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She considered and found that she believed him. He had no reason to suspect her of breaking the code, so perhaps he was trying to make up for his bad manners. Although why would a traitor care about that? Treason being as unmannerly as one could get, short perhaps of cold-blooded murder.

Which reminded her that Restive’s cohort, whom she’d helped to escape, seemed to have no scruples at all about shooting his pursuers.

On the other hand, he’d been polite, and he’d told her Lord Restive was a good sort. However, if they were both traitors, they might think highly of one another. It was dreadfully confusing.

Nevertheless, Restive’s offer was tempting—and so very convenient. She didn’t like him, in fact she despised him, but she was perilously short of funds, with barely enough to reach Miss Pringle, much less to take a hack from there to Dorothea.

Look at it this way, she told herself. If he really is a traitor…by bringing me to London, he will be helping me to foil him.

Ha! What a perfect way to get a bit of revenge!

“Come, hurry up,” he said, turning his horse, and she followed him up the lane.

They left her pony with his head groom, with instructions to have someone leave it at the inn in Upper Middle Deighton. “Tell them you found it wandering and ask them to take it home,” Lucinda said, digging in her reticule for a couple of pennies, wishing she could spare more.

“Will do, miss,” he said uneasily.

“You needn’t fret,” she said. “I left a note telling my mother I’m going to visit my old governess.”

“But surely she’ll be worried, miss!” the man said.

“It serves her right, Johnson,” Restive said. “She’s a meddlesome matchmaker. If anyone asks, you haven’t seen Miss Belair and haven’t the faintest idea where she might be.”

“I’ll write to let her know I arrived safely,” Lucinda added, taking pity on the groom.

“Thank you, miss,” he said.

Restive helped Lucinda into his curricle, a handsome vehicle pulled by two matched greys, and handed her a rug to ward off the morning chill.

“Pull the brow of your bonnet forward and look down at your hands,” he said as they drove away. “Just until we get to the London road.”

“What a pity I don’t have a veil,” she said. “If I’d been thinking clearly after quarrelling with my mother, I would have dressed as a boy.”

“Seriously?” Poor man, he sounded shocked. She sensed that he was gaping at her, but she couldn’t risk looking up. “You wouldn’t have convinced anyone. Too much bosom, for one thing.”

Horrid man! She felt herself flushing. “There are ways to conceal such, er, attributes. I would have been safer as a boy,” she said, and hastened to add, “not that I was worried about that.”

“You must have had quite a dust-up with your mother,” he said sardonically, “to take such a risk.”

“It wasn’t unusual, merely the last straw. She smashed her vinaigrette when I refused to trap you. Later, when I refused again, she threw her tea cup and ordered me to my room with nothing but bread and water until I obeyed.”

“Good Lord,” he said. “How absurd.”

“Yes, she has completely lost control of herself. She has always been difficult, but my father was able to manage her. Since he died, and with Matthew still on the Continent, she has become unreasonable to the point of folly. She insists on her way, no matter how ridiculous or beyond her ability—such as forcing me to wed you or anyone else—and tried several times to dismiss servants who have been with us forever. Fortunately, everything to do with the estate, including hiring and dismissing of servants, is in the hands of the family solicitor.” She sighed.

“Now that my sister is Humphrey Ball’s problem, I feel free to leave. ”

“Surely you can’t stay with your old governess forever.”

“No, I shall have to earn my keep for a couple of years until I gain control of my fortune. Not that it’s much—about two hundred pounds a year—but it will suffice. In the meantime, I’ll be a governess or a teacher.”

“That sounds dismal.” For a few moments, he was fully occupied with guiding the curricle onto the London road. “You may raise your head now. Drop your eyes if another vehicle approaches.”

For a while she didn’t reply, instead gazing at the fields and hedgerows as they sped past. A lark sang as it took to the sky. “I don’t find it dismal,” she said. “Even once I have my own income, I’ll probably tutor the rudiments of algebra and geometry.”

“What girl needs to learn maths?” Typical incredulous male!

“One who finds it interesting, as I did,” she retorted. “My father taught me. He believed that women are perfectly capable of working out logical problems.”

