The Lady's Command. Stephanie Laurens
She nodded. “Sadly, yes. I have an at-home this morning, and after that I’ll go on with my sisters to the luncheon.”
Declan told himself that the disappointment he felt, its oppressive weight, was entirely uncalled for. She was behaving exactly as a lady of her ilk should when faced with the situation he’d foisted on her; she wasn’t railing at him, crying, or enacting any scenes. He should be grateful for her attitude.
He had no grounds on which to feel that it lacked a certain something.
He squashed the sense of dissatisfaction deep, but the feeling didn’t leave him.
He dallied over his coffee until she’d finished her toast and tea. Then he rose, slipped his missives into his pocket, and drew out her chair. Together, they strolled into the front hall.
“Well, then.” Facing him, she donned a bright—patently superficial—smile. “It seems this is farewell.” She gripped his arm, stretched up, and placed a peck on his cheek. “Adieu, my darling. I’ll be here when you return.”
Before he could respond, she whirled and strode briskly to the stairs.
In something close to disbelief, he watched her ascend… That was it? His grand farewell wasn’t even a proper kiss?
He stared after her until she disappeared around the gallery, then he shook himself—and called his errant thoughts, and his uncalled-for emotions, to order. What had he expected? He was leaving her to live her life here in London and heading off on a voyage, and if he was honest, he would admit the unknown, the potential for danger, for adventure, called to him.
Edwina was adventurous, too.
“True. But she’s a woman.” A vision of his cousin Catrina—Kit—who captained her own ship in their fleet, swam across his mind, and he amended, “A lady. A noble lady.”
And she was his and now meant far too much to him for him to even contemplate putting her at risk—not of any sort or of any degree.
He had to go and sail and investigate, and she had to remain safely here.
That was all there was to it.
Feeling the weight of the missives in his pocket, he considered, then waved at Humphrey to fetch his coat.
A minute later, his expression set, he strode down the front steps and headed toward the Frobisher and Sons office and whatever last dregs of information his searchers had gleaned from the ships currently bobbing in the Pool of London. The more information he had before he sailed, the less time he would need to spend on the ground in Freetown—and the sooner he could return to re-engage with his wife and, in light of the separation, re-examine how their marriage should work.
He hadn’t in the least expected it, but deep down in his gut, he wasn’t at all satisfied with leaving her behind.
* * *
Edwina stood at the window of their bedroom and watched Declan stride away from the house. The instant he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight, she swung around and beckoned to her maid, Wilmot, who’d been packing the last of the clothes Edwina had selected into a small portmanteau. “Quickly—help me out of this gown.”
Wilmot hurried to Edwina’s side. As she set deft fingers to Edwina’s laces, the severely garbed middle-aged maid anxiously murmured, “Are you sure about this, my lady?”
“Absolutely definitely.” Shrugging out of the loosened gown and letting it fall, Edwina added, “You needn’t worry. I’ll be perfectly safe.” Wilmot had been with her since her come-out; she was an excellent maid, but rather timid.
“If you say so, my lady.” Wilmot clearly remained unconvinced, but she held her tongue as she helped Edwina into a dun-colored carriage dress.
As soon as all the tiny black buttons at the back of the dress were secured, Edwina waved Wilmot to the last of the packing and headed for her dressing table. In short order, she stowed her brushes, combs, and a handful of hairpins into a large traveling satchel. From a drawer, she drew out a wad of banknotes. She tucked some into a small purse that she placed in a black traveling reticule, then secreted the rest of the notes in a pocket sewn into the lining of the satchel. When she turned, Wilmot was securing the straps of the portmanteau.
Edwina slipped the reticule’s ribbon over her wrist, settled the satchel’s strap on her shoulder, picked up the bonnet Wilmot had left ready, then waved the maid to the door. “Remember what I told you. Go down the back stairs, and you’ll be able to slip out of the house while I’m talking to Humphrey in the front hall. I’ll see you in just a few minutes.”
Still looking worried, Wilmot hefted the portmanteau, bobbed a curtsy, then hurried out of the door.
After one last glance around the room, Edwina followed, closing the door behind her.
She descended the main stairs. When Humphrey joined her in the front hall, she smiled brightly at him. “I require a hackney, Humphrey. Please summon one for me.”
“Of course, my lady.” Humphrey hesitated, then somewhat diffidently said, “If you’re sure the carriage will not suit?”
“Sadly, it won’t.” Tugging on her gloves, she went on, “For this particular excursion, a hackney is what I need.”
Humphrey bowed. “I’ll summon one immediately, ma’am.”
Edwina waited in the front hall while Humphrey opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She heard a shrill whistle; half a minute later, the clop of hooves informed her that her carriage had arrived. Calmly, she walked out onto the porch and down the steps. Humphrey held open the hackney’s door; he gave her his hand to help her into the carriage.
After settling on the thankfully clean seat, she nodded to Humphrey. “Thank you, Humphrey. I’ll see you anon.”
The jarvey said something, then Humphrey looked at her. “The direction, ma’am?”
“Oh—Eaton Square.”
Humphrey shut the carriage door and conveyed her instruction to the jarvey. A second later, the carriage jerked into motion.
Edwina felt her eyes grow round, felt excitement tempered by apprehension grip her. “I’m off on my journey,” she murmured to herself.
She waited until the carriage slowed at the corner, then stood and rapped sharply on the trapdoor set into the hackney’s ceiling. When it opened and the jarvey said “Yar?” she called up, “When you turn the corner, you’ll see a woman in a black gown holding a portmanteau. Please pull up beside her.”
The jarvey paused, then said, “’Ere—this isn’t one of them scandalous elopements, is it?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Huh. Pity.” The jarvey flicked his reins, and his horse stepped out. “I always wanted to drive someone setting out on one of those.”
Edwina shut the trapdoor and sank back onto the seat, a very large smile spreading over her face. She wasn’t escaping to marry some unsuitable man—she was escaping to be with the entirely suitable gentleman she’d married.
She was still grinning when the jarvey drew up alongside the pavement where, as she’d arranged, Wilmot stood waiting with the portmanteau. Even as Edwina opened the carriage door and took the portmanteau, Wilmot was darting anxious glances in every direction.
“Don’t worry,” Edwina reiterated. “Now, don’t forget to give Humphrey those letters I left with you. They’re important, and it’s also important you don’t hand them over until six o’clock this evening.”
She’d written letters to her mother, her sisters, her brother, and to Humphrey and Mrs. King, explaining where she’d gone and how long she expected to be away. Given her destination, she couldn’t see that they would worry; she’d be just as safe as she would be in London. Possibly safer,