The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(25)

“Yer not my mum, you know.”

The woman scowled at him. “Just the closest thing you’ve got to one.”

The boy returned the watch.

“Thank you,” Sophie said, belatedly realizing that she really shouldn’t be grateful for the return of her rightful possession.

“You’re welcome,” John responded with a smile before leaning forward and adding, “If I were going to steal something, I’d vie for your satchel.”

Sophie reached down and lifted the satchel between her feet to her lap. “Thank you for the warning.”

John tipped his cap.

The woman across the coach pushed one of her curls back behind her ear and laughed, the sound short and barely there, reminding Sophie that there wasn’t much humor to be had in a crowded mail coach. Meeting Sophie’s gaze, the other woman said, “I’m called Mary.” She extended her chin at the girl on the floor. “That’s Bess.” Bess smiled, and Mary indicated the boy. “And you’ve met John.”

Sophie nodded and opened her mouth to introduce herself before the other woman raised a hand and said, “And you’re a fancy servant.”

It was a reminder that to the rest of the coach, she looked the part of a footman. Sophie nodded. “Matthew,” she said, with a silent apology to the footman whose identity she was quietly appropriating.

Mary leaned back against her seat. “Pleased to meet you.”

Smell and crowd aside, the mail coach was not so bad as she’d imagined. Perhaps things would go smoothly, after all.

The moment the thought floated through her mind, the carriage began to slow. The girl at her feet sat up. “We’re there!”

“You don’t even know where ‘there’ is,” John snapped.

She scowled. “I know that if we’re stopping, we must be somewhere,” the girl said smartly.

“Shush, both of you,” Mary whispered, craning to look over the two sleeping women obstructing the view out the carriage window. Sophie followed her gaze, the trees at the edge of the road coming to a stop. “We’re nowhere.”

A muffled conversation came from outside as the other woman checked the opposite window before turning to Sophie. “Is it possible someone is looking for you?”

Considering she’d borrowed a significant sum from him without his knowing, Sophie imagined that the Marquess of Eversley would, indeed, be looking. She sat forward. “I hope not.”

“Out of the carriage!” a man’s voice boomed.

“Christ,” the other woman muttered.

“I know you can hear me!”

Dread pooled in Sophie’s chest. Eversley had found her. And once he had his hands on her, he would collect his money and march her back to London without hesitation. If he was feeling magnanimous there would be marching to London, she realized. If he was furious, he could easily leave her on the side of the road to fend for herself. Again.

And he hadn’t seemed overly magnanimous at their last meeting.

Of course, she had called him arrogant, vapid, and unintelligent. That did not engender magnanimity, to be honest.

“Let’s go, girl! We haven’t got all day!”

Sophie thought the “girl” was rather rude and unnecessary, but Eversley didn’t exactly eschew rudeness, in her experience.

Around the coach, women and children were stirring, asking questions about who was outside and what was happening. There would be no hiding for Sophie. She might as well not be a coward about the whole thing. Squaring her shoulders, she came off the seat, stepping gingerly around the little girl on the floor and reaching for the door handle.

“Wait!” Mary called out.

Sophie turned back. “There’s nothing to be done. He’s here for me.”

“Don’t open that door,” the young woman said ominously. “Once it’s open, it can’t be shut.”

Sophie nodded, sadness creeping through her at the thought that this woman, whom she’d known for no more than a quarter of an hour, was attempting to protect her. “I understand that. But I wronged him. Several times. And he wants his revenge.”

And then she opened the door to reveal Eversley.

Except the man outside wasn’t Eversley.

The men outside weren’t Eversley.

Relief was quickly replaced by trepidation. While the trio were not her pursuer, these men were decidedly less well dressed than the marquess, and decidedly more nefarious-looking than he. She blinked. “Who are you?”

“I’ll be askin’ the questions, boy,” the one farthest away announced. “It’s nice you’re willing to be all hero-like, but just step aside and give us what we want.”

Understanding dawned. “You’re highwaymen.”

“Not exactly,” he said.

“You stopped a mail coach on its journey north with the intent of robbing us and, I can only imagine, leaving us for dead,” she pointed out, ignoring the gasps and shrieks that came from inside the conveyance at the words. “You’re highwaymen.” She looked up at the driving block. “What have you done with the driver?”

“He ran like the coward drivers always are.”

Oh, dear. That was not ideal.

“Don’t let them kill us!” came a little cry from inside the coach.