A Season of Seduction (32 page)

An hour later, the shuffling noises in the corridor ceased, signifying that the staff had gone to bed. Shrugging into an old coat, she took a lantern and went to Garrett’s study, where she filled her powder horn with fresh, dry powder and loaded the pistol.

Exiting from the servants’ entrance, she headed to the stables, mounted the stairs beside the stall doors, and slipped into the apartment of Sam Johnson, Garrett’s head coachman.

“Sam,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder. She didn’t want to wake the groomsmen, and the walls of the stable were thin. “Sam, wake up.”

“Huh?” The man’s eyes popped open, and he squinted at her in the lantern light. “Lady Rebecca?”

“Yes, it’s me. I need you to help me with something.”

He surged up in the bed. “Of course, my lady.” Then, remembering he only wore a plain white nightshirt, he yanked up the blankets to cover himself.

She waved a hand at him—this was no time for modesty. “Don’t worry about that. I need you to give me some clothes. Two pairs of trousers and a few shirts. And your best coat, if you don’t mind.” Sam was a small man, unnaturally so. He was two years younger than her, but for some reason his growth had been stunted, and though Becky was a petite woman, Sam had never surpassed her in size.

She held out a small purse. “This is all I can spare at the moment, but I can promise you more in January.”

His eyes widened. “My lady, I—”

“Please. You know I would never deceive you, nor do anything to cause you harm. It is imperative I leave London tonight. Alone. My reasoning will probably become clear to everyone at a later date, but right now, all I can ask is for you to trust me. We’ve known each other all our lives, Sam Johnson. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

She and Sam had been raised at Calton House in Yorkshire, and he’d often traveled with the family when they came to London. Now, as the head coachman, he went wherever they did.

Sam’s eyes widened even more. “My lady! Youmustn’t leave London all by yourself. A woman, alone on the roadin the middle of the night?” He gave a definitive shake of his head. “No, my lady, my conscience won’t allow it.”

Oh, God. Becky sucked back a panicked sob. “Please, Sam. You don’t understand the importance of this. Please, do this for me. You must know I would never ask such a thing of you if it wasn’t important.” There was a tremulous edge of desperation in her voice, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t be trapped here in London and forced to either marry Jack Fulton or reveal his treacherous intentions to the world. She had to get away.

Sam hesitated. Finally, he said, “I cannot let you go alone, my lady. Therefore… well…” He took a deep, resolute breath. “Therefore, I must go with you.”

Becky nearly launched herself into his arms. Instead, she gathered herself and spoke quietly. “Thank you. Once I reach my destination, you can return to London right away. You shouldn’t be absent longer than a week.”

Sam would certainly be missed, and Garrett would realize right away that he’d gone with her. She’d think about that later. She continued. “We must travel on horseback. I’ll ride astride. We can move faster that way, and it’s the only way for me to travel anonymously.”

Disapproval darkened Sam’s round face, but she didn’t acknowledge it, and he didn’t openly try to dissuade her. Speed was more important than anything right now. She had to leave here, quickly. She didn’t want to take a stagecoach or go post, because then she’d be too easily pursued. As soon as she was far away, she could think more about what she must do and how she could ask her family for forgiveness. Eventually, they would understand everything. They would forgive her, as they always did. But for now, she had to get away. Nothing was more important.
Nothing
.

Sam’s chest rose and fell. “This is why you wish to have the use of my clothes?”

“Yes.” She took a breath. “We’ll be brothers. Traveling west to Cornwall.”

Her destination was Seawood, the small house in Cornwall that had belonged to her mother. No one had spoken of it in years—it seemed everyone had forgotten about the place. But Becky hadn’t. She’d never been to Seawood, but it was hers. Her own house. After William had died, she’d often thought that one day the rest of her family would tire of her, and she would make it her home. She’d maintained a frequent correspondence with the steward of the place, a Mr. Jennings, who seemed like a friendly man. Now she’d surprise him with her arrival. The surprise was unavoidable, but if Mr. Jennings’s letters were accurate, the place was in good repair and fit for habitation.

Sam stared at her, aghast. “That’s much too far for you to travel on horseback, my lady. Such a journey would take a toll on any man, and you’re just a—”

“I’m doing this, Sam. If you don’t help me, I’ll find someone who will.”

“Perhaps use one of His Grace’s carriages.”

“No.” She wouldn’t take anything of Garrett’s.

“You could go post or perhaps hire a coach?”

“No, Sam. I don’t wish to be recognized.” And those methods would force her to stay in London at least until morning. She wanted to be gone
now
.

Sam sighed. Clearly, he still didn’t approve of the plan, but he knew he had no choice but to go along with it. “My clothes are over there, my lady.” He gestured with his chin at a row of shelves set in an alcove. “Just open the door when you’re done. I’ll be waiting for you on the stairs.”

Modestly wrapping the blanket over his shoulders, he stepped out of the room. As soon as the door closed, Becky scanned the sparsely populated shelf of clothing. She yanked out a pair of trousers and a shirt and quickly donned them. She pulled on three layers of stockings and tucked two sets of mittens into the pockets of the trousers. With an extra pair of trousers and two extra shirts in her arms, she opened the door to allow Sam back in. He held out a heavy woolen garment. “A coat for you, my lady.”

“Thank you.” She glanced back at his shelves. “I only saw one pair of boots.”

“They’re the only ones I have,” he said. “You wear those. I’ll fetch some of Pip’s. He’s an extra pair.”

