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‘I have a small portmanteau. I assure you, if I am seen with your sister by anyone likely to recognise us I will be dressed with the utmost propriety, but I refuse to go haring about the countryside in stays and trailing skirts.’
A plump woman looked into the room. ‘Shall I begin breakfast now, my lady?’
‘No, thank you, Cook, we have no time. Make bacon sandwiches, pack a flask of cold tea, anything else that you think will be useful and we’ll be back soon.’
‘Anything else that will fit in a curricle,’ Lucian interjected. It seemed he was doomed to have Sara’s company if they did not find the eloping couple in some Sandbay lodging house, but he was damned if he was going in pursuit encumbered with a load of luggage.
The clock struck six and he reined in his impatience. If Farnsworth and Marguerite were on the road, then they had the Lord knew how long a start and fretting over half an hour was not going to help.
‘James lives next door to the library, luckily.’ Sara swung a cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood.
*
It took ten minutes to reach the librarian’s door which opened, after determined knocking, to reveal a flustered manservant and the admission that Mr Makepeace was in, but most certainly not At Home.
Lucian set his foot against the door and leaned until they were both in the hallway. ‘Kindly give him my card and say that if he cannot join us in five minutes then I will join him.’
In the event Makepeace came down in his robe, his nightcap askew on his head, his face a picture of confusion when he saw Lucian’s companion. He blinked in bemused recognition. ‘Lady Sara? What—’
‘No time to explain, James.’ She was already pushing the man towards the door. Lucian found he could admire an organised and forceful woman, just as long as it was some other poor devil she was forcefully organising. ‘Get your keys to the library, please. We need to consult the register for the address of the man with the scarred face.’
‘But I can tell you that. He’s at Mrs Thompson’s lodging house in Dolphin Lane…’
‘What name is he using?’ Lucian demanded.
‘Er… Mr George…no, Gregory Tate…’
‘Thank you, James.’ Sara was already running back down the steps. ‘This way, we can cut through the alleyway. I’ll watch the back while you go to the door.’
The landlady was already up and beginning her day when Lucian knocked. She was indignant at the hour, then flustered by his card—he had dug out the ones with his real name—and finally agog at his questions.
‘He’s gone,’ he confirmed when he rejoined Sara. ‘She recommended Lambert’s Livery to him when he said he wanted to hire a post-chaise. I’ll go and rouse them out and get a curricle.’
‘You promise you’ll pick me up?’ Sara demanded, her hand tight on his arm.
He should say no and not involve her. He knew that. But Marguerite liked and trusted her and she seemed to understand his sister. She needed Sara, he told himself, and tried to ignore the little voice that murmured that so did he. Desired her, he corrected. Lusted after her, wanted her. I do not need this woman.
*
It took an hour to get back to her, sixty minutes while he forced himself to plan and stay coldly rational. The last time he had done this it was to find Marguerite at death’s door—now, Lucian told himself, he would find her safe. At the hotel he found an apologetic note from his sister tucked into his wallet. His very empty wallet. Cunning little hussy, he thought as he raided his emergency funds hidden in the false bottom of his writing desk. He stuffed all the ready money he had into his wallet and found a road book while his valet, Pitkin, stowed the bare necessities into a valise. He loaded his pistols, tucked the case with his rapiers under his arm then set out, Pitkin on his heels, to find the livery stables.
By ill chance it was not the one he had used before, so there was all the delay of establishing who he was, where he was staying, convincing the owner that, yes, he might want the curricle for as long as a week and he did want his best pair.
Lucian couldn’t fault the speed with which Sara whisked down the steps from her front door, tossed her valise in with his and swung up on to the seat beside him. He had left Pitkin to deal with the hotel and to hold their suite for a week and, with no groom up behind, the light vehicle rattled over the cobbles.
‘Which route do you think?’ she asked, settling the folds of her cloak around her. ‘If I was them I would take the Dorchester road, then Yeovil and Bristol.’ Lucian grunted his agreement as he reached the top of the hill and let the pair canter. ‘I was trying to work out how much of a start they have. What time did you retire last night?’
‘Midnight and I suppose I was asleep by one. I haven’t been keeping town hours here.’
‘And she would know that, so, if she crept out at two…I wonder how she got past the night porter. Did she take much baggage?’
‘Two valises. And the man dozes at the front desk. If she went down the back stairs quietly he wouldn’t see her.’
‘
So, it was eight o’clock when you picked me up, say eight miles an hour…forty-eight miles. They could be halfway to Bristol by now.’
‘Farnsworth’s got the contents of my wallet to add to whatever he has been able to raise and Marguerite’s only had her pin money for a couple of days, so they are not going to be short of funds to change horses when they want.’ Beside him Sara was wriggling out of her cloak. ‘What are you doing?’ Lucian demanded as she stuffed it under the seat and sat up straight beside him again, arms folded.