“Well, why not? A great many men are incapable of doing so. Perhaps that sort of intelligence is distributed evenly regardless of gender.” He gave a short laugh.

“Indeed it is!” she said defensively. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

He shrugged. “No reason that I know of—generally accepted notions are often wrong—but for most of your future pupils, isn’t arithmetic enough?”

“Yes, for verifying the household accounts it is,” she admitted. “Or should be, if they pay attention. I shall teach them the usual subjects, too—penmanship, history and geography, French and Italian, and so on.”

“You seem to have your future planned.” Still that annoying, sardonic tone of voice. One minute, he seemed kind, even somewhat enlightened, and the next he was coldly dismissive.

“As best I can, I have,” she said.

“More power to you,” he said, “but why are you so averse to marriage?”

S he took a while to answer. Restive glanced at her.

She was proving to be rather more interesting than he’d expected.

As a child, she had been clever and outgoing, but she’d become shy, even sulky the year of her come-out, scowling much of the time, making herself distinctly unappealing, and speaking in monosyllables throughout the only dance he requested.

She even yawned as if she found the whole process a dead bore.

At the time, he'd chosen to be amused rather than offended. He’d only been trying to help; dancing with him might make other men solicit a dance from her as well. But she had remained grumpy and withdrawn, effectively turning herself into a wallflower.

“Women are often just as bad,” she said. “But unfortunately, we must muddle along together if we are to perpetuate the human race.”

“Don’t you want to do that?” he asked, hoping for another blush. Unfortunately, a carriage approached from the other direction. She dropped her gaze, so he missed her blush, if there was one. “Have children, that is?”

“I’m not averse to marriage,” she said at last. “I just don’t expect to find the right man.”

“Why not? You’re well-bred and reasonably attractive. You shouldn’t have any problem finding a man willing to marry you.” Actually, she had grown up to be very pretty, with dusky curls, a lightly freckled nose, and rosy, kissable lips—and even prettier now, when fired up and defending her opinions.

He wasn’t the least bit moved by her prettiness, but he’d have to be dead not to notice. Why, he wondered, had she chosen to sit with the chaperones and wallflowers at every ball for years?

“I said the right man,” she retorted. “Not just any man who happens to be willing, or allows himself to be manipulated by my mother. I refuse to flirt and simper and try to catch someone. Because of that, I never did take during my seasons in London.”

“Then what should a lady do if she wants to find the, er, right man?”

“Be herself, I suppose,” she said, “which is impossible with a matchmaking mother driving her insane. And hope to meet a man who finds her as interesting and appealing as she finds him.”

“You’re rather idealistic.”

“No,” she said, “I’m realistic . I believe that I will be happier as a single woman than married to the wrong man.”

He choked out a laugh. “You certainly are unique. If only the foolish ladies who pursue me realized how much of a wrong sort of man I am.”

“Oh, they do,” she said. “You’re rude, ruthless, known to have a string of mistresses, and without honor. Either they delude themselves that they will reform you, or they simply don’t care.”

For some reason, this catalogue of his faults stung. “I’m only rude to unmarried women and their mothers, ditto ruthless, string is a gross exaggeration, and I define honor on my own terms.”

“It seems to me,” she said, “that it’s actually the women who are without honor.

However, they have been taught to revere wealth and status, and they believe that their only purpose in life is to marry a suitable man.

” She paused. “Do you have cousins who could inherit the title if you don’t marry? ”

He nodded. “I have.”

“Then all you must do is persist in being rude and ruthless,” she said.

“You’re reasonably attractive, but that won’t last forever.

Eventually, hungry ladies will realize you are a confirmed bachelor and will turn their attention to easier prey.

Besides that, most young girls don’t want to wed an old, raddled roué, no matter how wealthy. ”

“I’m not a—” Damn it, she was laughing at him, and he couldn’t help laughing, too. “Vixen,” he said. “It rankled, did it, when I said you were reasonably attractive?”

She wrinkled her nose. “A little, but it seemed a fair enough assessment. I don’t pay much attention to my appearance.”

