She looked back at him. “The money is for the book. Not for . . . other things.” Her cheeks were pink. “Not that I think there will be other things.”
He straightened his back. “Yes, for the book. Not for other things. There will not be other things.” He was not that kind of villain. “I would never impose on someone in my employ.”
“In your employ. So strange.” She gave herself a little shake as if a spider had crawled up her back. “Well, good.” She turned brisk. “And I will come away with you now, but I have no money, so if there are any travel expenses, you will have to pay them.”
“Come away with me,” he said. His mind was empty, and he could only repeat her words like a simpleton.
“I need to meet your granddaughter.”
“My granddaughter.”
“I made up Tommy Treadwell for my brothers, to get them to be good. But there was never another book because they grew up and didn’t need or want Tommy anymore, and I had run out of the stories I had told them.”
“But surely you can make up more stories without a child to tell them to.”
“Perhaps. But I haven’t. If I can talk to the child they’re for, I know I could.”
“I see.”
“I brought my things.” She held up the sack. “And I’ve never seen London.” There was a hint of wistfulness there.
“My granddaughter isn’t in London.”
“Oh.”
She was visibly disappointed, and he hated that he had been the one to disappoint her.
“She is at Bledsoe Park. My home. I am going there.” Reckless Henry. “Weare going there.” He motioned towards the carriage. “Come.”
Carruthers had gotten down from the driver’s seat and joined the footman next to the carriage door.
Henry addressed his valet. “Miss Beasley will be traveling with us. She’ll need her own room at the coaching inn tonight.” Carruthers handled these arrangements.
“Yes, my lord.”
He turned to Miss Beasley, to indicate she should use the steps the footman had put in place to get into the carriage. Her face was white.
“A lord,” she whispered and dipped into a low curtsy.
“The Earl of Ashthorpe,” Carruthers said helpfully.
“Lord Ashthorpe,” she said, still in her curtsy.
“Yes. And before Lady D’Oyly comes down the drive and waylays me for another hour, please get into the coach, Mr. Puddlewick.” Reminding her that neither of them had been quick to reveal everything to the other.
Still pale, she took his hand and got into the coach. He followed her and sat facing her. The carriage began moving.
“Your name,” he said.
“You know my—oh, Susannah.”
Susannah.It was of a piece with her and her soft magic. He could never think of her as Miss Beasley again. Only Susannah. Or enchantress.
“Are you really an earl?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never met an earl before. Never . . .”
