on the door.
That sparked a reaction out of her. “What are you doing?”
“Waking Lady Baldwin.”
Mrs. Pettijohn reached for his arm to yank his fisted hand away from the door. “She’s not there,” she said, speaking in a furious whisper. “She was only visiting when you saw her with us in the past. She actually lives with her daughter.”
“And yet, now you are whispering,” he observed, “as if you do not wish to wake someone.” Even as he said that last word, he was surprised by a jolt of jealousy. Who did she not want him to meet? Why else would she be so anxious?
He pounded the door this time, her hold unable to stay his arm now that he was determined to see the matter through. The wood-and-lacquered door jumped with the strength of his fist. He had to know who she was hiding.
“Stop it,” she ordered in a furious whisper. “Stop now—”
The door opened. The house inside was pitch black but two elderly faces, ghastly pale in the hack’s lamplight, peered out at them. The man wore his night cap; the woman’s hair was braided.
“Yes?” the man asked, his voice creaky with alarm.
Gavin brought his brows together, conscious that Mrs. Pettijohn had stepped back off the step into the darkness. He had the good grace to bow and said calmly, “I’m sorry to wake you. I only wished to return Mrs. Pettijohn to her home.”
“Mrs. Pettijohn?” the man asked, craning his neck to peer out into the night.
“Yes,” Gavin said, feeling awkward. He turned to draw her up onto the step, but she wasn’t there lingering in the night beyond the lamplight. He looked to the hack.
“She went that way, sir,” the hack driver kindly offered. “Running as fast as one can barefoot.”
Gavin faced the couple. “Mrs. Pettijohn doesn’t live here, does she?”
“No. There were some women who lived here before us but we don’t know their names.”
“Excuse me for bothering you,” Gavin apologized to the couple. To the hack driver he said, “Follow me.”
“This will cost you a pretty penny, sir.”
Gavin almost roared that he was the Duke of Baynton. Cost did not matter to him.
But common sense warned him, he might not want this night’s escapade to be bandied about. He started to reach for his coin purse and then realized it was in his jacket. Damn it all.
“I’ll pay your fare and double,” he informed the driver. “But first, I need to catch that woman.”
There was a beat of silence as if the driver weighed whether or not Gavin would be true to his word, which was a novel experience. Few questioned his word.
