The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(22)

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Oh, yes. You’ve been a glorious gift of good luck from the moment you nearly dropped a boot on my head.”

If he weren’t so furious, he might have found the words—spoken in a tone dry as sand—amusing. Instead, he raked one long look down her body, his gaze lingering on her feet. “You will wish that you had accepted my help when I was in the mood to offer it.”

“I wouldn’t accept your help if I were starving to death and you happened by with a cartful of tea and cakes.”

He turned on his heel then, leaving the damn woman alone on the damn road to her own damn devices. She wasn’t his problem. How many times did he have to remind himself of that? If she wanted to be left behind, he would leave her behind. With pleasure.

With no money.

With no clothes.

With no damn shoes.

He hesitated, hating himself as he did. Hating himself even more as he turned back to the ungrateful woman and, without pausing, said, “How are you getting there?”

“I imagine the ordinary way,” she replied, all calm. “Coach.”

“Then you’ve forgotten that you require funds to procure passage by coach?” She’d have to ask him for the money. And he’d give it to her. But not before he made her grovel.

Instead of surprise or disappointment, however, Lady Sophie Talbot smiled, teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “I require no such thing.”

The smile unsettled him. He blinked. “Six hours ago, you hadn’t a ha’penny to your name.”

She shrugged. “Things change.”

Dread whispered through him. “What did you do?”

“I might not be as tempting as my sisters, my lord,” she replied, and he did not miss the echo of his earlier insult. “But I make do.”

What in hell did that mean?

She lifted her chin in the direction of the posting inn. “Sleep well.”

He washed his hands of her then, leaving her for good, telling himself for one, final time that she was not his problem.

It was not until the following morning that King discovered just how much of a problem she was, when he exited the inn, frustrated and unrested, and headed past the half-dozen other racers, seeing to their curricles in preparation for the day’s race. His plan was simple: replace his broken wheel, hitch his horses, and hie north, away from this place, the night he had spent here, and the woman who had somehow worked her way under his skin like an unseen bramble.

When he opened the coach door, however, he did not find the pile of spare curricle wheels he’d expected. Instead, he found a wide, yawning, empty space. Every one of the wheels gone.

Dread pooling in his stomach, he turned back to find the Duke of Warnick across the yard, leaning against his own, pristine curricle, a wide grin on his face. “Missing something, Eversley?”

King narrowed his gaze on the Scot. “Where are they?”

The duke feigned ignorance. “Where are what?”

“You know what, you highland imbecile. What did you do with my wheels?”

“I believe you mean my wheels.” Warnick smiled. “I bought them.”

“That’s impossible, as I didn’t sell them.”

“That’s not what your footman said.” The duke paused. “Do we call her a footman? Or something else? Footwoman doesn’t seem right.” Another pause and a wicked smile. “Seems filthy, if you ask me.”

Goddammit.

“You don’t call her anything,” he said, fury rising in his throat. “Give me the wheels.”

The duke shook his head. “No. I paid for them. A pretty penny.”

“Enough to get her on the next mail coach out, I imagine.”

Warnick laughed. “Enough to get her on the next hundred mail coaches out. The woman drove a hard bargain.”

King shook his head. “They weren’t the lady’s to sell and you know it.”

“Lady, is she?” King felt a keen desire to hit something as the duke climbed into his curricle seat. “Either way, it seems as though it is your problem, Eversley. Not mine. I exchanged coin for carriage wheels, and that is where the transaction begins and ends for me.”

“You can’t even use them,” King argued. “They are custom to my curricle.” Every inch of the damn carriage was made to his exact specifications. Warnick couldn’t do a thing with the wheels without the whole vehicle.

“That’s incidental, really. Indeed, we’ll call it money well spent to keep you out of the race,” Warnick replied before turning to look at the other riders. “All right, lads?”

A chorus of approval sounded.

“You aren’t seriously going to leave me here without wheels.”

“Oh, but I am,” The duke nodded and gathered his reins. “You’ve a lovely coach that will get you to the next posting inn.”

Dread pooled in King’s stomach at the words. At the thought of the dark, cavernous coach. He blustered. “You’re afraid I’ll win again. That’s why you refuse to help me.”

Warnick shrugged one large shoulder. “No one ever said we were required to play fair.” And with a mighty “Hyah!” he was in motion, leaving the posting inn like a shot, a half-dozen other racers following him, leaving King in a cloud of dust. With nothing but a broken-down curricle, an empty carriage, and a seething desire for revenge.