Page 7

S HE SHOT THE BOLT OF the front door and leaned against it with a sigh, clutching the diary that was nearly complete.

Her stomach churned at the thought of how close she’d come to losing it.

But even if she had, she’d never forget Bash the highwayman.

She had never been a swoony type, but if she were, she might swoon over Bash.

That kiss. Oh, that kiss was so different than she’d ever imagined kissing to be.

She would have to revisit her current work in progress and revise the couple’s first kiss—she had no idea that one could leave their body whilst kissing.

She lifted her fingers to her lips, feeling the gentle pressure yet.

She moved to the sidelight, watching him watch her house.

His hat cast a shadow across his face. She should provide a sketch of what he looked like for the authorities, but it would take time …

given she had not actually seen his face.

The one she had created in the woods had taken too dreamy a turn to share.

Her heart sank. Must she turn him in? He hadn’t caused anyone physical harm …

and he had protected her from those horrid drunkards and even saw her home.

But he did take my money, and I wouldn’t have been in the position of needing saving if it wasn’t for him abducting me.

Yes, abduction and thieving were the thoughts she needed to keep close when she marched to the authorities …

later. She rubbed her eyes and groaned at the thought of her lost funds.

In desperate hope, she tugged the strings of her reticule.

Her funds were gone, but Bash had left her that horrid letter from her stepbrother.

She would have to dip into her meager savings.

She had only enough to pay for food. With Bash taking the money she had hoped to use to hire a maid, she feared her dream of supporting herself was in peril.

If she did not severely retrench the financial aspect of her best laid plans, she might have to lease the house to perfect strangers.

Her father had received multiple offers for selling the home after his marriage to Mrs. Hart, but because of Vivienne’s begging, he had kept the property as a secured inheritance for her.

She had made it clear that she would much rather own the lovely building than to hand over her money to a future husband, and besides, she doubted the money would have made it to her pockets if he did sell it.

Her stepbrother did not take kindly to her having anything he considered family money.

She was, and always would be, the outsider in his relations.

To explain away the royalties from her novels, she claimed to have rented out the apartment in Bath to Lady Larkby, her nom de plume.

It was only because of Mrs. Hart that Lucius did not try to take the funds from Vivienne, but with each passing year since Mrs. Hart’s death, Vivienne knew it was only a matter of time before he demanded the funds be given to him.

Not for the first time did she wish her situation had been a mirror of Muriel’s.

While Vivienne possessed good birth, she did not have the true riches of earth—a loving family.

Her father had been everything to her, and the moment he’d died, her world had shifted.

She had gone from beloved daughter to burdensome stepsister and stepdaughter.

She unfolded the letter from Lucius Hart, as she had done whenever her resolve to leave her life in Chilham wavered.

This time she crumpled it in her fist. She’d never give in to his demand that she marry Sir Josiah.

Her stepbrother couldn’t make her, no matter what his waspish wife demanded of her.

It was fortunate Lucius had no idea where she was, given she had used her secret nom de plume for the whole of her flight.

She had her pen and her father’s terrace home to provide her with a good life.

What else did she need? Not her family. She tossed the note to the marble floor.

She was more than another mouth to feed or a body to clothe.

Despite what her stepfamily thought of her, she would prove that she could make her own fortune— without the husband they had carelessly selected for her.

Pedigree was all they desired to further their place in society.

The man’s character was not important enough to even warrant a discussion.

When she had delicately mentioned Sir Josiah’s ladybird in Dover, she’d been met with dismissal and scoffs at her naivete.

She shook the morose thoughts from her head.

“It will not do to dwell upon the past. And at least I am here and whole, with a story provided by the very man who stole from me.” The ordeal had been terrible, but she couldn’t help but delight in the story she’d write.

She dared to peek through the sidelights once more to catch a glimpse of the handsome muse.

Gone. She shivered, feeling the void of his protection—as ludicrous as it was to feel protected by a highwayman.

She should check the servants’ entrance and make certain it had been locked again after Muriel’s staff had delivered her trunks and cleaned her home.

She eyed her surroundings. A taper sat on the foyer table with matches beside it.

She struck it, lighting the wick. She shielded the flame and darted down the hall to the servants’ entrance.

She stumbled a bit as the wood floors turned to brick, and at last she found the rear entrance and tried the doorknob.

Locked. Her breathing settled into a less frantic pace as she strode back to the marble foyer to her row of trunks.

She hadn’t even thought to ask the deliverymen to bring them upstairs.

She would have to unpack each item and climb the stairs with as much as she could carry in one arm.

Then, she might drag the mostly empty trunks up as well.

She groaned at the feat that seemed nigh impossible given her knee.

The scullery maid should be arriving in a week or so, as well as a part-time cook, but that seemed too great an extravagance now.

She would have accepted Muriel’s offer for staff, but her pride did not allow it—not when she had already accepted her friend’s offer of having the terrace home cleaned.

Vivienne stared at the staircase. “And we all know how much pride aids a breaking back.”

She had best get started now. If she flagged, she’d use her pride to bolster her injured knee.

“The most important of belongings first.” She flung open her trunk of books and removed her little travel writing desk, her heart speeding at the worn wood.

Every time she held it, she felt close to her father.

No matter the years between the last time she had held her father’s hand or sat at his feet as he’d penned his correspondence, she could still hear his soothing voice as the nib scratched across the parchment.

She hugged it to her chest. “To be home again does my heart good, Father.”

She brought her treasure to the small sitting room with a pleasant window that had a splendid view of the Circus.

She would write her musings while looking out onto the street.

Strangers always made for fascinating muses.

She crossed the hall to her father’s library, peeking in through the open door.

At the tomes lining the shelves, happy memories flooded her being.

However, she dare not linger in her fatigued state, lest she give way to the tears she had been holding back since the moment she’d entered this dear house where her father’s touch appeared at every turn.

Flinging open the lid of the second trunk, she gathered her paper-wrapped clothing in one arm while balancing the taper and her hem in the other, and then she slowly climbed the steps to the first floor, which held the master suite with the adjoining rooms. Vivienne did not remember her father ever sleeping here.

He chose instead to give the master suite to Vivienne as her bedroom and the adjoining one for her governess and her nursemaid.

He had taken residence in the larger of the two guest rooms on the second floor.

At least she wouldn’t need to face Father’s room yet.

She opened her childhood bedroom, with its pretty papered walls and the canopy bed that called to her.

She set the clothing on the coverlet and swiped her finger over the bedding, sighing in relief that everything had been laundered.

How delightful it would be to fall asleep on a feather bed.

But sleep would have to wait until the trunks on the ground floor were unpacked and her own gown changed after she lugged up fresh water from the kitchen for a sponge bath.

The tasks before her had her head spinning.

Your pride saw your funds taken and no staff awaiting you.

Your pride shall have to provide the means of getting your things in place.

She pulled back the curtains to let in the dawn’s light and, setting down the taper, cracked her knuckles.

It was time to make her house a home once more, or as much as her knee would allow.

A nap and then writing would be her reward.

And with said writing, she would allow herself to dwell on that kiss once more—for research purposes, of course.

Once she regained the full use of her mind over her heart, she would have to see the constable to report the handsome highwayman. Such a pity.