Scoundrel Ever After (Secrets and Scandals) (6 page)

He complied and brought his legs back up, though he kept them atop the coverlet. “Should I?”

Her brows gathered in an adorably perplexed expression. “You seemed at least semiconscious, but perhaps you weren’t.” She fluffed up the pillow. “You should lie down.”

“May I have something to drink first?” He had no intention of lying down.

“Certainly, I should have thought of that straightaway.” She went to the table, where there was a pitcher and a cup. She returned to him with water, which he drank greedily.

He handed her the empty cup. “Thank you.”

She kept her gaze focused on his face. He recognized that his lack of attire was completely scandalous to someone like Audrey. The gentleman he was trying to be urged him to put on a shirt, but the wounded animal he currently felt like didn’t give a damn.

“What happened last night? I’m assuming I lost consciousness. How did you get us here?” Shit, they didn’t have any money since that boy had stolen his bag from the cab. How was she paying for this?

She turned and went to the chair. When she came back, she handed him a shirt. “Maybe you could put this on?” Her gaze dipped to his bare chest and dainty little roses bloomed in her cheeks.

Ethan leaned back against the wall behind the bed. A jolt of satisfaction shot through him. Audrey was a beautiful woman, intelligent, and able to handle herself. In any other circumstance he’d tumble her into the bed. Just then a stabbing pain in his arm reminded him that tumbling of any kind might be a few days off.

He took the proffered shirt. “I’m not sure I can raise my arm up to get this on. At least not without help.”

Her blush deepened. “I can help you.”

He sat forward from the wall and drew the shirt over his head. Thrusting his left arm into the sleeve was no problem. He looked at her and she helped lift his right arm and slide it into the shirtsleeve.

“I don’t suppose you helped me out of my clothes last night?”

She pulled the shirt down his back and stepped quickly away from the bed. Her maidenly sensibilities were charming. “Yes, with the innkeeper’s wife’s assistance. We had to burn the clothes, however.”

“Yet, you found new ones, as well as lodgings, and treated my wounds—”

She cut him off. “Yes,
wounds
. Why didn’t you tell me you’d been shot?”

“If you recall, we didn’t exactly have time for idle conversation. I was terribly distracted by those foul highwaymen—and that lad who stole my money.” He peered at her intently. “I’m afraid to ask how you’re paying for this room and my care.”

Her eyes widened and he belatedly realized his comment could have been taken in a rather perverse way. He added, “I didn’t mean to suggest you’re doing anything untoward. You are, I’m certain, above reproach.”

She glanced away. “Clearly not, since I fled London with you.” When she returned her gaze to his, she revealed a quiet dignity in the depths of her blue-green gaze and he knew in that moment that he was right—she
was
above reproach. And not just by Society’s standards. She was a good and honest person at heart. The type of person who should run screaming from the likes of him.

“I had money in a purse sewn inside my pants,” she said.

His mouth sagged open for a moment before he snapped it closed. “Your pants. Why the devil were you even wearing pants? And why did you have money sewn into them? Thank God you did.”

“Yes, thank goodness I did, though I suspect the Bow Street Runner would’ve paid for our lodgings.”

Ethan’s blood ran cold. His legs itched to run. He mentally calculated how quickly he could finish dressing and get out of the inn. Except he didn’t know the layout, which put him at a very distinct disadvantage. Any criminal worth his salt knew every way to escape a building before he entered it. “What Bow Street Runner?”

“The one who was thankfully patrolling the highway last night. I encountered him after you fell asleep, and he guided us to this inn.”

And not directly to Bow Street? Ethan relaxed, but only slightly. “What did you tell him?”

She blinked at him, appearing a little uncertain, perhaps because he’d asked that question in a rather ferocious tone. “I said we were attacked by highwaymen.”

He modulated his question this time. “What did you tell him about us?”

“Oh!” She flashed a beguiling smile that did odd things to his belly. He found her quite attractive, but it was more than that. He didn’t like it. “I told him my name was Mary St. Clyde and that you were my brother, Algernon.”

“Algernon?”

She lifted a shoulder. “To be fair, I only called you Al.”

“What a god-awful name.” That she’d taken the time to come up with aliases and even a nickname for him only proved her cunning and courage. He looked away from her. “Smart girl.”
Dangerous girl.
“Why’d you lie?”

“I thought it best to protect my identity for now. My reputation will likely be ruined, but then I have no intention of returning to my life in London, so it really doesn’t matter.” She squared her shoulders as if in response to some silent conversation going on inside of her. He wanted to ask what she intended to do, but she continued before he could open his mouth.

“The Runner was kind enough to lead us to this inn, which he knew to be reputable. You’d cautioned me about the inns, but I’m afraid you slipped from consciousness before explaining. The Runner said some of the establishments along the highway are in league with the highwaymen, is that what you meant?”

“Yes.” And with Gin Jimmy. “Where are we exactly?”

“Hounslow.”

Jimmy’s reach extended at least this far, which meant they needed to get back on the road. And go where? His experience with the country was limited to a few summer visits to his father’s estate in northern Oxfordshire. But they couldn’t go there, his brother’s mother lived there and she was ill. Plus, she despised Ethan like fire hates water.

He looked back to Audrey who was watching him expectantly. “Where’s the Runner now?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He guided us here and was going to go back to take care of the dead highwayman.” She cringed and looked at the floor. “Sorry, I had to tell him what happened, that you’d killed him defending me. I know he was a terrible criminal, but he at least deserves to be buried.”

Is that all she thought a terrible criminal deserved? If she knew how terrible he’d been . . .

“You look worried.” She took a step toward the bed. “He’s coming back to talk to you. Do you think we should tell him the truth?” Her shoulders slumped. “I suppose we should.”

