Rivers stood in his doorway and surveyed the traveling carriage waiting before him. He did not plan to return to London until the end of next month, when the wager was over, and he’d ordered a great many things brought with him. Several large trunks of books and other belongings had been lashed to the back of the carriage, with his coachman and two footmen still straining to secure the last. He’d trust most of his clothes to the baggage wagon that would follow, but not his books and journals.
Another footman appeared from the kitchen carrying a wicker hamper with provisions, followed by Rivers’s ever-vigilant manservant, Rooke, to make certain no stray apples or pasties were removed from the hamper to disappear into one of the footmen’s pockets.
Rivers smiled with anticipation. It wasn’t a long journey to the Lodge, but exactly the right length to be enjoyable, not tedious. Driving through the night with the full moon to guide them, they should arrive early tomorrow morning. He intended to stop to dine tonight, but there would be many more hours on the road when he might wish the comfort of a glass of wine and whatever tasty little pleasantries his cook had tucked into the hamper for him.
At his feet, his favorite Dalmatian—ridiculously named Spot by one of his young nieces—whined and paced back and forth, eager to be off.
“Almost ready, boy, almost ready,” Rivers said absently, pulling out his watch once again to check the time. Hating to be late himself, he was habitually early, and expected others to do the same. By his reckoning, Lucia di Rossi should have been here by now. He’d told her noon, and it was a quarter to the hour. Until this moment, he hadn’t considered the possibility that she might have changed her mind. He’d sealed the wager with Everett and told his brother about it; he’d feel like a damned fool if the girl had quit before they’d even begun.
He crouched down to ruffle the dog’s ears, more to calm himself than the restless animal. With everything in readiness, he supposed he’d go on to the Lodge anyway, even if she didn’t come.
But he couldn’t deny that he’d be disappointed. He’d been thinking of the wager ever since the girl had left yesterday, and he’d spent much of last night choosing books of plays with her in mind. He’d already decided she was too solemn for the comic roles, and he was determined to concentrate on tragic parts for her, the kind that built a serious actress’s reputation with theatergoers. He’d been looking forward to working with her, to seeing how much he’d be able to transform that determination of hers into something rare and special.
There was more, too, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else. She amused him, and surprised him, in a way that most women didn’t. He was intrigued. He’d never expected to feel that way about a plain little wren like Lucia, but as she’d stood before him yesterday morning, he’d realized how vastly entertaining these next weeks might prove to be with her for company.
He smiled again, remembering how she’d stood up to Crofton. If she could marshal that self-assurance into a performance, she’d have audiences falling at her feet.
Spot’s ears pricked up with interest and he shifted sideways to look past Rivers, and Rivers turned, too, to see what had caught the dog’s eye.
“Ahh, it’s Lucia di Rossi at last,” he said, smiling with relief and a bit of pleasure as well. They were nearly eye level, with him crouched beside the dog on the step, and she standing on pavement. “I am glad you are here. You’re almost late.”
Her cheeks pinked, and she dipped an awkward excuse for a curtsey while Spot sniffed and snuffled around her skirts, making things more awkward still. The curtsey wasn’t awkward from the clumsiness that Magdalena had accused her of possessing, but from the more obvious fact that she was clutching a small, battered trunk in her arms.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said. “But I am not late. According to the clock on the tower I just passed, it still wants five minutes to twelve.”
He hadn’t expected that. It had been very amusing when she’d corrected Crofton, but much less so when she did it to him.
He rose, pointedly looking down at her. “I didn’t say you were late. I said you were almost late. Which, in fact, you are.”
She shifted the trunk in her arms. “Yes, my lord,” she said evenly. “But if we are to speak of the future, then all the world is also almost dead and buried, and I cannot help that, either.”
He paused, not sure how to reply. If she were his servant, he likely would have had her sacked for such impudent familiarity. But she wasn’t a servant, although she was dressed like one, in some dreary linen petticoat and jacket with a little gimcrack necklace around her throat. She wasn’t exactly a guest, either, and she certainly wasn’t his equal. How was he to address her? He should have given this some thought earlier, to be better able to establish their relationship, and to have prevented this kind of…awkwardness.
Until he did, he had little choice but to overlook this little speech if he wished to win the wager. He cleared his throat, attempting to look properly lordly, and changed the subject.
“I see you have brought your, ah, your trunk,” he said. “That was wise of you.”
