The Scoundrel and the Debutante. Julia LondonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“The purpose!” the woman scoffed, clearly annoyed. “Wouldn’t you like to be presented to the king?”
Roan had to think about that. If it prolonged his time in England, he would say no.
“Where are you from?” the woman demanded.
“America,” Roan said. “New York, to be precise.”
“And why have you come all this way?”
He didn’t think it was any business of hers, but he said, “To collect my sister who has been visiting your fair country for several months. Does that meet with your approval?”
The woman didn’t answer. She had turned her attention to Miss Cabot again, eyeing her suspiciously. “And if you’re not Lady Altringham, then who are you? What young lady travels without escort, I ask you?”
Roan wondered that, too, and his curiosity was the only thing that kept him from stuffing the woman’s cloth from her pail into her mouth. He glanced at Miss Cabot. Her cheeks had flushed in a way that made her look a bit guilty. Good God, she wasn’t another Aurora, was she?
“Oh, ah...please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Prudence Cabot. And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Mrs. Tricklebank,” said the smaller. “And my sister, Mrs. Scales.”
Miss Cabot peeked up at Roan. “May I introduce you to Mr. Matheson?”
Before Roan could say a word, he was spared by the driver’s announcement that the coach would depart in fifteen minutes.
“Oh!” Mrs. Tricklebank cried. “Come, come, Ruth! We don’t want to miss the coach,” she said frantically, as if they were miles from the coach instead of the few feet that they were. Both women gathered their things and hurried back to the coach, clutching one another’s arms, their pails bumping against their hips.
Roan wrapped what was left of the bread and cheese once more, a bit embarrassed by how much of it he’d eaten. “Thank you for your kindness, Miss Cabot. I’ll see to it your supplies are replenished.”
Her smile was so sunny, Roan felt it slip right through him. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I shall reach my destination by the end of the day.”
“Are you certain? Those two might convince the driver to stop and hold an inquisition.”
She laughed. “They’re harmless, really. I think they are much in love with the sound of their own voices.” She gave him a saucy smile and hopped off the fence railing. She stooped to pick up her valise. Roan unthinkingly took it from her hand and politely offered his arm to her.
She kept that pert little smile as she laid her hand on his arm so carefully that he could scarcely feel it. He looked at her. He didn’t want to see a young woman of obvious privilege with the same misguided sensibilities as his sister. “Pardon, but how is it that you are traveling without escort?” he asked. “Not a maid? Not a groom?”
Miss Cabot smiled as if his was a trifling question and averted her gaze. “Don’t you think it is interesting how people are so keen to fret over such small details?”
Small detail, indeed. That was precisely the sort of answer his incorrigible sister would give—an answer that answered nothing at all. “I’m not fretting,” he said. “Merely curious.”
“Thank you, Mr. Matheson, for not fretting.” She flashed another smile at him, but this one was a bit more cautious.
Yes, there was definitely something amiss with this beauty, he would stake his fortune on it. But he had enough trouble brewing in England to delve too deeply.
When they reboarded, Roan noticed the boy had moved to the seats on top of the coach, still holding tight to the battered valise. Roan helped Miss Cabot into the coach, his fingers closing around the small bones of her elbow, his hand on the small of her back to guide her. He waited until she was seated, then put himself on the step, and looked inside, determining how he would fit himself onto the bench beside her and directly across from the old man once more.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable there?” Mrs. Scales asked him, pointing to the tiny bit of bench between her sister and the old man. “There’s more room, isn’t there?” And to Miss Cabot, she said, “The gentleman takes up quite a lot of space.”
He couldn’t believe this woman would impugn his size again. She was fortunate that he had been raised properly and did not voice aloud his opinion of her girth.
“Oh, I think one spot is as good as the other,” Miss Cabot said smoothly. She scooted over. Roan eyed the bench warily. Miss Cabot scooted more. He glanced at her, silently pleading for more space. With a slight roll of her eyes, Miss Cabot scooted all the way into the doughy side of Mrs. Scales.
He stepped inside—hunched over in that confined space—and somehow managed to settle himself on the bench beside her. Miss Cabot shifted to free her arm from behind him, but when she settled once more, her elbow settled firmly in his ribs and would no doubt poke him with every bounce the coach made.
As the coach began to move, Mrs. Scales fixed a slightly suspicious gaze on Miss Cabot. “May I inquire, to where are you traveling today, Miss Cabot?”
Roan could feel Miss Cabot shift about, uncomfortable with the busybody’s scrutiny of her. “Actually, I am on my way to see a dear friend. She’s just been delivered of her first child.”
“Oh, a baby!” Mrs. Tricklebank said.
“Yes, a baby!” Miss Cabot agreed enthusiastically. “Poor thing sent a messenger and begged me to come straightaway. It’s her first child and she’s feeling a bit at sixes and sevens.”
“She didn’t send someone for you?” Mrs. Scales asked. “One would think you might have had some escort,” she added curiously.
Miss Cabot’s elegant neck began to turn pink. “There was no time. My friend hasn’t any help with the baby, and I think she can’t do without her husband.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Scales said gravely.
She rankled Roan. Who was she to pass judgment on Miss Cabot? He didn’t believe her, either, and thought she was up to mischief because he was well versed in the way young women dissembled. But he wouldn’t prosecute her for it as Mrs. Scales seemed determined to do. “An interesting custom,” he said, fixing a cold gaze on Mrs. Scales. “Is it common to interrogate fellow passengers on every stagecoach, or just this one?”
Mrs. Scales blinked. She drew her mouth into a bitter pucker. Miss Cabot graciously looked away from the old crone and pretended to gaze out the window. But he could see her smile.
The coach swayed down the road at a fine clip, and the eyelids of the coach inhabitants eventually began to grow heavy. Before long, Miss Cabot began to sag. Roan tried to ease her toward Mrs. Scales for the sake of propriety, but Mrs. Scales had also nodded off and Roan couldn’t manage it. Miss Cabot’s head—or more accurately, her bonnet—settled adamantly onto his shoulder, and the ghastly feather that protruded from the crown bounced in his eye. Roan tried to turn his head to avoid it, but it was impossible, especially given his desire not to jostle and wake her. Or more important, his desire not to wake Mrs. Roly or Mrs. Poly.
He himself felt his lids sliding shut when a sudden bump in the road startled Miss Cabot, and her elbow protruded so deeply into his side that he feared she might have punctured his liver. But the coach was quickly swaying again, and the passengers settled once more. Save the old man, whose gaze was still fixed on Roan.
But then the coach suddenly dipped sharply to the right, tossing them all about, and over an expletive loudly shouted from the driver, it shuddered to a definite halt.
PRUDENCE’S CHIN