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  Though the panic in Meg’s eyes had subsided, the worry still lingered in their bright blue depths. “But what if you can’t?”

  Her friend was concerned—and probably for very good reason—but if she gave in to those concerns even for a moment, Amelia would back out. And she couldn’t back out. Not now. Not with what was ahead of her if she opted to go home to Father. London was no place for a gently bred lady, but neither was home.

  She shook her head free of the thoughts of her father and moved back to the writing desk. With quill in hand, she began to write the letter that would hopefully gain her freedom.

  Dear Ms. Denby,

  I regret to inform you that I am unable to fetch Amelia myself and therefore

  would very much appreciate it if you would send her to London via stage coach.

  I will be there to meet her upon her arrival.

  With kind regards,

  Stewart Harding

  “There.” Amelia said, holding up the letter to review her handiwork. “I think that should do it.”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Meg said, shaking her head back and forth slowly.

  “Of course you don’t. You never have good feelings about anything that’s fun or adventurous.”

  It wasn’t a very nice thing to say, and when Meg deflated like a hot air balloon whose fire had been snuffed out, Amelia’s stomach turned to knots. It wasn’t her intention to hurt her feelings—Meg was her dearest friend in the whole world—but she didn’t know just how desperate Amelia’s situation was. It wasn’t the kind of thing Amelia wanted to burden her friend with. She was so beautiful and innocent; she didn’t need to know of the horrors Amelia had suffered before she came to Ms. Denby’s.

  She crossed the room again and plopped down on the edge of the bed beside her friend. “I’m sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean it.”

  Meg looked down at her hands. She fiddled with the folds of her skirts—something she did when she was nervous. “No, it’s true, I suppose. But even so…this goes far beyond simple fun and adventure. This is downright dangerous.”

  It was true. Going to London alone with no contacts, nothing and no one to recommend her, was indeed dangerous. And probably the stupidest thing she’d ever thought to do.

  She had no choice, however. She’d stayed at Ms. Denby’s School for Girls long enough. She had pretended to fail at many a subject in order to prolong her time here, but she was eighteen now. There was no way Ms. Denby would let her stay another year. Nor would her father allow it. It was time to graduate and move on, and she had to do it quickly before Father came to retrieve her.

  When Amelia said nothing, Meg asked, “Where will you stay?”

  Amelia shrugged. “I’ve no idea. But I have some pin money. I’ve been saving whatever Father sent me for the last two years. I knew I’d be booted at some point or another.”

  “But you’re not being booted!” Meg said, jumping up on the bed and tucking her feet underneath her. “Ms. Denby hasn’t said a thing about you needing to leave. Perhaps you should speak with her—explain yourself.”

  Amelia gave a dry little chuckle at her friend’s naïveté. It wasn’t a matter of asking Ms. Denby for more time. She was out of time. Father would come to fetch her, no matter what, and he’d force her into whatever marriage he deemed acceptable. And if she didn’t acquiesce, who knew what he would do. Lock her up in the small closet under the stairs for days on end until she was too weak to put up an argument? Or perhaps he’d resort to the lash?

  Her stomach churned at the memories. If she didn’t change her line of thought, she’d make herself ill.

  “It’s not about needing more time.” Amelia turned on the bed and took her best friend’s hands in hers. “I want to do this. I want to go to London, no matter how dangerous. I’m tired of being here. Can’t you see that? Five years of my life I’ve spent in these four walls, and while it’s better than the fate that awaits me at home, I can’t say it’s better than a life in London.”

  “But—”

  Amelia put a hand to Meg’s mouth. “No. No more buts. I’ve decided on this path, and this path I shall take. Now, are you going to help me or not?”

  Meg sat still and silent for a moment, but at long last, she nodded. Relief flooded through Amelia. She hadn’t realized until just then how much her friend’s support meant to her. She wrapped her arms around her Meg’s neck and squeezed tightly.