“I didn’t have a choice, my lord,” she said, shifting it again to the other arm. Whatever was in it must be heavy, and he fought the gentlemanly urge to take it from her. “Are you leaving town, my lord? Have you had a change of heart about the wager?”
Her glance darted toward the waiting carriage laden with his belongings and back to him, her mouth twisting anxiously. Of course she wouldn’t know his plans. He’d decided to go to the Lodge after she’d left his house yesterday. Seeing the coach now, she’d every reason to believe that he’d changed his mind.
He grinned, delighted to be able to surprise her. “I am leaving town for the country, yes,” he said, “and you are to join me. I have decided to continue your education at my country place, away from distraction.”
Her eyes widened with distress. “How am I to travel there, my lord? I haven’t the coin for a stage fare.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to take a stage,” he explained patiently. “You’ll be coming with me, in my carriage. We’ll leave directly, stop to change horses and dine when necessary, and if all proceeds as it should, arrive early tomorrow morning. Now pray give your box to Walker so he can strap it on top with the others, and we may be off. Finally.”
Yet still she hesitated, studying the carriage and the horses and the trunks and boxes and making no move to hand her own to the waiting footman.
“If you please, my lord,” she said, clutching her box to her chest. “I’d rather not give it over, my lord, on account of the thieves.”
“Thieves?” he repeated, mystified. The road his driver took through Hampshire was well traveled and generally uneventful, with the glory days of armed highwaymen long past. It would take a brave thief indeed—or one who couldn’t read the crest painted on his door—to challenge a coach belonging to a Fitzroy, especially not when his driver kept a brace of loaded pistols in the box with him.
“I sincerely doubt we’ll be plagued with thieves,” he said. “Your box will be safe enough with my things.”
Yet still she shook her head. “All I own is in here, my lord, and if some wicked rogues were to snatch it away as we passed, why, then I’d be left with nothing.”
He glanced again at the humble little box, clutched so possessively in her arms. To think that it was all she owned in this world was sobering. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that no thief would give her trunk a second thought, not with the much richer promise of his own costly leather cases, padlocked and studded with gleaming nail heads.
“There is always some peril to one’s belongings whilst traveling,” he agreed. “If these things were so precious to you, then why didn’t you leave them behind in your lodgings?”
Her eyes widened, if such a thing were possible, considering how very wide her eyes already were.
“Because I don’t have any lodgings anymore, my lord,” she said. “I’ve quit the company, just as you told me to do, and my lodgings with it. If I’d left anything behind, my lord, Magdalena would’ve been sure to sell it to the old-frock sellers, just out of spite.”
Now it was Rivers’s eyes that widened. “She would do that to you?”
“She would indeed, my lord,” she answered so firmly that there was no doubt it was the truth. “From purest spite, and meanness, too.”
“Hah,” he said, taken aback. The other night, he’d believed that Magdalena had not wanted to part with her cousin from family devotion, but it seemed the truth was much less appealing. He’d already known Magdalena was greedy and supremely selfish; now it appeared she was jealous and vengeful toward her own kin. It was just as well that Lucia had left, but he felt a wave of unexpected responsibility for her welfare, too, for having blithely ordered her to leave her extended family behind.
“Exactly, my lord: hah,” she repeated grimly. “That would be the sum of it. If it does not offend you, my lord, I’d as soon keep my trunk with me.”
“Of course you may,” he said. “Keep it with you, if that pleases you. Now are we finally ready to depart?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said with another curtsey. As she rose, she smiled, her eyes bright with excitement. “Forgive me for speaking plain, my lord, but I haven’t left London since I was brought here as a tiny girl, and never in a coach like this one.”
He smiled back, his humor improving by the second. He couldn’t help it; like all women, she was prettier when she smiled. Not exactly pretty, but prettier. He had made this journey to the Lodge so many times that he generally spent it with his nose buried in a book to pass the time, but now he was beginning to see it through her eyes as a grand adventure.
She handed the box to the nearest footman, and shook her arms out. He couldn’t imagine how stiff they must be if she’d been carrying it clear from her lodgings, but the way she was wiggling her arms and shoulders was making the rest of her body wiggle and jiggle, too. Before this he had not been aware of her breasts, but with all this shaking, he couldn’t help but take notice of them, small but round and jostling there as her kerchief came loose. It was a common sort of display, exactly the kind of thing he’d have to put an end to, but it was also unexpectedly fascinating to watch. Certainly he was watching her, and so were his footmen, and it was a relief to them all when she stopped, and swept him a grand curtsey, her eyes sparkling.
