He laughed. “I wouldn’t go as far as sayingthat. I merely decided not to owe every good tradesman in London.”
“Which has led to changes in your habits.”
“Of a sort.” He still owed money everywhere. Just not as much.
She smiled. “An important sort. You cannot be a rake anymore. Becoming domesticated probably has much more appeal now.”
That smile softened her whole expression. She might have just heard long-awaited happy news. “Domesticated?I don’t think—”
She was already at the door. “You should eat that before it gets cold.”
* * *
No one came for the tray. Morning stretched into midday. He read one of the journals, then looked out his window, left to his thoughts. He pictured the Christmas preparations taking place at Nigel’s estate.
It would be the first time in years that Adam had not attended those festivities. His father had brought the family each time, often braving worse weather than what lay outside this day. It had been a way to have good food and entertainment that their own family could not afford. If Adam’s father had resented the better fortune of his older brother, he never showed it. Why should he? Having been named a baron in his own right, Adam’s father had done better than most younger sons.
Of course, this year others would be at Nigel’s besides family. Mr. Millerson had been invited along with his daughter Margaret. Pretty Margaret. Lovely, vivacious, spoiled, cruel Margaret. She thought herself fit for a duke no doubt. Adam wondered what her father had promised her to get her to agree to marry a lowly baron.
Jewels, probably. A house in London for certain. A percentage of the profits of that canal partnership that her marriage would allow him to buy into with Nigel? It was a massive endeavor, with canals large and small all over northern Cumberland. If she received any of that, it probably would go into trust so her wastrel of a husband did not gamble away the money and stocks.
He had overheard her berating her maid once. Margaret’s words had sliced the poor woman’s emotions to shreds. The maid’s transgression had been minor but Margaret’s criticism ruthless and hard. He had walked away, imagining that tongue turned on him every day, and not for his pleasure.
Movement outside. The wagon came into view, beginning its little journey toward that hill. Only one figure on it today. Adam wondered where the other two were.
The wagon stopped not far from the house. The driver stood and turned around. Adam realized that someone had come out of the house down below him. Mrs. Smith’s white cap identified her. The two exchanged some words; then Mrs. Smith walked away, down the length of the house.
Right before the driver turned to sit again, he turned his face upward, as if looking at the window from which Adam watched. White skin and dark eyes showed beneath the brim of the man’s hat before the figure turned. The driver was none other than Miss Dunham.
Why would she be going to feed the horses alone? The men must be occupied elsewhere. If Mrs. Smith had not returned to the kitchen door, the house might well be empty now.
He grabbed the fork off his tray and headed for the door.
Ten minutes later he walked through an empty house, in search of his boots.
* * *
The horses galloped down the hill. Caroline stopped the wagon. Guinevere, never one to hold back her speed, led them.
Caroline climbed into the back of the wagon. She ached from yesterday’s chores and adventures, but this had to be done. She paused a moment and pictured her father and how being a gentleman never stopped him from lending a hand in the work if it was needed. Holding his memory in her heart, she lifted a bale and rolled it off the side of the wagon.
She had managed two more of them when she sensed movement on the snow behind her a split second before a horse and rider charged across the white expanse. Not Jason, who had left early this morning. Not Mr. Hoover, whose bad leg had acted up last night and who rested now in the cottage he shared with his family. She knew how they both rode and would have recognized either one from a distance, even if she already knew neither would be riding here today.
This rider sat on the horse differently. Expertly. She knew who he was.
How had he escaped that barred room? Her heart sank at the evidence that he had managed it despite her precautions. Now he would ride to his cousin’s house, swear down information with a magistrate, and send them all to gaol. She wondered if she really would hang after all. The notion left a sick foreboding in the pit of her stomach.
The horse and rider aimed for the trees to the right of the pasture. In a few moments they would be gone.
Suddenly they pivoted, turned, thundered right toward her, and stopped twenty feet away.
Lord Thornhill looked down on the wagon and her. One of his disarming smiles broke. “If you are the one man today, you must have been the third man yesterday.”
She turned to address one of the bales. “How did you get out of that chamber?” Her mind spoke the same question but added a few curses.
He dismounted and walked his horse to the wagon. He proceeded to tie it to the back. “If I tell you, you’ll make sure I can’t do it again.”
She noticed he had found his boots, coat, and gloves. What a disaster. Not only had he escaped; he’d also proven she was hopelessly inept at executing her own scheme.