“No.” He spoke without thinking, but there was no other answer. The truth would reveal his true identity—that of a notorious criminal—not only to her but to Bow Street, which was already looking for him in order to charge him with the murder of the Marquess of Wolverton and for organizing the death of Lady Aldridge. Ironically, they were two crimes he hadn’t actually committed. No one would believe that, however. No one save his brother, who’d only just decided to trust him last night. That thought gave Ethan a very small amount of relief.

“You still haven’t told me why you needed to leave London. Or why you were climbing up the tree outside my window.”

And he didn’t plan on answering those questions now. “Assuming I’m identified as the man who was in your house last night, I think it’s fair to also assume Bow Street will think I’ve kidnapped you. For that reason alone, I should prefer to avoid not only Bow Street, but also the entirety of London.”

Her eyebrows—slender brown swathes that made her forehead impossibly elegant with the way they swept over her incredible eyes—slanted down. She shook her head once. Definitively. “That doesn’t address why you were climbing the tree outside my window.”

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you were wearing men’s clothing?” Her eyes widened and she shook her head again as definitively as before. “Then I guess we’re both going to keep a few secrets.”

She exhaled, then went over to the window. Her long fingers parted the curtains and she looked down. He remembered those fingers entwined with his when she’d taught him to waltz. He longed for those fingers—

She dropped the curtain and abruptly turned. “He’s back.”

M
R. LOCKE SWORE
again. He swore an awful lot, more than any other gentleman of her acquaintance, but then she had to consider whether he was truly a gentleman. She wouldn’t really know unless he unveiled his secrets, and since she wasn’t willing to share hers, she couldn’t blame him for guarding his.

He climbed out of bed, grimacing in pain as he pushed himself to his feet.

She rushed to his side. “Let me help you.”

“We need to leave. Now.”

“Sit, I’ll get the rest of the clothing.” She hurried to the chair and grabbed what the innkeeper’s wife had found besides the shirt—a coat, a cravat, and fresh stockings. She handed him the latter and then realized he couldn’t put them on with his wounded arm. Taking them back, she kneeled before him and pulled the first one onto his left leg. She tried not to pay any attention to his bare calf. Or the fact that her bare fingers were touching that calf. Mostly, she tried not to pay attention to how much she enjoyed it.

When both of his stockings were on, she went to grab his boots, which were at the end of the bed. She set them before his feet and helped him draw them on.

“This is bloody awkward,” he breathed. He stood up from the bed and worked to tuck in the hem of his shirt. “Go and see if he’s still outside.”

She went to the window and looked back down into the courtyard. “There are two men on horses, but neither one of them is the Runner. There are also two empty horses being held by a groom.”

Another curse, this one quite colorful. “Help me with the coat.”

She dashed to assist him, again guiding his right arm into the sleeve. “The innkeeper’s wife didn’t have a waistcoat.” Belatedly, she realized she could’ve given him the waistcoat she’d been wearing, but after Audrey removing her purse from the pants, she’d traded the costume to the innkeeper’s wife for the garments she was now wearing. She’d also borrowed a needle and thread, and had stitched the small purse to the top of her stocking. On second thought, her waistcoat wouldn’t have fit his broad shoulders.

With his one good arm, he wrapped the cravat around his neck so that it hung loose. “Do you know where the back stairs are?”

“I don’t.”

He grasped her hand and pierced her with his devastating gray stare. “Tell me everything you know about this establishment. How many doors, how many floors, how many people might be about.”

She swallowed. He was looking at her so . . . expectantly. No, that wasn’t wholly accurate. There was an intensity about him, the same he’d displayed last night in every situation they’d encountered. Again, she wondered about his true nature.

She searched her brain for whatever details she could recall from their late arrival the previous night, or rather, quite early this morning. “There’s a door to the rear yard. But I don’t know another way downstairs besides the main staircase—we’re on the second floor.”

He’d gone to the window while she’d explained what she knew. “Is it a large inn? How many rooms?” He pulled back the curtain and swore violently. He spun about and marched toward her. “Time to go.” He snagged her elbow and propelled her toward the door.

She went along, her veins icing at the desperation in his tone. It wasn’t fear, but he was clearly anxious to leave. Which made her anxious.

He paused in the corridor. “Which way?”

“Right.”

Voices sounded from that direction—not close, but there nonetheless.

“Left, then.” He let go of her elbow and strode down the hallway. His boots made very little sound as he moved, and his gait reminded her of a cat stalking its prey—soft, but surefooted. “You didn’t answer me before. Is this a large inn?”

“I suppose. I think she said they had ten rooms of varying size?”

“They must have a servant staircase.” He stopped at a door and cracked it open. Then pulled it closed. He moved to the next one, on the opposite side of the hallway from the first, and did the same. Again, he closed the door and moved on. At the third door, he pushed it wider. She came up behind him and saw that it was a narrow staircase.

He glanced back at her. “Quietly,” he whispered, bringing his finger to his lips.

Light from a small window illuminated the stairs. He descended swiftly, but stealthily. She closed the door behind her and followed close on his heels, trying to keep her steps as light as his. They reached the door at the bottom. He pulled it open slowly until the barest gap separated the door’s edge and the frame. He peered through the slim space.

Audrey’s breath hitched, her ears strained to pick up the faintest sound, and sweat dotted the back of her neck.

He angled his head toward her. “Which way is the common room?”

She thought about the layout. “Left. Maybe thirty feet.”

He nodded slightly, then pulled the door wide. He grabbed her hand and turned right. He stopped at the first door on the right and turned to look at her. “How much money do you have?”

“A bit.”