“I am most very grateful to you for all this, my lord,” she said, raising her voice more than was necessary. “Most very blessed grateful for everything, and that’s a fact.”
How in blazes had she passed beneath his notice when he was with Magdalena? How could he ever have believed her meek? At least he knew now she’d the personality for the stage; Everett might as well concede the wager right now. The proof was right here on the pavement. Every one of his footmen plus his driver and Rooke (who generally had the most professional of blind eyes regarding women, as every gentleman’s manservant should) had stopped what they were doing to watch and listen to her, and even the passersby—generally a jaded group in this neighborhood—had halted in their tracks to gawk without shame.
“Into the coach,” he said brusquely. “Now. We’ve squandered enough time.”
She nodded, and clambered up the carriage steps, giving Rivers and all the other men who were ogling her a quick flash of neat little ankles in darned gray stockings. He pretended not to notice as he followed her, and whistled for Spot to jump into the carriage as well. The footman closed the door and latched it shut before he climbed onto the box with the others, the driver flicked his whip and the horses pulled at their traces, and finally—finally—they were on their way.
Rivers checked his watch one more time. It was only noon, the time he’d said they’d leave, but he couldn’t help feeling that somehow he’d already fallen behind.
His traveling coach was an older model that had originally belonged to his father, refurbished and improved but still grand enough in size for a full ducal party. Rivers settled comfortably in one corner, as was his usual habit, while Lucia sat primly on the opposite seat, square in the middle of the wide tufted bench. She was holding that infernal box again, this time balanced on her knees with her hands folded on top of it.
At least she’d tucked her kerchief back into place over those distracting breasts, so he could think other, more useful thoughts. It would have been a damnably long journey if she hadn’t.
“Put the trunk at your feet,” he said, no longer a suggestion and closer to an order. “I promise you I have no interest in stealing it or its contents.”
“No, my lord.” With a sigh that could have been from relief or doubt (he didn’t care to know which), she carefully set the trunk beside her feet on the floor of the carriage, shooing Spot away when he approached for an exploratory sniff.
“Spot won’t hurt it,” Rivers said. “On the contrary. He’s an excellent guard dog.”
“ ‘Spot’?” She looked up at him over the dog’s head, her voice ripe with amusement. “How long did it take you to think of that, my lord?”
“He came to me with the name,” Rivers said defensively. “He was a gift from my brother, and my niece had already named him.”
“As you say, my lord,” she said, grinning.
“I had no choice in the matter,” he said, striving to explain. “If I’d changed the name to something more suitable, then my niece would have been terribly disappointed. She’s only three, you see. She would not have understood.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her smile softened. No doubt she was thinking him a weak-hearted fool for bowing to the whims of a three-year-old—not that her opinion should matter. Not at all. She was here to help him win a wager, nothing more. He couldn’t forget that. Resolutely composing himself, he looked down on the round, flat brim of her straw hat as she bent over the dog.
At least she didn’t venture her opinions aloud, concentrating instead on rubbing Spot’s boney forehead until he closed his eyes and groaned with happiness.
“Better to call him Punto, my lord,” she said, her face still hidden by the hat. “Isn’t that so, Punto?”
“ ‘Punto’?” repeated Rivers indignantly. Spot might be unimaginative, but at least it wasn’t thumpingly awkward and foreign. And what right did she have to rename his dog? “Punto?”
“Punto,” she said again, decisively. “It’s Italian for Spot, my lord.”
“I know that,” he said. “But that’s not his name.”
“Oh, but I can tell he’s a clever boy, my lord.” She patted the seat beside her. “He’ll know it. Up, up, Punto! Here, here!”
Eagerly the dog scrambled up onto the leather cushion, swaying stiff-legged with the carriage’s motion as he leaned against her shoulder.
Rivers stared, aghast. It was bad enough for her to invent another name for his dog, but then to have the audacity to invite the beast to jump onto the carriage seat—an indulgence no canine was ever permitted in any Fitzroy coach, by the unimpeachable decree of various Fitzroy wives—that was beyond bearing.
“Down, Spot,” he ordered sharply. “Damnation, down!”
With a fretful little whimper and his head hanging in shame, Spot slid from the seat to the floor and lay guiltily across the toes of Rivers’s booted feet, his rightful place.
