As Eleanor furtively hurried out the back door of Mr. Knight’s town house, she muttered to herself, “With your permission, Mr. Knight, I would like to speak to Dickie Driscoll. No!” Shaking her head, she tried again. “I wish to speak to Dickie if you don’t mind.” Fretting at her own diffidence, she said, “That’s not it, either.” Drawing her cape tighter about her shoulders, she glanced behind her as she made her way through the small garden.
Ever since last night when Mr. Knight had told her he’d spied on her—or rather Madeline—Eleanor had had the creeping sensation of being watched. She’d looked at Beth differently, seeing not an eager-to-please lady’s maid but a shifty-eyed informer. She’d heard footsteps behind her when no one had been there. Last night, she had even placed a chair under her door handle to ensure her privacy, and she’d woken frequently to listen to the night’s silence.
Now, as she slipped through the fog-tinged air toward the stable, she practiced being glib in case someone caught her.
In case Mr. Knight caught her. He was supposed to be at the bank, but she didn’t trust him to do as he said.
“I’m going to speak to Dickie and see if he’s comfortable in his quarters. Better. No, still too conciliatory. I’m going to speak to Dickie. That’s it.” She nodded decisively and tried to appear the confident duchess everyone thought she was.
She had never been more miserably aware that she was merely Miss Eleanor de Lacy, impoverished cousin and shrinking violet.
The garden gate opened with a creak of the hinges, and she peeked across the mews toward the stable. An urchin swept desultorily at the stones. No one else was in sight.
With every evidence of equanimity, Eleanor walked to the stable door and slipped inside the dim, warm building. She’d come this far. Not bad for a coward.
Now all she had to do was find Dickie, and she would be as good as free. Compelled by an itching between her shoulder blades, she peeked around the door and again scanned the mews. It was now empty. She had to escape Mr. Knight before the Picards’ ball. Dickie was her only prospect.
“Can I ’elp ye, Yer Grace?”
She jumped at the sound of a respectful male voice and whirled to find herself facing one of the tallest men she’d ever seen in her life. He held a pitchfork, and he towered so far above her that, in the gloom, she had trouble discerning his respectful tug of his forelock. With her hand at her tight throat, she stared until her voice returned. “I’m looking for Dickie Driscoll.”
The stablehand turned and bellowed, “Dickie! The duchess is alookin’ fer ye!” With a return to his quiet tone, he said, “He be acomin’, Yer Grace.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor faltered. It would be a miracle if Mr. Knight hadn’t heard the shout all the way in the house—and she was giving him credit for more powers than it was possible for any man to possess. He was a bully, that was all. A gambler, a stalker, a man distrustful of everyone and everything. He didn’t deserve Eleanor, and he most certainly didn’t deserve Madeline.
Eleanor heard the thump of boots on the wooden floor, then Dickie walked out of the gloom.
Broad-shouldered and broad-bellied, his rounded physique hid a pugnacious nature and a stubborn loyalty to Madeline and, by extension, to Eleanor. He was fast with a fist, good with a pistol, and he could make any horse follow him with doglike devotion. He’d gotten Eleanor out of scrapes before, scrapes of Madeline’s making, of course. Never had Eleanor been so happy to see him.
Dickie placed his hand on the big man’s arm. In his pronounced Scottish accent, he said, “Thanks, Ives. The grooming is na done on Mr. Knight’s horse. Ye might want t’ finish that fer him.”
With a nod, Ives stumped away, the floor shaking beneath his feet.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Eleanor and Dickie spoke at the same time.
“Dickie, you’ve got to get me out of here.”
“Miss, I’ve got to get ye oot of here.”
“Now,” she said.
He stared as if her vehemence took him aback. “What aboot yer things? Or rather, Her Grace’s things. Ye two changed luggage, did ye na?”
Bluntly, she said, “He’s having me watched.”
“Watched?” Dickie glanced around, as if expecting to see someone lurking in the corner. “What do ye mean?”
“Someone has been spying on me—or rather, Madeline—since we returned to England, and reporting back to Mr. Knight.”
“Ach, that Mr. Knight, he’s a villain, and so I told Her Grace as soon as she made her foolish plans.” Dickie ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up in bright red strands. “All right, then. Did anyone see ye leave the house?”
“No.” She barely refrained from looking over her shoulder again. “I don’t think so.”
“Very well.” He took her arm. “Let’s go.”
They moved quickly toward the back of the stable, past the horses to the door.
“Hey!” Ives thundered. “Where are ye agoin’?”
Eleanor jumped and shivered.
Dickie squeezed her arm encouragingly. “The lady wants to know her way to the street,” he tossed back.
Lying was not one of Dickie’s strong suits.
“Who’s agoin’ t’ clean the stalls, I’d like t’ know!” For a big man, Ives managed to sound peevish.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Dickie called. In a quieter tone, he asked, “What made ye run now, Miss Eleanor? The blackguard didn’t make advances, did he?”
“No.” No one would call lifting her off a stool “making advances.” Only a silly virgin like her would weave fantasies about the press of his body against hers. “I wanted to come last night, but he never left the house, and I didn’t dare try to make my way to the stables in the dark. I’m sorry, Dickie, I knew Madeline would find a way to do so, but I feared getting lost in the house or finding the wrong stable….” She had no trouble keeping up with Dickie’s long strikes. She would have run every step of the way to escape Mr. Knight and his insidious seduction.
“Timid, ye are, but that’s all right, miss. ’Tis our bold duchess who gets ye into these fixes.”
“Mr. Knight wants to take me to a ball tonight.” Eleanor gestured down at herself. “I can’t go into society as the marchioness of Sherbourne and the future duchess of Magnus.”
Dickie looked properly horrified. “Nay, that ye canna.”
Besides, if she stayed in Mr. Knight’s house, before long she’d think of nothing but how handsome he was, how any woman who wed him would be well-pleasured indeed, and how darling his children would be tucked into the curve of her arm…“Hurry, Dickie.”
They burst out of the stables. With a swift glance up and down the empty alley, they rushed toward the corner. They strode over the cobblestones, past piles of garbage, past two cats fighting over a fish bone. Ahead, through the narrow gap between the buildings, she could see the stylish pedestrians, hear the carriages rumbling past and the call of vendors.
Eleanor’s heart pounded. If they could just make it through the gap, they could blend with the crowds and disappear.
She would disappear, and never see Mr. Remington Knight’s handsome, cold, sensuous countenance again as long as she lived. It had to be that way, for her own peace of mind.
She tugged the hood of her cloak up.
“That’s guid, miss,” Dickie said approvingly. “We’re almost there.”
They rushed forward the last few steps.
And with silent menace, a black-clad figure stepped around the corner and blocked their path with a long, barbarically carved cane.
Eleanor stopped short. Her heart pounded, her fingers crushed her reticule.
It was him. Mr. Knight.
Of course.