  “Thank you, my dear friend. Thank you.”

  ~*~

  When Thomas Barclay, future Viscount Grantham, had agreed on Tuesday evening to have dinner at his sister’s on Wednesday evening, this was not what he’d had in mind. Who did she think she was, anyway? Just because she had evaded hanging for something she should have been hanged for, according to English law, didn’t mean she was immune to his wrath. Of course Tom didn’t plan to hang his sister in the literal sense, but he hoped the piercing glare he sent her way right now did the job of a figurative hanging.

  “Don’t give me that look, Thomas,” she said, piercing him back with an equally divisive glare. “I may be younger than you, but clearly I have more sense. I am telling you you’re out of control.”

  Tom sneered, causing his sister’s emerald eyes to flash with anger. “And I’m telling you I don’t care what you think.”

  “It’s not just what I think. The entire Town is talking about…about…”

  Bloody Town. Bloody London. Didn’t the gossips have anything better to do with their time? “I’m not about to give in to what some old biddies are saying about me.”

  “They’re not—”

  “Enough!” Tom held up a hand to stop his sister from lecturing him about the respectable people who were talking about what a complete failure he was. He didn’t need other people to tell him that. He knew good and well what a complete and utter disaster his life had become.

  “I think you should leave, Tom.”

  Victoria’s words fell over him like a heavy, wet blanket. They constricted his heart and made it difficult to draw air into his lungs. Why? And why did he care so much that she wanted him gone from London?

  “You need time away,” she continued. Tom opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off. “They will be here for the Season. You know that. And after the other night…”

  He turned away so his sister wouldn’t see the utter anguish that befell him. As if things hadn’t been bad enough before, seeing her again, knowing she was already…wed. Well, he’d seen the bottom of many a bottle in the last few days to compensate.

  “If you react the way you did at Robin’s come out every time you see them around Town, you’ll drink yourself into an early grave.” Victoria reached across the dining room table, where they sat alone, and put her hand over his. “I won’t have that happen to you. I love you too much.”

  Damn and blast, her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t,” he pleaded with his sister.

  “You’re all the family I’ve got,” she continued.

  “What about Fin? What about Lily?”

  “I love you all the same. Losing any of you would devastate me beyond repair.”

  Tom took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. With all his sister had been through, he was starting to feel guilty for making her worry so. And perhaps embarrassing her a little along the way. It was true, his behavior hadn’t been exemplary. To say he wasn’t handling Bianca’s rejection well would have been a great understatement. The journey he’d taken with her in his attempt to save her had bound their hearts together. Or so he’d thought. He’d suspected that she harbored feelings for her gypsy all the while, but he’d chosen to ignore it, damn foolish man that he was.

  “You need to go away, Tom. Get your head on straight, and stop—”

  “Embarrassing you?”

  Victoria turned away, but said nothing, which confirmed he was right. He was humiliating her in front of the ton. Part of him felt bad for that, but another, more selfish part of him wanted to tell all tho
se gossip mongers to go straight to Hell and mind their own business. He ought to be able to drink and whore if he so chose. They didn’t know the anguish he was in. They didn’t understand what it was like to fall madly in love with a woman and be so very close to making her your wife, only to have her choose a gypsy—a damned gypsy—instead. If anyone had a right to feel embarrassed, it was him, damn it.

  He pulled his small, pewter flask from his pocket and threw back a swig of brandy. Victoria didn’t need to tell him that she disapproved—it was obvious in her flashing green eyes. But he needed something to alleviate the tightness that had built up in his chest.

  “Where the hell am I supposed to go?” he asked over the burn in his throat.

  “Welwyn.”

  Tom leapt from his chair. “Do you wish to sentence me to death by boredom?”

  Victoria glared at him. “I don’t find that funny in the least, as someone who actually did face a death sentence not so long ago.”

  “What the devil am I supposed to do in Welwyn?”