Lucia, however, shared none of Spot’s remorse. “How could you do that to him, my lord? Poor Punto! I didn’t mind him sitting beside me.”
“But I did,” Rivers said sternly. “Once we are in the country, it is Spot’s habit to run alongside the carriage, on the road and beside it, and root through whatever foulness he pleases. At some point in our journey, he’ll return to ride with us, and I’ve no wish for him to drag muck, dust, and the scraps of dead squirrels onto the cushions. He knows he shouldn’t do it, and you should, too.”
She lowered her chin a fraction, gazing up from beneath the curving straw brim of her hat. It wasn’t coquettish, either. It was out-and-out rebellious.
“That is very tidy of you, my lord,” she said. “But I cannot help but feel pity for poor Punto, to be kept not only from these soft cushions, but also from his master’s bed, the favored place of every other English dog.”
“His name is Spot, not Punto,” Rivers insisted, his exasperation growing. “And he is indeed permitted to lie on my bed at night. Once we arrive at the Lodge, the stable boys will wash him, and make him presentable for the house.”
She looked down at the dog. “He would appear presentable enough now, my lord.”
“Lucia, I do not wish the dog on the carriage seat,” he said crossly, his temper finally fraying. “You may not care if Spot sits beside you with dirty paws, but I can assure you that the ladies who sit on these seats do.”
Too late he realized how pointedly that simple statement had excluded her as not being a lady. She understood. How could she not? Her cheeks flushed and her shoulders drew together, and as he watched, she seemed to shrink into herself, shuttering that rebellion tightly inside.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her expression guarded and her voice reduced to the sad little whisper of perfect servitude. “I did not mean to give offense.”
This was how she had been with Magdalena, and the reason she’d always escaped his notice before this week. Frowning, he studied her closely, wishing she hadn’t retreated from him like this. Her head was bowed, her hands meekly folded in her lap, her eyes downcast and revealing nothing. He remembered how she’d said she’d been forced to act as a servant for her own family, how she’d been made to feel worthless by her uncle and the others because she couldn’t dance.
But he couldn’t deny that his unthinking comment just now had accomplished much the same thing. He felt uncomfortably as if he should apologize for offending her, something that he knew he’d no obligation to do. He’d simply made his own wishes rightly known, that was all. He was the master here, a gentleman, and the son of a duke, while she was his social inferior in every way. In this carriage, his word should be law, especially if he was to transform her as he hoped.
So why, then, did that apology still sit stuck in his throat, unspoken yet unable to be swallowed?
He sighed irritably, eager for a distraction from this…this uneasiness. He reached into the leather bag of books on the seat beside him, and pulled out a slender, elegantly bound edition of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. He slid his thumb beside the slip of paper that marked the page with the passage he’d chosen last night, a soliloquy spoken by Ophelia. He intended it as Lucia’s first test, so that he might judge her memory, her reading skills, and her feeling for the magnificent words that were such a staple of the theater.
Yet as he glanced over the short passage again, he wondered whether he’d been too ambitious. What seemed an easy task to him might prove too difficult for her, and discourage her from their experiment before it had fairly begun.
Still, better to know now than later, and smoothing the pages open, he held the book out to Lucia.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the beginning of the passage. “This will be your first lesson. Read and memorize the twelve lines beginning with O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown. Take as long as you require, and when you are ready, I’ll ask you to recite the passage to me.”
Her expression did not change as she took the book.
“Very well, my lord,” she said in the well-practiced drone of every servant. “Will that be all?”
He nodded, perversely longing for the return of the girl who’d challenged him about Spot. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“No, my lord,” she said. “I’m to read these twelve lines, learn them by rote, and then speak them back to you.”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “And the word is pronounced ‘sp-EE-k,’ not ‘sp-AA-k.’ We shall have to work a great deal on your vowels to make them acceptable.”
Her brows rose. “My vowels, my lord?”
“Your vowels,” he repeated. “The letters a, e, i, o, and u. If you are to play queens and noblewomen, you must learn to pronounce them as such ladies would, and not like—well, not like a dresser from Drury Lane. You can hear the difference, can’t you?”
She nodded. “Sp-EEEEEE-k.”
“Well, yes,” he said. “Though you needn’t draw it out as if you’d seen a mouse.”
