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The manor was dark when Aurora slipped out the back door and through the trees. She'd mentally mapped out her route five times since the last of Pembourne's lamps had been doused, grateful she had a new escape route the guards had yet to discern.
That was because she'd only just discovered it.
She'd come upon the tiny path last week, by pure chance, while romping about with Tyrant. He'd raced off, thereby leading her to the small clearing. Curiously, she'd explored it, discovering with some surprise that the path wound its way to the southern tip of the estate. She'd stored that knowledge away by sheer force of habit, never expecting to use either the information or the route. Her perpetual attempts to escape the prison Pembourne represented had come to an end last spring, along with Courtney's arrival.
But today's decree called for drastic measures. And come hell or high water, she intended to take them.
Inching through the fine layer of snow that clung to the grass, Aurora made her way to the narrow section of trees behind the conservatory, then slipped through them, careful not to disturb the branches or make a sound. Although given the current circumstances she was sure none of the guards was concentrating on her whereabouts. First, because they were keeping vigil, looking out for intruders. And second, she thought with a grin, because her restlessness had so thoroughly vanished they'd become lax about keeping an eye on her. All the better.
Clearing the branches, Aurora's grin widened. The rear gates of Pembourne loomed just ahead. Beyond that, she knew, lay the dirt road which led to the village. Thus, the first part of her plan was complete. She gathered up her skirts and sprinted forward.
* * *
Dawlish Tavern, as the pub's chipped sign identified it, was dark and smoky. Aurora's eyes watered the instant she entered, and she paused in the doorway, impatiently rubbing them as she tried to see.
Perfect, she thought a moment later. The occupants were definitely what her past governesses would have referred to as riffraff, clusters of ill-kempt men gathered about wooden tables laughing loudly as they tossed off tankards of ale and flung playing cards to the table.
The ideal spot to be ruined.
She didn't have much time. Already it was a quarter hour since she'd struck her deal with a local street urchin, having sent him on his way three pounds richer. First, as expected, he'd snatched up the one-pound note she'd offered in exchange for directions to the village's sole tavern. Then—also as anticipated—he'd pocketed the two additional pound notes, swiftly agreeing to deliver Aurora's missive to the Altec estate.
Aurora wasn't stupid. She was well aware the boy could simply bolt with her money, discarding her message before it had ever reached its destination and rendered its impact. She'd eliminated that possibility with her tantalizing promise of a five-pound note for the lad—if he returned to Dawlish Tavern with a written reply.
A chuckle rose in Aurora's throat, its sound drowned out by the tavern's raucous laughter. She could envision Lady Altec's face when the old biddy read the scandalous message from "a friend" revealing that Lady Aurora Huntley was consorting with sailors at a common pub. The elderly matron—Devonshire's biggest gossip—would probably jump into her phaeton and race down there posthaste, still clad in her nightrail, just to be an exclusive witness to the juicy scene.
Mentally, Aurora gauged her time. It would take the lad a solid half hour to travel to the dowager's estate, a few minutes to await a reply to the supposedly anonymous bearer of the tidings, then another half hour to return. That gave Aurora a little over an hour to find the right man to ruin her.
Abruptly she became aware that all activity in the room had stopped, and a dozen and a half pairs of eyes were fixed on her. She glanced down at herself and frowned. Despite her dust-covered gown and worn slippers, she still looked altogether too much like a lady. Well, her actions would soon disprove that notion.
"Wonderful—a full house," she pronounced, her tone shockingly familiar. "May I join you?" She gathered up her skirts and marched boldly over to a table.
The men stared from her to each other and back to her again.
"Lady, ye sure yer in the right place?" a stout, bald fellow inquired over the rim of his mug.
"That depends. If there's good ale and friendly company to be found here, then, yes, I'm in the right place."
More stares. Another gaping silence.
This wouldn't do at all, Aurora determined. How could she be ruined if no one would so much as speak to her?
"Would someone care to buy me a drink?" she asked, looking from one bristled face to another. "Never mind," she amended, realizing these men were undoubtedly poor, unable to squander funds on every woman who walked through the door. "I can pay my own way." So saying, she walked up to the counter, extracting a handful of shillings from her pocket and laying them on the counter. "Will this buy me a glass of ale?"
"A glass?" The tavern keeper cocked an amused brow. "Sweetheart, that'll keep your mug full till next week."
"I hope it doesn't take that long," Aurora muttered under her breath.
"What?"
"Nothing. May I have my drink now?"
"Sure." He filled a tankard and shoved it across the counter. "Let me or one of the girls know when you're ready for more. You've paid for dozens of rounds."
"Girls?" That was a problem Aurora hadn't anticipated. She turned, scanning the room again, this time noticing two or three barmaids making their way among the tables, trays in hand, broad smiles on their faces. Scowling, she noted the way the men were laughing and joking with them in a familiar manner they'd definitely not afforded her. A problem indeed. Still, there were only a few women as compared with a roomful of men. Surely one of those men wouldn't mind feigning a night of passion rather than pursuing a real one—especially if it meant earning money rather than parting with it?
That gave her an idea.
"Did you say I've paid for dozens of rounds?" she asked the tave
