She looked down. Something revolting had attached itself to her stocking. “I’m frightened. I think my fiancé has been shot.” She yanked the wretched stockings off.
“Best you climb inside, miss.” Pete exhibited admirable calm as he took her arm and gently coaxed her toward the step. “You look done in, you do.”
She climbed into the carriage and sagged against the squabs, her gaze fixed on the halo of light radiating from the open warehouse door.
“After you’d gone, I planned to go in search of the runners, miss,” Pete explained. “But I needn’t have. There was a dozen of ’em right here.”
“Thank you, Pete. You’re a good man,” Hetty said with a gulp. “The Prince of Wales should give you a medal.”
Pete grinned. “Zounds!”
Like a ghost, a stranger emerged from the darkness. “Take the lady home, jarvie.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“But I need to wait.” Hetty pleaded. “Guy—”
“Someone will send word.” The darkness swallowed him up again.
“Walk on.” Pete slapped the reins and moved the horse on as she searched the dark for a glimpse of Guy. Shadows danced in the candlelight spilling over the road from the open warehouse door, the shapes impossible to discern.
“You’d best tell me where you live, miss,” Pete called.
Hetty shuddered and sucked in air. “King Street, Mayfair, thank you, Pete.” As they entered Fleet Street, the clocks chimed one. Would her father wait up for her? Her chest grew so tight she found it difficult to breathe.
“Glad to see you ’ome safe, miss,” Pete said after he’d pulled up his horse in King Street.
Hetty piled coins into his hand. “I wish I had more money to give you, Pete. I am so grateful to you for your help tonight.”
“Can’t says I know what all that was about,” Pete said, removing his cap and rubbing his head. “But all’s well that ends that way.”
But was it? Was Guy safe and well?
Candlelight shone out from the downstairs windows as she entered the gate. The door was unlocked, so she slipped inside, hoping to scurry upstairs unseen.
Her father stalked into the hall. His mouth dropped open, and his ears reddened. “Horatia!” he bellowed. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you dressed this way?”
A hysterical giggle rose to block her throat. “Might we talk in the parlor, Papa?” She wished she could shed the smelly clothes but knew he would not be inclined to wait for her to do so.
He clamped his lips into a thin line. “The servants have retired, and you shall not walk on the parlor carpet. Come to my bedchamber.”
Her father tossed her a towel to wipe her feet before she entered. She stood on the mat before the fire, conscious of the stink rising from her breeches and her filthy feet, her hands tightly clasped in front of her. She longed to sit, but hadn’t been invited to, and she didn’t want to add spoiling her aunt’s chair covered in a maroon printed fabric to her lengthy list of wrongdoings. “Even though there’s much I don’t know, I’m afraid what I can tell you will take some time.”
Her father removed his handkerchief from his pocket and laid it on a chair. “For heaven’s sake, sit, child. Then please explain yourself. I can think of no earthly reason for your behavior.”
He had not called her “child” for many a year. Would he ever trust her again?
She took a deep breath. “It all began when I took The General for a ride—”
“You rode The General?” he roared.
She perched on the edge of the chair. “Papa,” she rasped, as her throat ached for water, “if you interrupt me after every sentence, we shall be here until morning.”
He gave her a look that would have made many a soldier quiver from head to toe, which produced its desired effect on her. “As I was saying, while riding The General, I came across Guy unconscious on the road—”
Her father made a choking sound and waved at her to continue.
By the time she’d covered most of what occurred during this evening’s debacle, her father’s face had gone through several color changes varying from white to puce.