“Sp-EE-k,” she said proudly. “This is how I must sp-EE-k if I wish to sound like a lady.”
“Yes,” he said. Of course she didn’t sound like a lady at all, but this was only the first day, and he knew this would take time—a great deal of time, apparently. “Now attend to the passage, and pray tell me when you are done.”
He took up another book, this one featuring the witty reflections of a French philosopher, opened it, and set himself to reading. He resolved not to look up at her until either he’d finished the chapter or she declared herself ready to recite the passage. She said nothing and neither did he as the carriage traveled through the outskirts of London and into the countryside.
Ordinarily the French philosopher’s ideas amused Rivers, but today he found them slow going indeed, and instead his thoughts kept returning again and again to the young woman across from him. How was she faring with her first assignment? The way she’d responded, he’d felt more as if he’d asked her to dust the front parlor than to memorize Shakespeare, but at least she’d find the Shakespeare a more pleasant task.
Or at least he hoped she would. Damnation, what if she didn’t care for Shakespeare? He hadn’t considered that possibility until now. She was being quiet.
Very quiet.
But that could be a good sign as well, the mark of a diligent scholar, and with pleasure he imagined her applying herself to the passage, the book clutched in her small hands, her brows drawn solemnly together, and her mouth pursed as she read the words over and over to learn them.
It took all his will not to sneak a furtive glance at her over the edge of his book, and when at last he reached his own designated finishing line at the end of the chapter, he made a contented little grunt of anticipation, closed the book, and finally raised his gaze to look at Lucia.
The slender volume with the play lay closed on the seat beside her. Her head was tipped back against the leather squabs, her straw hat knocked askew and the narrow ribbon that had held it in place half untied. Her hands were once again clasped in her lap, but her lips were slightly parted and her eyes were closed, her thick dark lashes feathering over her cheeks.
She was sound asleep.
Oh, it was going to be a long, long six weeks.
“Lucia,” the man’s voice said from a great and echoing distance in her dream. “Lucia, it’s time you woke. Past time, really.”
She frowned, not willing to give up her rather splendid dream just yet, a dream that involved eating clotted cream and strawberries while sitting on a bench in Hyde Park beside a handsome prince with a crown studded with strawberry-sized rubies. The prince’s face was a bit hazy, but in the way of dreams she was still certain he was handsome, and wonderfully attentive to her, offering her more berries from a large silver bowl.
“For God’s sake, Lucia,” the man’s voice said again, more irritably this time. “I can’t leave you here in the carriage. You must wake.”
The bowl full of ripe strawberries faded away like mist, and with it the handsome prince. Reluctantly she dragged her eyes open, squinting a bit at the late-afternoon light that was slanting directly into her eyes. In the place of the prince was Lord Rivers, while his footmen were also peering at her curiously through the open carriage door.
“Finally,” Rivers said, his voice rumbling ominously. “I was beginning to believe you’d completely forsaken me for Morpheus.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Lucia said, quickly sitting upright and shoving her hat back from her forehead. With the sun behind his lordship, she couldn’t see his face well enough to judge his humor, but it was hardly a good omen for him to be speaking of her in connection with some unknown man named Morpheus. “I, ah, I must have fallen asleep.”
“Indeed,” he said drily. “You fell asleep before we’d reached the Holborn gate, and you’ve stayed asleep ever since, until this very moment.”
She looked at him uncertainly, her heart racing, not quite sure how to proceed. “How long, my lord?”
“Four hours,” he said, “and twelve minutes.”
Madre di Dio, four hours! She’d no doubt that he’d kept track of every minute with that enormous gold watch of his, too.
Was she supposed to have stayed awake for the entire journey? Is that how she’d erred? He’d been reading and paying her little attention, but perhaps he’d expected her to converse with him to pass the time. Did he expect an apology now? She’d found that apologies usually corrected most any error, whether they were merited or not.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she murmured. She slipped from the seat to curtsey awkwardly in the carriage’s narrow foot space, her skirts brushing against his legs in a way that was uncomfortably intimate. “I did not intend to disturb you by sleeping.”
“Well, you didn’t,” he said. She could see his face now, disgruntled in spite of his efforts to remain impassive. “But I had set you a task—a very small task indeed—to learn a passage for me. Instead you chose to sleep.”
“But I did learn it!” she protested. “Forgive me, my lord, but I know it perfectly! Perfettamente!”
