Page 82 of Project Duke

“Finding a way to London,” said Calliope.

“But His Grace was clear—”

A wave of anger hit Calliope at the mention of Nathaniel. “His Grace is delusional if he thinks I’ll let him lock me up.”

Calliope looked at the farmer’s son. “Do you know the way?”

“Yes, I do. That is, I know the way to Bramblebrook. That is halfway to London. We can ask for directions from there.”

“But wouldn’t His Grace send a carriage with footmen for you, my lady?” Abigail asked. “The roads may not be safe.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” said the farmer. “I need my son here, and he’s never been so far from the village.”

“I’ll only be gone a short time, and I know the way, Pa,” the young man reassured his father. The farmer studied his son for a moment and then clapped him on the shoulder with a warm smile, a little worry still lingering around his eyes.

“My lady, I wish you would reconsider…” whispered Abigail hotly. “What about our things?”

“We can have our things brought later…besides, I don’t want Mrs. Howitt to know. She may do something to stop us.”

“But, my lady—”

“Excellent,” said Calliope to the farmer with a broad smile and pointed. “I’ll take your best horse and that gig.”

She handed the farmer her ruby and sapphire necklace. The farmer’s eyes widened. “Your Grace, this is too much.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just right. And perhaps your son may know another young man who could act as my bodyguard and would like a trip to London. And perhaps your wife could pack us enough food for the journey. I must be in London by seven this night.”

As the farmer and his son nodded and started to prepare the horse and the gig, Calliope sighed with relief, even though Abigail was clearly uncertain about this.

Nathaniel’s rejection was painful. She loved him, but she was not willing to be open with him anymore if this was how he planned to treat her. She’d keep her thoughts and feelings to herself from now on, as she always should have.

30

“Is the man here?” Nathaniel asked Harvey.

Portside was, once again, lively and bustling around him, thick with the pungent scents of sweat, ale, and the rush of anticipation. As usual for a Wednesday night, two women boxers were the main event.

The first, a fiery redhead with her hair tied back in a rough bun, bore a look of fierce determination. Her opponent, a beautiful dark-haired woman with piercing green eyes, was slightly taller and had a reach that seemed to give her an advantage. They danced around the boxing ring, their bare feet kicking up clouds of dust from the well-trodden wooden floor. Every jab, hook, and uppercut was met with roars, jeers, or gasps from the audience.

Nathaniel’s chest ached. He missed Calliope like he missed a limb. Every minute of the day he’d thought of her, wondering if she could eat, if she had nausea, if she was tired, if her nipples still hurt like she had told him they did. Her absence in the house was felt everywhere: in the empty space on the new settee in the sitting room, in the dining chair she usually used, in his bed, and even in the silence that hung over him and his sisters when they sat together as a family last night.

His sisters looked sadder. The servants walked around with seemingly no direction. The goddamn cat came into his bed and he cuddled against it, its presence like a small mercy.

The man watching his house was still there, returning every time they shooed him away, like an annoying fly.

Not for long. Hopefully.

Harvey nodded and pointed behind Nathaniel with a cup he’d been cleaning.

“He is. Only, your wife is already talkin’ to ’im.”

Nathaniel’s stomach sank. With a horrible sense of dread, he turned to where the owner pointed. Sitting at one of the round tables was Calliope, dressed in a spencer she used for road trips and in her green bonnet that made her hair such a striking red hue his heart ached. She leaned over a mug of beer, speaking with a man who looked like a proper thug.

Nathaniel didn’t think he could ever feel so furious and yet completely terrified at the same time. He had been feeling this way to varying degrees practically every day since he’d met her, and he didn’t like it, not one bit.

He marched through the room to the table, and she looked up at him, cool and collected. And so beautiful he couldn’t breathe.

He looked her up and down. The sleeves of her spencer looked a bit dusty, her curls slightly fuzzy. She was a little pale, her eyes somewhat puffy. Had she been crying?