Page 13 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

He did not have to.

“Surely two persons situated such as we find ourselves need not be concerned overmuch with propriety. Without a name, what reputation have I to lose?” She carefully did not raise the issue of any potential loss of virtue, not wishing to give him ideas. “And surely you cannot think I would do anything to damage yours?”

One dark brow shot up, and he looked pointedly at the papers in her lap, the unflattering sketch she’d made of him unfortunately uppermost. “Is that so, Miss C.?” he asked, a wry edge to the words.

Warmth prickled her cheeks. “You’ve really no idea what the C stands for?” It was a bald attempt to deflect his attention from the picture, to manage his displeasure.

It was also a genuine question. He hadn’t asked her name last spring, that much she recalled—or at least, he hadn’t asked her. But with very little difficulty, he could have uncovered the name by which she was known at the magazine.

“None, I’m afraid.”

She believed him, which meant that he hadn’t asked anyone else, either—not Lady Stalbridge nor Miss Burke, now Lady Deveraux and the wife of his good friend.

Constantia had drawn Lord Ryland half a dozen times since that day, at least, but she seemed to have inspired very little curiosity in him.

“It’s not merely the fact of our traveling together,” he explained after a moment, returning to the previous subject against her will. “Though that would be unfortunate enough. It is the means by which we would undertake such a journey. I sent my sisters ahead in my traveling coach with my housekeeper, you see, while I—well, I intended to take a public conveyance. The, uh, the mail coach, in fact. But I can’t ask it of you—certainly not in your condition.”

She did not nod, but inwardly she agreed, not merely because of the discomfort involved, but mostly because to travel in such fashion would expose her dreadfully and leave her at the whims of those who wished her ill.

Then he drew a deep, fortifying breath before the next words rushed out. “And regretfully I must confess that I gave my sisters what little ready money I had, to ensure their comfort, and I do not have the funds at hand to secure another means of transportation.”

She could have sworn he blushed at that, but his dismay could not have been greater than her own shock. No funds? A lack of money was, she supposed, what had prompted him to lease his house.

But why should an earl be poor? Had he gambled his fortune away? Did he keep six mistresses, one for every day but Sunday?

It was really no business of hers what Lord Ryland did with his money, of course. But at present, it had become her concern. What use was his offer of help if he hadn’t a penny to his name?

Agitated, she shifted her feet beneath the coverlet, and something heavy slid from the bed and landed on the floor with a thunk.

Lord Ryland had resumed staring into the fire, but the sound roused him, and he turned to retrieve what had fallen.

“My reticule,” she gasped when she saw it in his hands. Now she knew she’d truly been knocked senseless, for she hadn’t once wondered about its whereabouts since she’d awakened.

Wordlessly he laid it beside the pictures on her lap. Relief surged through her. She picked it up and weighed it thoughtfully on her palm before unpicking the knot with the assistance of the fingertips of her bandaged hand and spilling some of its contents onto the bed.

Gold and silver coins gleamed in the firelight.

“Is it enough?”

“For what?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes fixed on the money like a starving man before a bakery window.

“To secure a private post chaise.”

He nodded slowly, and then started, as if the movement of his own head had caught him off guard. “No, Miss C. That is to say, it would be more than sufficient, but I cannot accept—” He paused, cleared his throat. “I could, however, reserve a suite of rooms for you at the finest London hotel.”

“I don’t want to stay in London,” she insisted. “Not alone.” Until she was stronger, more sure of herself, better able to evade the dangers that surrounded her, she dared not risk her customary solitude, dared not rely on her well-honed independence. “And you wouldn’t be accepting anything. You would merely be securing a mode of travel more suited to the comfort of an invalid.”

Still, he hesitated, and she reached for the last tool at her disposal, the bluntest instrument of all, uncertain of its effect. How determined was Lord Ryland to play the gentleman?

“You did promise me your protection.”

“I did.” She heard hesitation, a questioning note in those words, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d made any such promise. Then he nodded once more, sharper this time, a sign of reluctant agreement. “I did. Until your memory returns.” The caveat felt like a warning. “Rest now, and I’ll see what arrangements can be made.”

With a bow, he left her to the heavy silence of his bedchamber

Dear God, what had she been thinking to ask Lord Ryland of all people to take her away? She had put herself entirely into his hands.

His gentle, surprisingly strong hands.

She closed her eyes against the memory of his touch as worry and pain and a strange sense of relief tumbled over her in waves.