“I never tell women they’re pretty, even if they are.” Which was as close as he dared get to complimenting her. “And here we are—time for a change of horses.” He pulled into the yard of a roadside inn. “Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” she said.

W hich was true, but what Lucinda was thinking was: He’s awfully good-looking when he smiles and laughs. No wonder I had such a tendre for him when I was young. What a shame he’s so obnoxious most of the time.

And then, worse thought: How horrid if he proves to be a traitor.

“Sausage rolls and coffee should do it,” he said. “I don’t expect to see anyone I know, but if I do, you’re my second cousin, whom I volunteered to escort to London to stay with friends.”

This practical statement reminded her of the hazards of traveling in his company, even for the relatively short drive to London. She could become a social outcast.

However, she decided stoutly, it was worth the risk if it resulted in unmasking a traitor. Surely one’s country came before one’s reputation—which in any event was usually judged by those who didn’t understand the meaning of honor.

They spoke little for the rest of the way. He seemed to have something on his mind, and then he was fully occupied with driving through the crowded streets. At last, he pulled up before the house in Kensington where Miss Pringle lived with her sister.

He helped her down and passed her the valise. “I’d carry it in, but…”

She rolled her eyes. “People will talk. Not my governess, but her neighbors. Thank you very much for bringing me here, my lord.” She nodded and trod quickly up the walk.

A maid answered the door, and Mrs. Boston, Miss Pringle’s widowed sister, came forward to greet her. She was a stout, sharp-eyed lady who had married a prosperous merchant and now enjoyed a comfortable jointure. “Miss Belair! What a surprise.”

Out of the corner of her eye as she picked up her valise, Lucinda noticed that Lord Restive had pulled away—and halted again a little way down the street. He didn’t drive off until the door closed behind her.

“How lovely to see you, dear,” Mrs. Boston said, peering out the window at the departing curricle, and Lucinda held her breath, hoping she wouldn’t ask. “What a pity my sister isn’t here.”

“Oh, no! Lucinda said. “I’m so sorry to arrive without notice, but she told me I might come whenever I liked.”

“Of course you may, but Jean” (that was Miss Pringle) “has gone to Margate with an elderly cousin. She won’t return for a week, and in the meantime, I took advantage of her absence to have her bedchamber repapered, and the guest chamber is full of furniture moved from her room. I don’t know where to put you!”

Lucinda thought fast. “It may be only for one night, and I’ll happily sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow I’ll see if my friend Dorothea Hale can put me up, and the next day I’ll return home.”

“What a pity, though,” Mrs. Boston said. “Jean will be so sad to have missed you.”

“I’ll come to London again later,” Lucinda said, setting her disappointment aside. Mother wouldn’t be so difficult once she calmed down about Susannah’s elopement. As long as Lord Restive stayed away, all would be well, more or less. “For the moment, I have some news.”

Not about the secret code, of course, but Susannah’s elopement was a more acceptable topic of conversation than that she needed to escape her mother’s machinations.

“Come into the drawing room, dear, and we’ll have tea, and you can tell me all about it.”

Lucinda gave Mrs. Boston the bare facts about Susannah’s elopement with Humphrey Ball, to the accompaniment of a great many tsks and sighs about foolish young people. “This Mr. Ball—is he acceptable?”

“Perfectly,” Lucinda said, “but not for Mother’s ambitions. She wanted her to marry Lord Restive, which was absurd.”

“Heavens, no. They say he is very ill-mannered.” She frowned. “That’s who it was in the curricle! I thought I recognized him.”

“Yes, his estate is a few miles from where we live. I was going to take the stagecoach, but since he was already coming to town, he kindly offered to drive me.”

“Tsk. Most unwise, my dear. I hesitate to say this, but his reputation is not of the best. In fact, it’s quite dreadful.” She lowered her voice. “They call him Stallion, and by what I’ve heard, he lives up to that vulgar nickname.”

“Yes, but he’s a close friend of my brother,” Lucinda said. “His manners are acceptable if he doesn’t think one is trying to trap him into marriage.”

“Tsk,” Mrs. Boston said again.