He made a skeptical, gruff sound in his throat that as much as declared that he didn’t believe her.
“You’re keeping me from my dinner, Lucia,” he said, waving his hand impatiently to show he wished her to move aside. “I don’t intend to stop here more than an hour, only long enough to change horses and dine, and you’ve already squandered a good ten minutes of that time before we’ve even left the carriage.”
Mortified, she hopped down from the carriage and ducked to one side of the tall footman holding the door while his lordship quickly stepped from the carriage after her.
They were in the yard of a country inn, with all around them a noisy, confusing muddle of other travelers and their carriages and horses, as well as servants and stable boys from the inn itself. Lord Rivers’s spotted dog was dancing about two other dogs, their tails wagging furiously as they barked and bounced back and forth under the carriage’s wheels. Clearly the Fitzroy crest on the carriage door was the most impressive in the yard that afternoon, for the innkeeper himself was standing before them, beaming with his hands clasped over his green apron.
His lordship stopped before the innkeeper, giving the man only a moment to bow before he addressed him.
“Good day to you, Hollins,” he said, or rather announced, as his voice boomed heartily across the yard. “I trust your good wife is well?”
“Very well, my lord,” the innkeeper declared, “and already in the kitchen overseeing your dinner, just as you like. The same fare as you always order, my lord, with the same table in the back parlor set and ready for your pleasure.”
His lordship laughed, and clapped the innkeeper on the shoulder. Whatever testiness he’d felt with Lucia seemed to have been forgotten, and had passed clear away.
“Add a tankard of your excellent ale, Hollins,” he said, “and I shall be a happy man indeed,” he declared.
He whistled for Spot to join him, and went striding off toward the inn’s door with the keeper bobbing along at his side.
Still standing to one side of the footman, Lucia watched Lord Rivers go. She’d a fleeting image of him that became instantly frozen in her memory, of his broad shoulders in the dark blue coat, framed by the inn’s doorway, the length and confidence of his stride in his polished black boots, how the skirts of his coat flapped around his legs and how the afternoon sun gilded his blond queue, tied with a black ribbon.
Then he was gone, and she was left with the much more pressing question of what she herself was supposed to do next. She’d been abandoned for now, that was clear enough, and she felt both irritated and a little wounded by it. She’d ridden in his carriage with him almost as an equal—which of course she wasn’t—but then he’d scolded her as if she remained a servant, which she wasn’t, either, or at least not his servant. As a woman, she couldn’t very well remain with the carriage while the horses were changed by the stable boys, nor could she stand by herself about here in the yard and wait for his lordship to return.
What she wished most was to eat. Lord Rivers’s insistence on his own dinner had served to remind her that she’d had only a cup of watery tea and a slice of buttered bread early this morning and nothing since, and as if to remind her further, her empty stomach rumbled loudly.
“You can dine with us, miss,” the tall footman said beside her as if reading her thoughts. “Won’t be as fancy as the fare in the back parlor, but his lordship always sees that his people are well looked after, and you won’t go hungry.”
She flushed, sure that he must have heard her rumbling stomach. She didn’t want to be pitied, but sometimes it was better to be practical than proud.
“I’m not sure I am one of his people,” she said. “At least not to eat.”
“Fah, of course you are, miss,” the footman said. “You wouldn’t be here in this place if you weren’t, would you?”
She couldn’t argue with that. She wasn’t sure where she’d be, but it definitely wouldn’t be here.
“Thank you, yes,” she said, grateful. “I’d like that. And you needn’t call me ‘miss.’ Lucia serves me well enough.”
The footman nodded. “I’m Tom Walker, and this is Ned Johnston,” he said, cocking his head toward the other footman. “Stay with us, and we’ll watch after you. But we’d best hurry if we want to eat. His lordship keeps powerfully strict hours.”
Slowly she nodded in agreement, remembering how his lordship’s watch seemed to pop from his waistcoat with ridiculous frequency.
“Come with us, lass,” Walker urged again. “We can’t very well leave you here with those rascals from the stable.”
He wasn’t handsome like his master, but his plain face had a kind smile, and right now to Lucia that seemed of much greater value than all the world’s gold watches and their titled owners. With a sigh of relief (or perhaps resignation) she fell in with the footmen, following them through the inn’s second door, to the parlor meant for servants and other lesser folk. At least here she’d know her place, which was more—much more—than she’d have in the company of Lord Rivers Fitzroy.