Page 3 of The Wallflower Ruse

“Just to the next village,” she said faintly. He must be awfully cramped in that tiny space. “Upper Middle Deighton.”

“Good enough,” he said, sliding out and stretching his legs. “Thank you kindly for the assistance.” He paused. “Despite Lord Restive’s bad manners.”

Drat, she was flushing again. He must have heard her muttering about revenge. “His horrid insinuations are not your fault.” Was it proper, she wondered, to ask the man why he was fleeing? Perhaps not, so she settled on, “They said you’re a smuggler.”

“Well now, miss, I have done some smuggling, but that’s not what Wharton wants me for. He’s a bad ‘un, is Wharton.”

“Ghastly,” she agreed. The fugitive was, she realized, even younger than she’d thought—little more than a boy.

“Restive’s a good sort, though I don’t expect you to believe it.”

“I’m sure he’s excellent in many ways,” Lucinda said, “just not where infatuated women are concerned. Frankly, I don’t see what’s so appealing about him.” Not anymore, in any event. As a lad, he’d been kind to her. What a pity he’d changed. “But most of my gender disagree.”

“He’s a fine friend in a fix,” the young man said, “and so are you, miss, and I thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” she said, although unsure whether this was the truth. It really depended on what he’d done. She couldn’t bring herself to ask—it seemed impolite somehow—and could think of no other subject of conversation.

The fugitive remained on the floor, half in and half out of the box—with good reason, for a few miles further on, the sound of galloping horses sent him sliding back into it.

He pulled a pistol from under his coat. “If they find me, keep away from the window. I’ll shoot if I must, so you’d best stay out of the way.”

He disappeared before she could respond—not that she could have managed more than a frightened squeak. She took a deep breath. Maybe the galloping riders would pass.

“Halt in the name of the law!”

Drat, it was Mr. Huber again. As the local magistrate, he perhaps had the right to make such a demand, but it infuriated her all the same, and with the fury her courage returned.

Her coach came to a halt. Lucinda let down the window. “What in heaven’s name is going on?” she cried.

“We’re still searching for that fugitive, Miss Belair,” Mr. Huber said. “Have you seen him?”

“No, of course not. I don’t even know what he looks like!”

Mr. Wharton peered in the coach window, glanced quickly about, and rested his gaze on her bosom. “You sure about that?”

“I’m not in the habit of aiding smugglers,” she retorted.

“Seems to me,” Wharton said, “that a lady who’ll visit Stallion Restive unchaperoned will do almost anything.”

“Now, now, Wharton,” Mr. Huber said, “that’s going too far. Miss Belair is a well-respected young lady.” He paused. “Although you shouldn’t go to Lord Restive’s alone, my dear, even on an errand for your mother.”

“I shan’t do it again,” Lucinda said, and then to Wharton, “Stop ogling me, you disgusting man!”

Wharton laughed, Mr. Huber admonished him again, and they rode away. Lucinda ordered the coachman to carry on. Once they were in motion, she lay back against the squabs and let out a long, slow breath. “You may come out now, but I don’t know how you’ll get far. They seem determined to find you.”

“It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “I’ll do fine.”

During the remainder of the ride home, Lucinda came to the reluctant conclusion that she would have to tell her mother the truth. She’d hoped to relate only the bald story of Susannah’s elopement, but the more she thought about it, the more she knew it would be impossible to stop there. The coachman and groom knew she’d called on Lord Restive. Worse, so did Mr. Huber, who would certainly tell his gossipy wife.

The fugitive stayed in his hiding place when the coached pulled up at the house to let her down. She hoped he would manage to get out and away. She only wished she could escape the impending hysteria.

“I heard an arrival. Is it one of my daughters?” A pause, while one of the servants responded, and then mother’s voice again, a sharp cry. “Lucinda, where have you been? Where is your sister? Is she with you? You girls will be the death of me.”

Lucinda trod wearily into the drawing room, where Mother was on the chaise longue, swathed in shawls. In one hand she clutched a handkerchief and in the other a vinaigrette.

There was no point in trying to break it gently. “Susannah has eloped with Humphrey Ball.”

Mother shrieked. “With Humphrey Ball?” (As if they knew any other Humphrey.) “No, she gave up on him. She decided on Lord Restive, which would have been such a brilliant match! How could she prefer Humphrey Ball? Why didn’t you stop her?”