Page 44
“Aye, Benedict Tellinger is my grand uncle.”
Roxina peeped at Shelby.
It wasn’t like him to name-drop.
“Excellent.” Atherstone produced a lopsided grin, then slumped forward, chin to chest. The bottle slipped from his fingers and clanked onto the curricle floor. A moment later, loud snores emitted from the vehicle.
Roxina swore the horses exchanged a disgusted glance before one whinnied as if to say, “Oh, marvelous. Lord Lush has once again decided that ‘upright’ is optional. Shall we wait for someone to take up the reins or proceed and let nature take its course?”
“Atherstone?” Shelby reached up and nudged Atherstone with the back of his hand.
No reaction.
He pressed a bit harder, but the young gentleman merely groaned and lolled to the side, his head bouncing against his chest.
“Out cold.” Shelby grinned. “Most convenient. Come Roxina. Let me help you climb aboard.”
Roxina hesitated.
“We cannot simply take his carriage, Shelby.”
“We can, and we must.” Shelby climbed onto the seat, bracing himself as the curricle shifted beneath his weight. “We are aiding this unwise chap who would otherwise likely spend the night here in the damp.”
With a firm push, Shelby shoved the unconscious driver to the side. He crumpled against the curricle’s interior wall with a muffled grunt.
Roxina cringed.
The sight of Atherstone—his slack mouth—and the reek of brandy dragged forth memories of her brother Mitchel’s inebriated antics. The endless nights spent coaxing him into bed, the slurred curses, and worst of all, knowing he would never change.
Shelby extended his hand. “Unless you’d rather wait for Desmond’s men to come sniffing about, Roxina?”
Needing no further convincing, she handed him the bag. She gathered her skirts, accepted Shelby’s help, and clambered up beside him, the leather seat cool beneath her palms.
“Here. You’ll have to hold this.” Shelby passed their bag of provisions.
Determined not to gawp at Atherstone, she snapped her fingers. “Come, Dash.”
After a wary glance toward the insensate man, Dash jumped onto the floorboard, his warm body pressing into her knees in the cramped quarters.
The horses, a striking matched pair of chestnut Hackneys with gleaming coats and four perfectly symmetrical white stockings, flicked their ears. One stamped a hoof, sensing the shift in their passengers’ weight.
“Walk on.” Shelby took up the reins, clicking his tongue softly.
The curricle lurched forward, the wheels squishing over the soft earth as it bore them into the spring night.
Roxina glanced sideways at the slumped figure beside her.
“What if he wakes, Shelby?”
“Then he’ll have a fine story to tell his friends about the night he loaned his curricle to a desperate, needy couple.” Shelby’s grin gleamed in the dim light. “But he’s foxed beyond reason, and if we are fortunate, he won’t rouse.” He lifted his shoulders. “And if he does, he probably won’t remember.”
The night stretched before her, uncertain and treacherous, but at least now, she and Shelby had a means to escape. Roxina tightened her grip on the seat—because, whether by fate or folly, she couldn’t change course now.
FOURTEEN
Deptford, England
Southeast outskirts of London
