She drew in a deep breath and turned from the window to face him. “I’m quite sane, I assure you. Stop here, please. I’d rather walk.”
The villa was still a little way down the road, and her companion hesitated. He looked as if he was about to refuse her, but her expression must have made him change his mind. He reached up and pounded his fist on the roof of the carriage.
It jerked to a halt. Lucy opened the door, prepared to scramble out, but she hesitated, then turned reluctantly back to him. She wanted nothing more than to escape this carriage, but once she did, she’d rather not have a reason to reproach herself for her behavior. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. Once again, I’m grateful to you. Good day.”
She pasted a sweet smile on her lips, then leapt out onto the road before he had a chance to say anything at all. She closed the carriage door in his startled face, and set off down the rutted pathway in the direction of the villa.
Mad.
Well, let him think it, if he chose. He wouldn’t be the only one, or even the only one to say it aloud. Anyway, what did it matter what he believed?
There were hundreds of people in Brighton. He’d soon be on his way back to London—or wherever it was handsome, blue-eyed Scots spent their time. With any luck, she’d never lay eyes on the man again.
It wasn’t until much later, when she was tucked safely into her bedchamber at the villa, that she examined the pocket of her cloak and found it empty. Her notebook, with its dozens of sketches, was gone.
Chapter Five
Three days later
“Well, well, Ciaran Ramsey. Here you are, out of your bed before dusk at last, and you look to be in as black a humor as I’ve ever seen you. What ails you, boy?”
Ciaran turned from the glass to face Lady Chase. A sarcastic retort rose to his lips, but he choked it back with one final, vicious tug on his cravat. She wasn’t one to indulge his darker moods, and in any case, it wasn’t her fault he was such a wretched devil. “Musical evenings put me in a temper.”
That much was true, but it wasn’t the reason he was in a black mood.
No, it was that damned redheaded chit.
He patted at his chest, where he’d tucked her notebook into the inside pocket of his coat. He’d flipped through every page of it. Not very gentlemanly of him, but after the beach and the bout he was too curious about her to resist. Her sketches were rough, but she treated her subjects with a sly humor that brought a grin to his face.
His favorite was the one she’d taken of the bout that day. Aside from a hideously detached eyeball, she’d drawn the two boxers in the ring realistically enough. But she’d exaggerated the bloodthirsty appearance of the crowd surrounding them, so it looked as if the real battle was taking place outside the ring. She’d scrawled a line at the bottom of the page. “The Famous Battle between Dozens of Unknown Scoundrels, Fought at Brighton in Sussex, May 1818.” The title was a take on Gillray’s celebrated print of the “famous battle” between Humphreys and Mendoza in Hampshire. Ciaran couldn’t deny the clever reference amused him.
He’d been carrying the blasted notebook around for three days, hoping to return it to her. He’d searched for her in all the obvious places—the Pump Room, the Assembly Rooms, the promenade—but he hadn’t laid eyes on her since the bout.
It wasn’t surprising, really. What would such an unruly chit want with the Pump Room or the promenade? Damn shame there wasn’t a duel or a public hanging to hand. No doubt he’d find herthere.
Once or twice he’d been tempted to return to the beach, but he’d resisted. It wouldn’t do her any good to be seen in his company. She was doing an efficient job of ruining her reputation on her own, without any help from him.
Not that he imagined she wanted his help, or anything else from him. He’d been a horse’s arse to her at the bout. Now, three days later, he was more miserable about it than he would have thought possible. He didn’t give much of a damn about anything these days. He couldn’t think of any reason whysheshould be the one to pierce the haze of listlessness that surrounded him, but whatever it was, he couldn’t shake her loose. It was bloody frustrating. He didn’t want her there, but she was like a flea burrowing into his skin. No matter how much he clawed, he couldn’t get her out.
Maybe it was only that she’d surprised him. God knew a bare-knuckle bout was the last place in the world she should have been. Or maybe it was that kick she’d dealt the scoundrel who’d grabbed her. One didn’t often come across a young lady with such impressive reflexes. Then there’d been the precision of the thing. She’d left a heel print on the villain’s chin. Ciaran couldn’t help but admire such a well-executed blow.
Maybe it was her red hair. He’d had a weakness for red hair ever since he was a lad. He’d never seen her shade of red before, and he’d grown up in Scotland, where gingers were as common as sheep. Or maybe it was because ladies with such fiery red hair generally had blue eyes, or green.
She had neither. Hers were a deep, velvety brown. Wide, long-lashed, and glinting with mischief.
“If you please, Mr. Ramsey!” Lady Chase rapped her cane on the floor to get his attention. “Lady Atherton and I intend to leave Brighton at the end of this week. You could return to Buckinghamshire with us, but you’re sure to be as bored there as you are here. Why not go to London? A change of scenery would do you good.”
Ciaran frowned. First Vale, and now Lady Chase. Why did everyone keep trying to send him to London? “Why would I want to go there?”
Lady Chase gave him a shrewd look. “The season’s begun. I daresay some of your acquaintances are already in town. That awful Lord Vale is going, isn’t he? I don’t approve of Lord Vale, as you know—he’s a perfect scoundrel—but between the two of you, you should be able to stir up enough trouble in London to keep yourselves amused.”
Good Lord. Was Lady Chase sending him off on a debauch? “I must be dismal company indeed, ma’am, if you’re fobbing me off on Vale.”
“Hush, you wicked child. I’m doing no such thing. Still, London is bound to be more entertaining for a young, foolish rake like yourself than either Brighton or Buckinghamshire.”
Ciaran shook his head. London, Brighton, Buckinghamshire—it was all the same to him. What his family didn’t seem to understand was his lethargy hadn’t a damn thing to do with his location.
It had to do withhim.
