Page 92 of Gentleman Jim

Perhaps that had been pushing Fred a bit too far.

His red face grew redder still, his breath puffing out of him. “My loss? My loss? What do you know of what transpired? These are gentlemen’s affairs.”

“Come, sir,” Lionel said, coaxing Fred away with a hand on his arm. “Let us leave the ladies to their novels. I’ve a matter or two to discuss with you. Perhaps over a glass of port?”

Fred grudgingly obliged his guest, exiting the library—but not before casting one last glower in Maggie’s direction.

“I’ve never seen him so angry,” Jane said. “Is it wise to bait him so?”

Possibly not. Fred’s temper had been getting worse since Maggie arrived in town. The more she resisted him, the angrier and more frustrated he seemed to become. It had culminated in his attempt to kiss her in the carriage, and now, with St. Clare’s arrival, Fred was all but ready to snap.

Maggie supposed she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She was in love. Engaged to be married. And after tonight, she may even have solved the riddle of Nicholas Seaton’s birth. For once, the future looked bright—and the present along with it.

“Fred can’t harm me,” she said, closing her book with a snap. “Today I feel as though nothing can.”

That night, as the longcase clock in the hall chimed the eleventh hour, Maggie slipped out the back door of Beasley Park and made her way to the end of the darkened drive. A rickety two-horse carriage awaited her, driven by a very small man in an oversized greatcoat and hat.

She had but a moment to examine him in the silver glow of the full moon before the door of the carriage open and St. Clare jumped out.

“Is that Enzo?” she asked.

“Never mind him.” St. Clare tossed her into the cab and then climbed in after her, shutting the door behind him. “Did anyone see you leave?”

“No. I don’t believe so.” She’d been quiet as a mouse, only lighting a candle long enough to get dressed in one of her old gowns and her cloak. Only Bessie was aware of what Maggie was doing. The rest of the house had been silent as the grave. Not a trace of Lionel Beresford slinking about, or his equally odious valet.

Or so Maggie hoped.

“Good.” St. Clare sat down in the seat across from her. He was wearing a caped greatcoat, his hat and cane on the dingy cushion beside him.

“It was wise of you to think of hiring a gig for the night,” she said. “No one will remark this vehicle, surely.”

He didn’t reply.

She looked at him in the weak light of the carriage lamps, attempting to make out his face in the shadows. “If you’re going to sulk—”

“I’m not sulking.”

She lifted her brows but said nothing more. What more could she say? He hadn’t wanted her to come with him, which was understandable. She privately acknowledged that visiting a hedge tavern after dark was a trifle dangerous. Dangerous for him as much as her. He wasn’t invincible, after all.

And so she’d told him.

But if his arm was paining him now, he certainly didn’t show it. He seemed to be made of stone, sitting there, across from her, still and quiet, as if he had more important things on his mind than a midnight foray into the past.

Meanwhile, Maggie’s own nerves were fairly crackling with anticipation.

How many times in their youth had she and Nicholas speculated about the famous hedge tavern in Market Barrow? Too many times to count.

And now, they were almost there.

The carriage rattled and jolted along the road, seeming to connect with every stone and pothole. It was a poorly sprung vehicle—a poorly sealed one as well. The cold of the evening seeped through the edges of the doors and windows.

Shivering, Maggie wrapped her cloak more firmly about her.

St. Clare sighed. In the next instant, he was up from his seat and sinking down next to her. His arm came around her shoulders, gathering her close inside the warmth of his greatcoat. “Better?”

She snuggled against him, shaping herself to the side of his body. It was akin to cuddling with a furnace. “Much better, thank you.”

They seemed to be the only coach on the road, but occasionally, Maggie thought she heard the clip clop of hooves echoing behind them. As if a horse and rider were traveling by the same route. She fervently hoped it wasn’t a highwayman.