Page 16

She refused to be drawn. “There are other churches, I’m sure, where one may marry.” She wondered if he had ever considered marrying—an odd thought to have.

He looked back over his shoulder before pulling into the stream of traffic and spoke a word to his groom.

In a few quick turns and one dash across a wide thoroughfare, they reached another square, a long oval actually, with dozens of tall plane trees in the center park, bare now in winter. At the southeast corner of the square, Hazelwood drew up the carriage again, next to the iron railing around the square’s center.

“What am I to see here?” she asked. The square was nearly empty in the cold with rain threatening.

He gestured with one leather-gloved hand at a shop on the corner. “Gunter’s Tea Shop. You’ll want to be seen here, and you’ll order your wedding cake from Gunter, himself, that is, from his son.”

She glanced at the shop. Her father had brought her here once in summer to eat a violet ice under the trees in the center. The square had been crowded with open vehicles. She remembered ladies with bonnets and parasols to shade them from London’s heat, and laughter, lots of laughter. The waiters had dashed back and forth through the traffic of the square with orders and trays of confections.

Hazelwood glanced at the sky of sagging dark gray clouds. “I doubt it will rain before noon. Can you hang on for a few minutes?” He leaped down from the carriage before she answered.

“Where are you going?” He shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it across her knees.

“For warmth,” he said. Then he reached into the carriage, and snatched up a large black umbrella that had been lying at their feet.

“Where are you going?” she repeated.

He glanced across the square. “There’s a fellow in a slouch hat who takes too great an interest in our carriage.”

“Is it a grave offense, then, in London, for one to stare overlong at another’s vehicle?”

“Quite grave. You must never do it yourself.” With a grin, he strolled off.

For a moment she sat stunned. What did he expect her to do in an open carriage without an umbrella?

They were parked at the lower end of the long oval square. Jane’s bonnet obscured her vision except of what was directly in front of her. She tugged the strings loose, looking out slightly to her right over the horses’ backs, where she could see a portion of the square and Hazelwood strolling along, the umbrella over his shoulder, as if he had not a care in the world.

He disappeared from her view about midway, entering the square on a path that must take him through the park to the other side of the square. In a minute she heard his voice call a cheerful greeting.

She pulled off her bonnet. A man in a slouch hat, standing beside a horse, started as Hazelwood approached him.

The next instant Hazelwood snapped the black umbrella open under the horse’s nose. The beast snorted and shied, hooves flailing. Slouch Hat stumbled back, trying to keep his feet and losing the reins of his plunging horse. Hazelwood caught the horse’s flapping reins and pulled the animal’s head away from the umbrella. Slouch Hat grabbed the umbrella, and Hazelwood released it, letting the man stagger backward.

In the next instant Hazelwood flung himself up onto the horse’s back and into the saddle, keeping the horse’s head turned, and leaning back over the cantle to keep his seat. Slouch Hat scrambled to his feet and brandished the open umbrella overhead like an axe. Down it came. The pointed tip of an umbrella rib missed Hazelwood’s face, but connected with the shoulder seam of his jacket and caught. Slouch Hat stumbled again, his weight pulling the umbrella down, ripping Hazelwood’s sleeve free of the coat, and scraping his arm from shoulder to elbow.

Hazelwood leaned low over the horse’s neck and urged the animal forward. In a minute they came trotting around the square. He slid from the horse, tied the animal to the back of their carriage, and vaulted up into place beside her, taking the reins. His groom climbed up behind the carriage, and they set off as Slouch Hat came huffing around the park toward them, waving the umbrella and yelling, “Stop. Thief.”

Hazelwood glanced her way. She supposed she must be gaping a little, as one did when a sudden view appeared, when the mountain path opened on a sheer drop and the stones disturbed by the donkey’s feet bounced and rattled down the steep walls of a canyon endlessly while one waited to breathe again. Now she understood what Hazelwood’s close-fitting English clothes revealed—how muscle and bone and height and strength—might be employed.

He lifted a dark brow. “You’ll want to put your bonnet on, Jane. It’s going to rain.”

The skies opened up as Jane tied the strings under her chin.

* * * *

Nate held the umbrella as Miranda left the carriage. The heavy rain forced her to take his arm and stay close as they entered Lackington’s. They handed over the dripping umbrella to an attendant at the door and turned to admire the shop.

In spite of the rain, tall windows along the street let in long shafts of light, in which Miranda glowed. She looked particularly fine, and she knew it. They caught the eye of an alert clerk as soon as they entered, and the man hurried to greet them.

“How may I assist you?” The fellow might have addressed the question to them both, but his stare was fixed on Miranda alone.

She gave Nate’s arm a subtle squeeze. She had learned to her dismay at Hatchard’s that as soon as she spoke, her accent quite spoiled the impression she made with her beauty and taste. Now she wanted Nate to do the talking, so that she could preserve the illusion of being a lady a little longer.

Nate assumed his loftiest manner. “My sister and I are looking for a particular title, but first, she would like to find a novel of manners and morals, something by a gentlewoman, and I would prefer a history.”

The clerk managed to draw his gaze briefly from Miranda’s face. “Sir, you’ll find the histories on the far left wall. If miss would care to follow me, we have all of Mrs. Ross’s work, Miss Musgrave’s latest novel, and more.”