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“I should be interested to see it,” answered the duke.
“Only she’s gone off.” Jack didn’t know where she actually was, but he was certain word would spread from the outer edges of the circle and she’d be out of the way when looked for.
“Off? Like spoiled cream?”
The damned fellow thought he could amuse himself at their expense. Jack wished for an excuse to punch him. But instead, he said, “Picking of ’erbs in the forest, belike.” Where had he heard the wordbelike? He had no idea or whether it fit with the accent he’d cobbled together. It sounded idiotic from his lips. In that moment, Jack remembered Miss Finch was overhearing his performance as a dim-witted yokel. How had he forgotten? His cheeks heated with mortification.
“Taking this letter along with her?” asked the duke. He looked entertained. This man was dangerous.
“Don’t do to leave it lying about,” muttered Jack.
“Of course. One never knows when someone might…inquire.”
Jack began to have a bad feeling about the situation. Why was this duke addressing him rather than some of the others? What had Lady Wilton told him?
“Perhaps you would tell her that I wish to see it?” the intruder added. “I am Tereford, by the way.”
“Tereford,” Jack repeated. Were dukes above normal names? And did the man think this label would tell the Travelers anything? He couldn’t stop himself. “My Lord Tereford, would that be?”
“Not necessarily,” the duke said. “And you are?”
“Calls me Jack the Rogue, they does.” He heard a sound from the caravan, to go with the bitten-off grins from the Travelers. The worddebaclefloated into his brain.
“Does…they?” The fellow was smiling, damn him. “Theyappear to have vivid imaginations.”
His gaze was exceedingly sharp. Jack realized he should have pretended to be mute. He certainly should have resisted that last remark. Too late now. He was groping for a way to save the situation when the duke turned away. “Don’t forget to give Mistress Elena my message,” he said over his shoulder.
Jack nodded. Not subserviently, he was aware. It was the best he could manage.
He waited. The duke strolled out of sight. When one of the Travelers signaled from the edge of camp that he had really gone, Jack opened the caravan door.
Miss Finch surged out. “What in the world were you playing at?” she demanded. “You sounded like one of the clowns from Shakespeare. Done by a dreadful actor.”
“Misdirection,” he muttered.
“From what to what?” She looked at the lowering sun. “Oh no, I shall be late.” She turned and ran for the path home. For once, Jack did not go with her.
***
When Harriet rushed into her bedchamber twenty minutes later, she nearly ran into Slade, who stood just inside the door. The thin, upright abigail did not shift as Harriet lurched to the side to avoid a collision. Only her blue eyes moved, cataloging her charge’s disheveled state. Harriet was breathless. A grasping branch had caught her bonnet and pulled it awry, along with a spray of red curls. Her shoes were dusty. She’d gone out so quickly that she’d forgotten her gloves. She could see Slade deploring that lapse.
“I informed your mother, when she came to inquire, that you were in the garden,” the woman said. “I believe she went out to look for you. She was most distressed when you could not be found.”
“Did she tell Grandfather?” burst out before Harriet could stop it.
“No. Miss Dorn persuaded her that she must have missed you in the shrubbery.”
That was a relief. Mama’s maid was also a new addition, and Harriet had no reason to count on her, though she did seem eager to soothe Mama’s anxiety. “I was…I was…” Harriet hadn’t prepared a tale for the very superior lady’s maid her grandfather had hired to dress her.
“Youareexpected at dinner,” the woman added. “Which is in ten minutes.”
Slade looked just as she always did, blandly professional. Harriet untied the ribbons of her bonnet, pulled it off, and threw it on the bed, where one of her evening dresses was laid out and ready. A pair of matching shoes sat beneath it, lined up in Slade’s precise way. The necklace and earrings that completed the ensemble waited on the dressing table beside the hairbrush. The neatness seemed like a reprimand. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” Harriet said. It was very nearly true. She had disobeyed her grandfather’s orders, but she hadn’t promised to obey him.
The abigail made no reply. She simply moved forward to unfasten the buttons down the back of Harriet’s gown, working deftly and quickly. When the garment was off, she indicated the basin of hot water on the washstand. Harriet made use of it before slipping into the evening dress and shoes. She sat so Slade could deal with her hair, fastening the ornaments as the woman worked.
“Mr. Winstead asked me to watch you and report on your conduct,” Slade said.
Harriet started to turn. The comb caught painfully in her hair. “What?”
