Page 6 of The Lord Meets His Lady

He chuckled, the sound a dry rasp. “Vicar’s a bit of a stretch for me. Would you accept choirboy? I was one for a short time until I got the boot.”

A tiny spark lit her eyes. “I shall remember that if I need a song or comfort and wisdom, milord.”

Resting a shoulder against the coach, he grimaced good-naturedly. “I’m short on song and wisdom these days.”

“But you excel at giving comfort.” Her lips twitched. “Especially to women.”

The small victory warmed him. He’d won a partial smile, but the glimmer quickly faded.

“Before I left London, friends mentioned your upset at the Cocoa Tree…that you were coming north for the winter to spare your family any more scandal.” Her shoulders slumped. “When I saw you come riding, I feared you’d recognize me. You’re the only person in Cornhill who could connect me to the Golden Goose.”

He stiffened at the mention of the Cocoa Tree. The broadsheets had trumpeted news of his debacle at the gambling establishment. He’d lost badly at a game of cards, upending the table after too much to drink. Most of London knew about his embarrassing exit from the Cocoa Tree. Few knew the family turmoil that followed. He’d return to London in due time, but he didn’t want trouble camping at Samuel’s door.

“How did you get your housekeeper’s position?”

“The Sauveterre sisters helped me.” Miss Turner paused, giving him a pointed look. “I believe you’re acquainted with them.”

He ignored her arch tone, another concern coming to light. Miss Turner had sought the Birchin Lane mantua-makers known for helping women in need.

“Then we have mutual friends in the Sauveterres.” He leaned close. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She grabbed his arm. “That doesn’t matter. Promise me—”

“Are ye ready there?” the driver bellowed from his perch.

“Another moment, Mr. McGreevy,” she yelled before lowering her voice. “Do I have your word? You’ll keep quiet about my name and the Golden Goose?”

One of the matrons knocked thrice on the window near their heads. The older woman glared through the glass, her brows a stern slash.

“What are you running away from?” Marcus asked.

“Lord Bowles.Please.”

Her hand twisted his sleeve. The desperate plea, her anguish…both added up to a woman in a bad place. Conceding to her request would make him complicit, but now was not the time to dig for whatever hardship chased Miss Turner. She needed assurances more than he needed information.

“Of course. You have my word.”

She let go of him and turned to the door. From the side of her hood, she whispered, “Thank you, milord. Your concern is…kind, but it’s better to say I’m runningtosomeone.”

With those enigmatic words, she put her hand over his and pulled the latch. He released his hold, and Miss Turner hurried into the unlit interior. Her firm step bespoke a woman used to fending for herself. To survive the Golden Goose, she had to possess a multitude of skills, the likes of which someone born to comfort couldn’t understand.

Through the windows, he spied her red-cloaked form settling in. She faced forward as if she wouldn’t give him another thought.

Walking backward, he shouted, “Drive on.”

Mr. McGreevy snapped the reins, and the coach rumbled onward, leaving a dirty nimbus in its wake. Feet planted wide on uneven terrain, Marcus waited until the tottering coach disappeared.

He was alone again.

Bone-tired, he reached inside his redingote for his flask. A gentleman could lose himself at midnight, the velvet hour teasing the best and worst from a man. Just one nip was all he needed, a splash to cure the dryness in his throat. He gripped the metal ready to give in, but Khan nudged his elbow. The four-legged creature could be a chiding friend.

His hand slipped free to scratch behind the horse’s ear. “You know me too well, old boy.”

Petting his horse, he breathed easier, and the craving slipped away. He put one booted foot in the stirrup and mounted the gray. The half-moon’s light washed over Devil’s Causeway, yet the road sign for Lowick village called to him. No,shecalled to him. Their brief midnight meeting had given him a taste of something better, and he wished for more. He wanted to help pretty Miss Turner. Smiling at the empty road, he was certain she didn’t want help from him.

Was curiosity about the red-cloaked woman more alluring than her comeliness?

Women were a pleasant diversion, stirred parts as nature intended, but of late noneinterestedhim. Not until tonight. He welcomed the renewed spark Miss Turner lit. Cornhill-on-Tweed could hold amusements after all.

“Looks like you and I have a social call to make,” he said, patting Khan’s neck. “Very soon.”

By Miss Turner’s vague telling, he wasn’t sure what puzzled him more.

What she ran from. Or who she ran to.