The Marquis and I (The Worthingtons #4)(71)

“My dear.” Con raised Charlotte’s hand, but this time turned her palm up, kissed the center of her palm, and closed her fingers around it. “I shall be back shortly.”

Gently, she cupped his cheek with the same hand. “I will be here.”

By Jupiter, he hated leaving her. Still, the chances were that he would not be able to find time to be alone with her until after dinner when her friend and cousin retired for the evening.

He followed his valet past two doors and into a large bedchamber with one door on the right and the other on the left. As in many older houses, all the rooms must be connected, so that if one opened all the doors it could make for an easy passage between parlors. The small corridor he had been taken through had to be an addition built when the inn bought the neighboring house.

That meant that Charlotte’s bedchamber was one door down from his, with only a dressing room between them. Obviously, he had misjudged Merton’s intentions. The man meant to do what he could to help Con win Charlotte. Or not interfere with his courtship.

If that was the case, he would not let his soon-to-be cousin down. A few days here, back to Town, and he would have his wedding shortly thereafter.





Chapter Twenty-Four


Burt couldn’t believe his luck. There she was. Right in front of him, looking down from that grand inn across the street. He’d stopped in Richmond to get a pint of beer before he finished traveling to the Dirty Duck, a hedge tavern between here and Twickenham. Not wanting to see his chief, he’d decided to leave a note for Miss Betsy at the Duck. Now he wouldn’t have to tell her he’d lost Lady Charlotte. He could just bring the mort to Miss Betsy.

He flipped the barmaid a coin. “I’ll be needing a room for the night after all.”

Reaching under the counter, she took out a key. “That’ll be a shilling. Up the stairs on the left. Dinner’s included. It’s on the street and small, but ye won’t have ta share it.” She leaned over provocatively. “Unless ye have a mind to.”

As she expected, he looked down. Dark pink nipples drew his attention and his cock stood up. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, and he deserved a reward for finding the rum mort. “Meet me after you finish here.”

“Be me pleasure.” She smiled and he was glad to see she had most of her teeth.

He picked up his bag. After he put it in his room, he’d scout around and find a good place to snatch Lady Charlotte.

First he had to send a message to Miss Betsy that he’d have the gentry mort by tomorrow. He took out the small traveling desk he used, penned the note, then went back down to the taproom.

“I need someone to carry this to Twickenham.”

The same woman who’d served him earlier, signaled to a lad of about twelve. “Eddy here can take it.” She strolled over to him, her hips swaying. “Who’s it to?”

“Me employer,” he said, using the posh word. “I need to tell her I stopped here to pick up a package she wanted.”

There wasn’t any point in making the woman jealous. Burt was looking forward to tonight.

“In that case, Eddy”—she kept her eyes on Burt as she spoke—“better get going so she won’t be expecting you.”

He handed the lad the letter and a penny. After the last several days, his life was good again, and he was looking forward to his payment.

*

It was late afternoon when Betsy Bell strolled into the entrance of the White Swan in Twickenham to collect her post. She stood at the desk for a few minutes before the landlord appeared.

“Good afternoon to ye, Mrs. Bottoms.”

She inclined her head slightly, a perfect imitation of what she’d seen real ladies do. “And good morning to you, Mr. Griffen. Will you see if I have any letters, please?”

“Two of them. One just got delivered by hand a few hours ago. If you’ll just give me a bit I’ll get them for ye.”

“Certainly.” Betsy glanced around, pleased with what she saw. No one but her would have thought a girl from St. Giles would end up in a nice village like Twickenham. She’d known she’d make herself a better life, and she had. A snug little house she owned, as well as a maid and a cook who came in three times a week, and a coach and coachman. All her neighbors were gentry. Not the rich kind, but still gentry.

A lot of hard work had gone into getting here, and not only on her back. When her father had sold her to her first nunnery when she was thirteen, she hadn’t been able to read or write. She knew enough numbers to make sure she wasn’t cheated, and she’d found an old lady to teach her the rest.

Now, sixteen years later, she was being treated like a lady, and pretty soon she’d have enough to retire on. Once the war was over, she thought she might fancy Italy. Some of the gents Betsy had been with said it was warm all the time there and cheap to live in. But she’d miss her house. She could visit and see how she liked it.

No, it wouldn’t be long now, and she’d have everything she wanted.

“Here ye be.” Mr. Griffen handed her two letters.

“Thank you.” As expected, the missive sent from the Dove had her own handwriting on it. That package would bring her a pretty penny. The stupid girl should have accepted what the gent had offered, but then Betsy wouldn’t be making so much money off her. And it’d been a quick job. Seems the girl was only in London for a few days.