Page 87

“What is going on, Charles?” Behind them in the hall, her mother gasped. “Charles!”

“Return to our chamber, Cassandra,” he said grimly. “Take Mariah with you.”

White-faced, her mother reached for her. Mariah dodged her and scurried toward Harry. So much for a quiet elopement and presenting her parents with a fait accompli. “No! I am going with him!”

Her mother gave a little shriek. Her father’s lips turned white. “Mariah, come here at once⁠—”

“Put away your pistol, Papa!” She stepped up beside Harry and curled her hands around his upheld arm.

“Silly girl,” her lover murmured. “What the devil are you doing?”

She looked him straight in the face. “I’m saving you from being shot by my father so you can marry me like a proper gentleman.”

“Ah. Carry on, then,” he said, making her want to laugh.

She beamed at him, then turned back to her father. “Please don’t let Papa shoot me, Mama.”

The countess lunged forward then with a cry, clutching the earl’s arm. With a curse, her father uncocked his pistol and lowered his arm.

“What is going on?” her mother cried, bewildered and terrified.

“Mama, I am running away to be married.” Mariah smiled brightly even though her words made her mother sway on her feet. “May I present Mr. Henry Sinclair.”

“Not another word, Mariah,” her father snapped. “You are not going anywhere, certainly not with this scoundrel.”

“But I love him, Papa, and if I must be scandalous and disowned to be with him, I shall be.” Her mother moaned, covering her face with both hands. Mariah, calculating at once which parent was more vulnerable, added solemnly, “I shall miss you terribly, Mama, if you mean to disown me and never see me again, but I will not change my mind.”

It worked. The countess dropped her hands, then drew herself up and tightened the sash of her dressing gown. “In that case,” she said with regal tragedy, “good-bye, Charles.”

“What?” Startled, Papa turned to her. “What do you mean?”

“I will not be deprived of my only child. I am going with them.” She gestured to the maid hovering in horrified silence at the back of the hall. “Fetch my cloak, Frances.”

“Cassandra,” said Papa, flummoxed.

“She is just like you, Charles, just as stubborn and determined. I have long since learned I can never deter either of you, once you set your mind on something.” She turned to Harry. “You there, young man—what is your name? Where is your carriage?”

Mariah glanced up. Harry was staring at her mother with a mixture of admiration and astonishment. She could hardly blame him. She certainly hadn’t expected her mother to say that. Still, it spiked her father’s guns and bought her some time to persuade both her parents.

“Where is your carriage?” Mama repeated as the maid came flying down the corridor with a long cloak over her arm. “My daughter cannot elope in a hired hack.”

Harry tore his eyes off her to glance at Mariah. Eloping with her mother had not figured at all in her plans, even such plans as they were, but Mariah simply smiled at him as if she had anticipated this all along. “I told you they wouldn’t disown me,” she whispered.

“It’s not quite a blessing, either,” he muttered back. “I beg pardon, my lady, I haven’t got a carriage.”

The countess sighed. “Frances, run to the stable and wake John Coachman. He must prepare the traveling coach.”

“Cassandra, stop this foolishness.” Papa ran his hand through his hair as if he would rip it out. He glared at Harry again, and Mariah stepped closer to him on the chance Papa would decide to shoot him just to end the argument.

Her mother faced her father. “Then you stop your foolishness, Charles. Waving a pistol is not helping.”

Doncaster swore some more. He glared at Harry. He shoved the pistol into his dressing gown pocket. “I will see you in my study.”

It was without doubt the oddest procession imaginable. Still holding the valise, Harry followed the earl, with Mariah staying close to his side. Mama followed, cloak over one arm. Frances, she assumed, took off like a rabbit for the servants’ quarters to spread the tale.

The study was the picture of quiet English elegance, paneled in dark oak and lined with bookshelves, with a large map of Europe on one wall. Deep leather chairs were arranged near the tall windows, now covered in dark green draperies. A thoroughly comfortable, masculine room, evidence of the wealth and stature of the owner. Mariah saw Harry look around in mingled appreciation and apprehension.

Papa set down the lamp he had picked up from a table along the hall, and turned to Harry. “Now, sir,” he said coldly. “Who are you, and what the bloody hell were you doing in my daughter’s bedchamber?”