His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(86)

The groom stood very tall, and such was Lily’s own lack of stature that even he had several inches of height on her.

“Sorry, miss. We have only the one mare trained to carry a rider sidesaddle.”

“Then hitch up the phaeton.” Rosecroft would find her, though the wheeled traffic used different paths than the equestrians.

“Young Mr. Leggett said he’d be needing the phaeton this morning.”

Tomorrow, Lily would celebrate her sister’s twenty-eighth birthday, though Lily had heard nothing about a wedding ceremony. Perhaps Oscar had heeded her warnings earlier in the week and actually read the settlement documents.

Lily dearly hoped Oscar had aggravated his papa with demands for independent funds, and that thwarting Lily’s plans for the day was a retaliatory display of Uncle Walter’s petty tyranny.

How had she put up with ten years of this nonsense? “Young Mr. Leggett is never out of the house before noon unless he’s accompanying me on a call. I can assure you I have not sought his escort for my morning ride.”

“Miss, please don’t ask it of me. I’ll lose my post and have not even a character to show for it.”

Doubtless the poor man was telling the truth. “My mare had best be sound tomorrow. Use every poultice, lineament, and salve you have, but bring her sound.”

The groom’s relief was pathetic, which warned Lily that trouble was afoot—more trouble than usual. No matter. She had a plan, and that plan so far had kept her sane. Today, she’d take the air in the park on foot. By tomorrow, Hessian should be back, certainly by the day after.

Lily informed her companion that they’d be enjoying the footpaths in Hyde Park. The result was several minutes of muttered protests—megrims, rheumatism, an impending catarrh, a sore ankle—followed by grudging capitulation provided Lily put off this misguided outing until later in the morning.

“One hour,” Lily said. “That’s time enough to break your fast and change into a walking dress.”

Though Miss Fotheringham invariably took a tray for her morning meal rather than brave Uncle Walter’s charming company in the breakfast parlor.

Lily hoped to avoid her uncle as well, so she changed out of her riding habit and chose a walking dress Uncle had said made her look pale. She took some care with her hair, for Uncle preferred she wear it in a simple bun.

Please, God, let the sun continue to shine.

Please let Hessian be safe.

Please let Oscar be set upon by brigands at the earliest opportunity.

Lily took a moment to inspect herself in her bedroom mirror. “I look different.” She looked… like herself. Not like Annie’s impersonator, not like a rabbit of a woman who could hear the pack in full cry on the very next hill.

“Hessian will come for me, and all will be well.” Let him come soon.

Lily had the breakfast parlor to herself, which was fortunate. In her present mood, she was tempted to start an argument with Uncle Walter, to tell him she expected to read any settlement agreements herself—not that he’d admitted his scheme to see her married to Oscar—and would send a copy to her Irish relations before signing anything.

Uncle would have an apoplexy at that declaration, and Oscar would whine endlessly. Perhaps Jacaranda had been right: Years of menial work in a coaching inn had given Lily the fortitude to handle her present situation.

“Ah, there you are.” Uncle Walter beamed at her from the doorway of the breakfast parlor.

Lily set down her fresh cup of tea untasted. “Good morning, Uncle.”

He seemed to expect her to say more—apologize for breathing, perhaps?—but she remained silent. She added extra butter to her toast, then a layer of jam.

“I’d like a word with you,” Uncle said. “In the family parlor.”

Lily saluted with her toast. “As soon as I’ve done justice to Cook’s offerings.” Because nothing Uncle had to say was worth a moment’s hurry on Lily’s part.

His smile was smug. “Suit yourself. I’ll await you in the parlor.”

The lame horse who wasn’t lame, a hale companion unwilling to take a short stroll, and now, Uncle Walter smiling and telling Lily to suit herself.

Hessian, I need you. I need you desperately.

*



“You’re too late.” Worth handed Hessian a brandy, then poured a measure for himself.

“How can I be too late? I’ve been gone exactly fourteen days, and Lily’s ostensible birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

Fatigue weighed on Hessian like a shroud, but he’d done the impossible—traveled hundreds of miles in mere days, despite endless rain, lame horses, a coachman complaining of a putrid sore throat, a lovesick footman, two encounters with highwaymen—which had been settled to the satisfaction of Hessian and his coaching pistols—and other factors too numerous and frustrating for human endurance.

Worth took his drink to the window and stared out at a foggy London night. “I’m sorry, Hess. The ceremony was today at Walter Leggett’s home, and a special license means the location was permissible.”

Hessian could not afford the luxury of cursing, but made himself tarry in Worth’s study for a few more moments. “You’re sure?”

“Lily did what she could. She insisted on reading the agreements word for word, then she insisted on sending for Rosecroft and his lady to stand up with her. The wedding breakfast included only family, the clergyman, and the Earl and Countess of Rosecroft. I’m sorry, Hessian. We tried. We followed your plan to the letter, and it was a good plan.”