  “Whatever one does in the country, I suppose. The point is that Fin has a cottage there that’s recently been vacated. You may take two of your staff, if you like.”

  He scoffed. His sister’s high-handedness made him want to throw his flask across the room. But that would be a waste of damn good brandy. “Oh, thank you for telling me what I can do with my own employees.”

  Victoria rolled her eyes. “I’m referring to the amount of space at the cottage. There’s enough room for two servants to join you.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” Tom said, scowling at his sister and shaking with the effort to not take another drink.

  “You think this is fun for me? Do you think I wanted to have this conversation with you?” Victoria’s face turned positively purple, and she shook with frustration. “I’m doing it for your own good, Tom.” She took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm her nerves. “You’ll clear your head, have some time away from this Town and the gossip and—”

  “You can say her name, you know? I won’t dissolve into hysterics if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m just trying to be respectful. It wouldn’t hurt you to do the same.”

  Tom met his sister’s eyes, and then looked away again. She’d properly chastised him and now he felt like a cad. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I know you’ve had a rather difficult year. But I really do believe some time away will do you good.”

  Tom wasn’t so sure about that, but he wanted to make his sister happy. He certainly didn’t want to bring embarrassment to her or to the family any more than he already had. Out in the country he could do whatever he damn well pleased.

  He nodded. “All right. I’ll go.” Then he added, for good measure, “But I won’t like it.”

  Victoria smiled as she stood from the brocade dining chair. “I know you won’t,” she said, patting him three times on the shoulder. “But you’ll thank me for it. Trust me.”

  Two

  Tom threw back a large gulp of ale just as his favorite wench approached and plopped herself into his lap. She was the only reason he frequented this filthy establishment. Well, her and the fact that few respectable gentlemen would dare darken its doorstep. There was less chance of his sister finding out he was still in the city and not on his way to Welwyn already.

  Bloody meddling sister. Why did she have to go and ruin all his fun? Interfering, interloping, pain-in-the-bum sister. Two years ago, she didn’t give a pig’s arse what he was doing with himself. Of course, she was a bit preoccupied with her own illegal activities at the time. Part of Tom wished she was still robbing people at gunpoint just so he didn’t have to listen to her tell him what a disappointment he was.

  “Dammit!” He pushed Cora off of him with a bit more force than he’d intended. He couldn’t entertain a whore while thoughts of his sister ran through his head.

  “What’s the matter, love?” she asked in her thick Cockney, not seeming at all dejected, but rather coming back toward him with a feigned pout. “Something on your mind?”

  Tom looked away from her and reached for his ale. After he’d taken another swig, he answered, “Nothing that concerns you, Cora. Go on. Bigglesworth appears a lot more interested in a tête-à-tête with you this evening.”

  He held up his glass to Bigglesworth—an acquaintance who was just as depraved as Tom was—as he gestured to Cora, who’d already begun walking his way. In return, Bigglesworth gave him a grateful nod before inviting the busty bar wench to sit on his lap.

  Tom turned away, trying to push thoughts of what might have been from his mind, and polished off the last of the ale in his glass.

  Bloody Victoria.

  “Another!” Tom yelled to the barkeep, who promptly pulled him another ale and placed it before him.

  Tom didn’t waste anytime. He lifted the glass to his lips and poured back nearly half the liquid. Damn, but that felt good. Every drink took him further and further away from here. From her.

  Bianca.

  Dammit, but why did he pine for her still? Like some love-sick pup. He’d even taken to reading Keats, for God’s sake. Keats! That romantic, melancholy drivel.

  He took another swig.

  Images of Bianca with her gypsy flashed through his mind. Their happy, smiling faces. Making love under the damned stars every night while her silky, dark hair shimmered in the moonlight.

  Dammit!

  Tom let his head lop forward onto the wooden table with a loud thud. A gentle hand rested on his arm a moment later, and he struggled to lift his head to see who the hand belonged to.

