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M iss Blackwood running away doesn’t explain what we saw the other night, however.”

Will knew that Lucy was hurt by the notion that her friend had kept such important news from her, but he knew what he’d seen with his own eyes that night, and Miss Blackwood—if it had indeed been her—had not gone willingly into that waiting carriage.

He’d guided the curricle to a secluded area of the park so they could discuss the letter before he took her home. And he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t enjoy simply sitting close enough to touch her in the shade of the trees.

When in the hell had he ever appreciated such an innocent encounter?

“You’re right,” Lucy said, oblivious to Will’s thoughts that had nothing to do with her friend’s disappearance. “Now that I’ve read the letter more closely, it seems clear he thought she intended to break things off with him. Perhaps putting distance between them was her reason for coming to London with her father. She did tell the other Ems and me that she hoped to meet prospective suitors here. And her father has made no secret of the fact that he is title shopping.”

In point of fact, Miss Blackwood had been on the list of eligible heiresses he and Adrian had compiled a few days ago. But he was hardly going to tell Lucy about it. Especially since he’d vetoed Lucy herself from the list once he’d realized she was Meg’s close friend. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening between them. And the devil knew he could use the infusion of funds a hasty marriage into the Penhallow family would bring the Gilford estates. But Lucy hated fortune hunters. And the idea that she’d ever think he was after her for her money filled him with self-loathing.

Still, the topic of marrying for money sparked an idea. “Perhaps this Hamilton fellow followed Miss Blackwood to London for the simple reason that if she broke their engagement he’d lose access to the money she’d bring by marrying him.”

“So Christopher Hamilton was the man we saw hauling her into the carriage?” Lucy’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t discount the idea. “We don’t even know if the man has arrived in London yet.”

“That’s true, but that seems like something your cousin should be able to find out easily enough.” Will realized they’d need to leave soon if he intended to meet Adrian and Woodward for luncheon as they’d planned. Which reminded him of something. “If Eversham can’t get the ships’ manifests, then Lord Adrian should be able to do so.”

Woodward, as a former envoy to England from the United States of America, would have colleagues in the American embassy he could ask, but Will was damned if he’d have Lucy feeling gratitude for that Judas.

Was he being petty? Perhaps. But there was no way he’d let the other man steal Lucy from beneath his nose before he was even clear whether he wanted her or not. That last bit was self-deception of the highest order, since he wanted her more than air. But until he had the chance to examine his feelings for her more closely, he would do what he could to scuttle any plans the American might have for her.

“I don’t think it will be necessary to ask Lord Adrian, though the notion is a good one.”

The wind had picked up a little, and one of the ribbons of Lucy’s bonnet blew up to kiss her cheek. And before Will could stop himself, he reached up to caress the silky soft skin of her face.

Lucy’s exquisite lavender eyes locked with his before she lowered her lashes in the age-old sign that a lady wished to be kissed.

Even so, there were rules about that sort of thing.

“Miss Penhallow.” Will’s voice sounded husky to his own ears, but before he could ask her permission to lower his head to hers, another carriage came clambering by. Lucy’s eyes opened wide and she pulled away.

The moment was lost.

Not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed, Will gave the horses the signal to walk on, and they rode in silence until they were almost to Grosvenor Square, where Lucy lived with her mother.

Though his eyes were on the horses in front of him, Will somehow knew Lucy wasn’t looking at him when she spoke up. “I hope you don’t think, Lord Gilford, that I—”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Penhallow,” Will said before she could finish. “The fault is all mine.”

“Fault?”

Will heard the confusion in her tone and knew he’d made a strategic error. Still, he could hardly take back the words at this point. “Yes,” he continued, feeling as if his mouth was completely disconnected from his brain in that moment. “It was a mistake. We’re simply lucky that carriage came along when it did. We won’t speak of it again.”

“Won’t speak of it again?” Lucy’s voice was tight with temper now. And he expected for her to continue with some well-deserved chastisement for him, but instead she gripped his arm and shouted, “Will! Look out!”

He’d chanced a sideways glance at her, but that was all it took for the hansom cab that came barreling toward them from out of nowhere to gain enough of the road to be a danger.

It took all of Will’s skill at the reins to get his own equipage out of harm’s way.

The driver of the cab was dressed in all black and his face was covered with the sort of mask once favored by highwaymen a century ago. But it was from the half-lowered window of the hack that a bundle was tossed with perfect aim into the curricle.

His ears were ringing and his breath was coming in great gulps by the time Will had pulled the carriage to a stop a few doors away yet from the Penhallow townhouse. He tossed the reins to a groom, not even sure to whom the fellow belonged. But one thing he knew for certain was that he didn’t give a hang about propriety or his pride or any of the other reasons he’d conjured to be uncertain of Lucy. If it meant prostrating himself before all of London, he’d do it.

When he turned to her, Will had every intention of kissing her senseless. But one look at her sheet-white face and wide eyes told him this wasn’t the time.

It was comfort she needed from him now, not his adrenaline-fueled pawing.

Heedless of the fact they were in the middle of a Mayfair street, where anyone might see them, Will pulled her into his arms.

“We might have been killed,” she said against his wool-covered shoulder in a wobbly voice. The heat of her body against his—even separated by the many layers of clothing between them—sent Will’s senses on alert. Ruthlessly, he brought himself under control, though the scent of roses that wafted up from her skin and hair tempted him nearly beyond bearing.

“We weren’t killed, though,” he assured her, running a comforting hand over her back as she clung to him. “We’re very much alive.”

“Who would possibly do such a thing?” she asked, reluctantly pulling away from him. And just as reluctantly, Will let go of his hold on her.

Badly needing to do something with his hands, he ran one over his hair. The other he clenched to keep from reaching for her again.

That was when he remembered whatever it was the passenger of the hansom cab had thrown toward them. Now, however, he was mindful of the curious eyes of the residents of Brook Street.

“Let’s get you home, then we’ll talk about just who it was that came at us like that.”

Leaping down to the street, he handed Lucy from the curricle and instructed the groom—who had no doubt been listening intently for the past quarter hour—there would be a handsome tip for him if he’d walk the horses until he returned.

Reaching back into the floor of the coach, he plucked up the bundle-turned-projectile and tucked it inside his coat.

Whatever it was, he thought as he and Lucy made the short walk to the Penhallow townhouse, he hoped the oilcloth-wrapped package would tell them something about either Vera or their near miss. Because he knew one thing for certain.

Whether she liked it or not, he wouldn’t let Lucy out of his sight until they had some answers.