He was fairly certain she’d only said she didn’t want to go there, which meant it would be better for him to stop in before he picked her up from Mr. Bennion’s. He started back toward town, reaching the main road after only a few minutes. He turned onto it, looked up, and immediately stopped.
His mother’s carriage was parked in front of the milliner’s shop.
His heart stuttered. He turned and darted back a few steps until the carriage was out of view. He flattened himself against the corner building and inched his way back to the offending street.
With his back pressed against the rough brick, he edged his head around the corner of the building and looked again. It was definitely her carriage. She still used his matching mares, and even if he hadn’t recognized them, the family crest was unmistakable. He started to pull his head back around the corner, but a footman walking toward the carriage door gave him pause. Was his mother really here? In Fenswallow?
The footman opened the door, and someone who was most definitely not his mother stepped out.
A young woman with dark hair, in a stunning, dark blue traveling dress cut to show off her figure, glanced down the other side of the street, then turned her face toward where he was hiding.
He sucked in a breath. It was Miss Bateman. And she was no longer a child.
He pulled his head back around the corner without waiting to see if his mother was also in the carriage, then closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. How had this happened? Was his mother simply here for another hat? Or had she discovered he was here?
With clenched hands, he forced himself to take several steadying breaths. He needed to make a plan. First of all, he wouldnotbe picking up the order from the millinery. Not now, and probably not ever again. Fenswallow was no longer safe for him. He was going to have to leave.
But he couldn’t make his feet move. He’d been running from the woman he’d just seen for three years, and he was tired. He’d only seen her for a moment, but she’d grown into a beautiful woman, with her dark locks now expertly pinned up, and high-quality clothing that made her stand out in Fenswallow. Devil take it, she would probably stand out in London. She was beautiful. If he’d met her outside the churchyard and she’d looked like this, he would have buried every negative thought he’d ever had about arranged marriages.
But she hadn’t looked like this when he’d seen her, and as beautiful as she was, he couldn’t get the image of Miss Shroud’s lighter hair and olive complexion out of his mind. Miss Bateman might be the epitome of what London would call exquisite, but Miss Shroud haunted him with her beauty and her charm. When they’d danced together only hours ago, she’d felt so rightin his arms that he’d debated telling her everything. Or telling her nothing—following Mrs. Garvis’s suggestion to ask her permission to court her, even though he had nothing.
He couldn’t go home and get married. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Not while Miss Shroud occupied so much of his mind. It wouldn’t be fair to Miss Bateman, and Miss Bateman, looking like she did now, with her massive dowry, should have no trouble finding another titled man to marry.
Blast, but he was going to have to break his promise to Miss Shroud. He’d promised he wouldn’t leave her—that she would be the one to leave him when the time came.
He hadn’t counted on his old life rising up in front of him and forcing his hand.
He strode back the way he came and started weaving his way through side streets, in order to reach his rented room and pack some things. As he approached each corner, he took a quick look around the building before turning onto the next street. He was only a block away from his building when he did a quick check, only to find the vicar a few feet in front of him.
He pulled his head back around the corner, but Mr. Victor had definitely seen him. Blast.
No one else was on the street, so Matthew stepped confidently onto it, as if it was simply a normal day. He gave Mr. Victor a short bow in greeting and prayed that the man wouldn’t stop him.
“Mr. Scarper. Good to see you.”
Matthew kept placing one foot in front of the other. “Good afternoon to you, as well,” he said without slowing.
“Did Miss Creighton get the chance to talk to you last night?”
Matthew paused. What would Miss Creighton need to talk to him about? “No, she didn’t.”
“Ah, well, she must have sent that letter to London, then.”
The tips of Matthew’s fingers went cold. A letter to London and a visit from his fiancée couldn’t be a coincidence. “Do you know what the letter contained?
“It was something about Miss Shroud. I danced with Miss Creighton last night, and she kept saying the most irrational things about her.”
A cloud passed under the sun, making a shadow slash across where they were standing. Something about this whole situation was wrong. “What kind of irrational things?”
“She said Miss Shroud must be here for nefarious reasons. Something to do with you. She also claimed Miss Shroud wasn’t Scottish.”
Wasn’t Scottish? What reason would Miss Shroud have to pretend to be Scottish?
And why would Miss Creighton’s concerns about Miss Shroud make her write to his mother? He looked back in the direction Mr. Victor had come. He might have passed the milliner’s shop. “Did you see the carriage parked in front of the millinery just now?”
“Yes. Quite an extravagant one. Do you know it?”
Matthew would be leaving town as soon as he could. He didn’t need to hide anything from anyone anymore. “It belongs to Lady Bridgewater. A baroness.”