  He squinted tight until he made out the face of the barkeep.

  “Bring me another,” he said. He’d intended to be demonstrative, but the weakness in his tone made him even more frustrated.

  “I don’t think so,” the barkeep replied. “You’ve had enough. Your carriage’ll be waiting outside, my lord.”

  Tom wanted to protest—start a fight, even. It would feel good to put his fist through someone’s face. But the booze had gotten the better of him. He stood from his chair, the wooziness taking hold, his vision so blurry he could barely see his way through the crowd.

  “Fine,” he slurred, moving forward. By some miracle he made it to the door. The fresh air hit him like a welcome smack to the face and he leaned against the brick wall of the pub for a moment.

  Even in his drunken stupor, he knew his sister was right. Perhaps that was why he’d gone on a binge this evening. Not just to forget about Bianca, but to avoid admitting that his bloody meddling sister was right. Damn, but that was a dreadful thing to admit. She was only four-and-twenty—six years his junior, for God’s sake. And to suggest he leave London for the bloody country!

  Fine. He’d go. But not until he’d had one last fling with a sweet little tart, like the exotic beauty who was walking by just now. Her hair was wild and unkempt, but that was all right. It would be plenty mussed by the time he was done with her anyway.

  With as much charisma as he could muster in his state, he pushed off from the wall and stumbled into the path of the stunning young lady with the mass of dark locks. She stopped dead in her tracks as Tom bent low into a bow. He nearly toppled over, but manage to right himself again as he said, “Good evening, pretty lady.”

  ~*~

  Amelia did her best to keep a straight face as the drunken buffoon attempted a wobbly bow before her, nearly careening to the cobblestones below.

  “Schmood even, perpy loody,” he said, and Amelia simply stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she replied. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  He came up to his full, rather impressive height, and raised a finger in the air. “Ah! So…modest.”

  Though it was slurred, she understood that one. What it had to do with the first thing he’d said though, she’d never know.

  “Well, thank you,” she said, not knowing what else
to say, and then she tried to step around him to be on her way.

  “Wait!” He grabbed her by the arm, his strength impressive considering how deep in his cups he was. His breath reeked of beer, and his eyes bore into her with an intensity that reminded her far too much of Father. An immediate panic settled over her.

  “Kindly unhand me, sir,” she demanded in the calmest voice she could muster.

  Much to her surprise, he did as she asked, but then immediately reached for her with his other hand, this time caressing her cheek and eventually landing on her shoulder.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, in a slurred, but gentle voice.

  Fear riddled her body, and she started to tremble. “All the same, I would very much like for you to remove your hands from my person.”

  Again, he did as she asked, but his next move was far worse than having his hands on her shoulders. He moved in close and somehow pinned her against the wall of the pub, where no doubt he’d gotten himself into this state in the first place. Amelia hadn’t even realized they’d moved so close to the building during their short interaction. The man put his arms up on either side of her, palms flat against the wall, locking her into his cage.

  “Please let me go,” she said, hating the desperate sound of begging that came from her.

  “Jus’ one wittle kish for a broken-hearted man?” he drawled, coming closer and closer.

  Amelia turned her head to the side, trying to escape. She did not want this to be her very first kiss. His puckered lips landed on her cheek. They were warm and wet, like a slug against her skin. Amelia wanted to jump into the river. Good God, what a louse!

  “Get off of me!” She tried desperately to push and claw away from him, her heart pounding, her lungs seizing. Had he been a little less drunk, she might not have been successful, but as it was, he could barely stay upright, and a hearty push sent him stumbling to the ground.

  Amelia ran, eager to put as much distance between them as she could before he righted himself and came after her. She darted across the street, dodging carriages and puddles. When she reached the other side, she dared to glance back. Surely enough, the man stood watching her in the light of the streetlamp, its orange glow casting his features in frightening shadows. And then he stepped into the street, headed her direction.