Pip was Sam’s younger brother and second in command of the stables. Nodding, she pulled on the boots—they were a little large but comfortable enough given the layers of stockings she wore. Sam went to fetch his brother’s boots, which were surely larger for him than his boots were for her, for Pip didn’t suffer from Sam’s disability in height.

When Sam returned, he held the boots draped over his arm. “Pip’s dead asleep and I thought it best not to wake him and listen to him—” He broke off, his eyes shifting away, and she knew exactly what he wouldn’t say. Pip would have fought them—even her—on this. He would have tried to prevent them from going. He might even have tried to wake Garrett. This was why she’d chosen Sam for this task and not his brother.

“I ought to write a letter to him, though, so he doesn’t worry about my disappearance.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “I’ll tend to the horses while you write it.”

Down in the stalls, she chose a saddle and saddlebags and managed—clumsily—to saddle her mare. She’d never saddled a horse by herself before. She slipped her money and garments into the saddlebags, keeping some of the money and her pistol tucked in the pockets of Sam’s coat.

How practical she could be, she thought wryly. Even as she escaped from London dressed as a boy. Even as her heart was breaking.

She wouldn’t think of that. Self-preservation was more important than anything right now. And she could not bear being in London. Not when Jack Fulton was here.

Sam arrived with a bundle of clothes, food, and a flask full of watered-down wine. She was already thankful he’d insisted on coming with her—she hadn’t had the strength of mind to think of food and drink. He was fully dressed now, and as she’d expected, Pip’s regular-sized boots looked clownish on Sam’s undersized feet. She’d buy him a new pair in the first village they passed through in the morning.

He checked her mare’s saddle, cinched the buckles, then chose a horse for himself and saddled it with alacrity.

A half-hour later, they were riding out of London.

Chapter Eighteen

J
ack had gone through the motions of the night, but that damnable letter had sapped his ability to enjoy his bride as he should on the eve of his wedding.

As they drove to Stratford’s townhouse in St. James’s Square, Jack simmered quietly. When they arrived, he took leave of his friend and pretended to head off to bed.

But he didn’t sleep. He lay in bed until the sounds of the house diminished, and then he foraged through his trunk for two slender metal files. Then he slipped out into the foggy predawn.

Tom Wortingham lived in Wapping, where he rented a room in a squalid boarding house. Jack had come here once before, when he’d made the mistake of visiting Tom upon his return to London in August.

Stepping around a filthy gutter, Jack stared up at the peeling paint and grime-streaked walls. Tom could have done so much better for himself. He was a vicar’s son, a gentleman’s son, but since depleting the funds his father had left him, he had scraped by on nothing at all.

Jack slipped into the alley that led behind the house and gazed up at the top story of the building. A row of seven tiny square windows delineated the separate rooms. Tom’s was at the far corner—the only illuminated window.

Jack walked back round to the front door, a narrow slab of wood, and found it locked. He remedied that by picking the lock using his files, and the door groaned on rusty hinges as he opened it. The inside corridor wasn’t illuminated, so Jack felt his way to the stairs and ascended the two flights to Tom’s floor.

He hesitated at Tom’s door, considering.

To hell with it.

He stepped back, then turned and lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the door. The weak, thin wood shattered with a loud crack that resonated through the entire building. Jack didn’t doubt that every single resident had heard. He did doubt they’d come running to assist their neighbor. People who lived in places like this didn’t go searching for trouble.

The door swung open. Tom had been sitting at a small desk, his back to the door. He wore a frayed gray robe over a long, striped nightshirt. At the explosion of shattering wood, he leapt up and spun around, his hands clapped to his chest in horror.

A moment of stillness passed. Tom stared at Jack, his pale gray eyes wide with shock. Jack paused at the threshold, his rage building, surging.

Then it burst through him, as powerful as a tidal wave. He shoved his way across the threshold, raised his fist, and punched. Tom’s head snapped to the side, and he reeled backward until his body slapped against the wall, rattling the windowpane. Chunks of dirty plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Cowering, Tom held his hands over his head. “Stop!” he cried, his voice slurring. “Don’t hurt me.”

Jack reached into his coat pocket and dug out the crumpled note. He threw it to Tom’s feet. It landed between his bare, gray toes. Tom stared down at it.

“No.”

Tom lifted his face. His upper lip was swelling rapidly. “Jack—”

“I’m not giving you twenty-five thousand pounds.”

“I know she has it—”

“You won’t see a penny.”

Tom took a breath and seemed to collect himself. “Well, then. You are well aware of what will happen if you refuse—”

“Don’t threaten me,” Jack said. It wouldn’t do Tom a damn bit of good. Not anymore.

“I was doing you a favor by sending that letter, you know. By making you aware of the new terms before you married the chit.”

Writing covered the sheets of yellowing stationery atop the desk. Jack saw the word “Anne” and jerked his gaze away from the black scrawl on the top sheet. Tom had always fancied himself a writer. Grimly, Jack recalled the love letters he’d written to Anne. Hundreds of pages piled high on the old desk that had once belonged to Tom’s father.

Seeing Jack glancing at the writings, Tom lunged to the desk and with a sweep of his arm, sent the papers flying about them.

Rage boiled up in Jack so quickly he had to take a moment to calm himself as papers fluttered to his feet. When he’d retained a semblance of control, he said, “It’s been years, Tom.
Years
. Why are you still writing to her?”