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He gave a rich chuckle. "Monday evening? Vauxhall will be admitting guests. We can stroll through the gardens."
"It's still chilly. Very few people will be about." Sammy's lips curved upward. "It sounds heavenly."
"Come." He seized her elbow. "I'll arrange for your safe transport home."
The arrangements quickly and efficiently made, Rem expressed his gratitude
to the elderly dowager and, with a quick, discreet wink at Samantha, wove his way through the crowd and out the theater door.
Where could he be going? Sammy wondered, staring after his retreating back. Who on earth could he be meeting at this hour of night? The circumstances must be dire, else it could certainly wait until day.
The thought made Sammy's tender heart melt, and her active brain buzz. What could she do to help?
Drake. Sammy's eyes lit up as the idea struck her. Her brother had more than enough money to offer Remington a loan. Oh, to be sure, Drake would require more details before he'd agree to do so—details that the indulgent Earl of Gresham was highly unlikely to divulge, at least to her. She'd obtain them herself.
Impulsively, wholeheartedly, Sammy made her decision.
How many times now had Remington proven himself to be her hero? Didn't she owe it to him to be his heroine as well?
Indeed she did. Thus, she was going to rescue him ...with or without his permission.
"Are you ready, Samantha?" The elderly dowager peered down her long nose at Sammy.
"Actually . . . no." Sammy glanced quickly at the door. Remington couldn't have gotten far, yet, but she had no time to waste.
"Pardon me?"
"I mean ... thank you, Your Grace, but I won't be needing your kind assistance, after all. Smitty evidently sent a carriage for me—I recognize our driver gesturing to me from the doorway."
Smoothing the ostrich plume in her turban, the dowager scowled over the milling crowd. "Where? I don't see him."
"He's there—trust me." Sammy was already moving away. "I don't want to miss him. Thank you ever so much, Your Grace. I'll be sure to send your regards to Aunt Gertie."
Sammy was still babbling when she exploded onto the sidewalk a half minute later. Inhaling sharply, she searched the street.
Luck was with her. Remington's phaeton was just being brought around front.
She tarried as long as she dared, then inched forward a fraction at a time, praying Remington wouldn't pivot about and spy her.
An eternity passed in the space of a moment.
At last. He was seated, his back turned toward her.
Her breath held in abeyance, Sammy took the final steps swiftly, fervently hoping the crowd was too thick, the patrons too preoccupied, to notice her. She tucked her skirts beneath her and slid into the groom's seat at the rear of the carriage. Ducking down, she curled into what she hoped was an invisible ball.
Shrouded in darkness, the phaeton sped off through the night.
8
Samantha had the feeling she wasn't in fashionable London anymore.
Conversely, she had absolutely no feeling in her arms and legs, and if the carriage hit one more bump, she was going to be violently ill on the groom's seat.
Where were they?
It seemed they'd ridden for hours, leaving the opera and the ton far behind. In Sammy's contorted position she was unable to see much of her surroundings, but she could make out a few broken-down houses and an occasional unkempt, dirty vagrant in the street.
What sort of business meeting could take place here?
