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Jonas got to his feet. She was right, but he did not want her anywhere near the inn when they went after Forwood. Come to that, he did not want her anywhere near Cyrus Doyle either. And yet, what were her alternatives? If there was any possibility that she was Alexander’s cousin, the earl could not leave her here to take a position under Mrs. Turley. Returning her to Finley Park would cut into their already limited time to reach Little Tilbury, and she could not stay here or at Jonas’s townhouse as an unchaperoned guest.

Alexander must have reached the same conclusion equally rapidly. He gave Jonas a worried look and cleared his throat. “I think it only right that you accompany us to the church,” he said. “But after that, we will need to make other arrangements.”

“I have no doubt that the staff at Langton Manor would be happy to see you again,” Jonas said.

She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded, his thoughts whirling. Miss Doyle had been kidnapped from his property once already. If that—or any other violent mishap—occurred there again, he would never forgive himself. He had twenty-four hours to come up with a way of keeping her safe whilst he, Alexander, and the runners were otherwise occupied. Surely he would think of something by then.

“We will need fresh horses,” Alexander said. “I will instruct that my carriage be brought round and will send a short note to Bow Street informing them of our change in plan.”

“Very well,” Jonas said, walking with him toward the door. “I’ll have my man transfer our luggage to your carriage.”

Alexander started down the passageway to his study. Jonas paused at the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. Miss Doyle was standing in front of the portrait, his handkerchief crushed in her hand. If he was struggling to grasp how that singular painting might affect his life, how much more turmoil must she be experiencing? As he watched, not sure if there was anything he might say that would help, she turned to face him.

His heart ached. She’d stumbled out of the hidden room at the inn with a similar look of fear and abandonment in her eyes. It was too much for any young woman to bear alone. Meeting her gaze, he allowed instinct to override caution, and he opened his arms. She hesitated for only a moment, then with a muffled sob, she ran across the room and into his embrace.

Chapter 24

Darkness had fallen. The lanterns at the front of the carriage had been illuminating their way for some time, but very little light entered the vehicle. Jonas could barely make out Alexander’s slumped form sprawled across the seat in front of him. His friend had taken advantage of the extra space to relax, and for the last hour or so, he’d been snoring softly. Jonas didn’t mind. He needed uninterrupted time to think.

Not that he could really think clearly with Miss Doyle’s head resting on his shoulder. She stirred, and a faint scent of lilacs reached him. He’d been smelling it ever since he’d held her in his arms in Alexander’s drawing room. He closed his eyes, reliving that moment. It was completely inappropriate for a gentleman to hold a lady so close, but he did not regret it.

Nothing more had happened between them. He’d held her until her tears had subsided, then she’d stepped away with a blush on her cheeks, leaving his arms feeling empty. Hastings had entered the room immediately afterward to tell them Alexander’s carriage was ready, and they’d walked outside in silence.

He’d taken the seat beside her in the carriage, but she’d sat up against the window, watching the city merge into the countryside until it was too dark to see anything at all. Only then, when she could fight her exhaustion no longer, did she lean against him and sleep.

With his eyes still closed, Jonas rested his head against the cushion behind him. His emotions had rarely swung so wildly as they had today. They had ranged from his dread of leaving Miss Doyle at Alexander’s house to his shock when he’d first set eyes on Isabella Allerton’s portrait. From his hope that a change in Miss Doyle’s birthright might somehow change his future to his agony over the confusion that had caused her so much pain. His emotions were raw. Perhaps that was why he’d let his guard down with Miss Doyle. Or perhaps it was simply that he was tired of fighting his feelings for her.

***

The carriage wheel hit a rut in the road, and Elizabeth jolted awake. She opened her eyes to discover the gray light of predawn filtering in through the dusty windows. Her cheek was pressed against something firm and warm. Something that smelled faintly of sandalwood. She turned her head, and her pillow shifted beneath her. Awareness hit with full force, and she bolted upright.

“Miss Doyle?” Concern tinged Lord Langton’s quiet voice.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered. “I had no notion . . . I did not mean to . . .”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said softly.

A snore sounded from the other side of the carriage, and Elizabeth looked over at Lord Bloxley sprawled across the long seat. Thanks to her, Lord Langton barely had one-third the space their traveling companion enjoyed.

“Did I prevent you from sleeping, my lord? You surely had no place to rest properly.”

“On the contrary, I found my situation most comfortable.” he said. She could not see his face clearly, but she heard the smile in his voice.

Warmth flooded her cheeks, and she was grateful for the shadows that hid her blush from him. She scooted closer to the window, putting several more inches between them.

“How are you feeling, Miss Doyle?” he asked. Concern had returned to his voice.

Miss Doyle. Is that who she was? Miss Elizabeth Doyle? Or was she actually Miss Suzanne Allerton? Her stomach clenched as she thought back on the moment she’d first looked upon the portrait in Lord Bloxley’s drawing room. The gentlemen had assumed that her shocked reaction had come from seeing her likeness to Isabella Allerton. In truth, that had been part of it. But it was something else that had caused her to stumble back. A memory, faint but sure. When she’d looked into the eyes of the woman in the painting, she’d heard singing. A gentle voice, not unlike her own, and the lyrics had not been in English.

She’d gone back to stand before the painting before she’d left the room, but the music was gone. That was when the doubt and confusion had overcome her, and she’d fallen into Lord Langton’s arms and wept. What must he think of her? A woman with no fixed background, who took advantage of his kindness at every turn.

“Miss Doyle?”

With a start, Elizabeth realized the viscount had asked her a question. “I . . . I am well, my lord, albeit somewhat bewildered by the events of the last few hours.”

“I can only imagine,” he said.