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  Oh, bugger! They’re coming here, to this very stable.

  Voices wafted from outside, sending Amelia into a panic. It was Mr. Barclay, and apparently his servants had arrived from London with his carriage and his things. It wouldn’t be long before they lifted the latch and pushed the stable doors open.

  Amelia looked frantically about for a place to hide. She could choose a stall, but what if they picked it for one of the horses? She didn’t fancy being discovered this afternoon.

  She turned her gaze upward, to the loft above. There had to be a ladder somewhere, though she’d not thought to go searching for it until now. All those boring hours should have been spent planning for this occasion. Of course Mr. Barclay would order his own carriage and servants to come to Welwyn. What a dimwit she was!

  There wasn’t any time to dwell on her dimwittedness, though. Heavy footsteps were on their way to the stable. She needed to hide, and quick.

  She dashed down the center aisle to the back of the building where, blessedly, there was a ladder to the loft. It was rather precarious trying to climb it in her heavy skirts and with her satchel in hand, but at last she made it to the top, just as the doors pushed open. Tom and his manservant strode into the stable, guiding the horses and carriage behind.

  Amelia didn’t dare to even breathe. Good heavens, what would he think if he found her here? What a mess she’d gotten herself into. Although, despite the mess, she didn’t regret a single moment. Sleeping in a stable was far preferable to sleeping at home. Far safer, at least.

  “Well, Carlisle, I daresay you’re eager to have a rest,” Mr. Barclay said to his manservant once they’d unhitched the horses and seen to their comfort.

  “Never mind rest, sir. Fanny and I will set to work on making the house as comfortable as possible for you.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ll have dinner in the village tonight, then, so you and Fanny can be early to bed. I know how travel can wear on a body.”

  “You’re very kind, sir.”

  Amelia assumed they’d be leaving together, at least she prayed they would be. The hay dust was thick up here and she desperately needed to sneeze. But then Mr. Barclay sent Carlisle on, claiming he wanted to take a look around the stables. Amelia started to panic. Did he mean to explore the loft? It was a large, open space, with nowhere to hide. If he climbed that ladder…

  Oh, good heavens. Humiliation is most definitely in my future.

  ~*~

  Tom waited until Carlisle had gone before he began his search. He should have known the little minx would do something like this. What was she thinking, anyhow? It couldn’t have been comfortable sleeping in the smelly hay all night. Not to mention, it must have been freezing. How had she stayed warm in the wee hours of the morning? And what was she doing for food?

  And why the devil do I care?

  He shook his head. He didn’t. He only cared that she was trespassing.

  After a few minutes spent searching around the stalls looking for his stowaway, Tom made his way to the back of the stable where a ladder stood against the wall. Of course she’d made her way to the loft, thinking he’d never find her there. Too bad she dropped her book in what he assumed was a panic to get out of sight. If he hadn’t tripped over it, he might never have known she was here.

  Tom quickly scaled the rough wooden ladder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her huddled in the corner of the space, her back to him. He fought the urge to laugh, and instead, called her out.

  “I thought I sent you on your way to London.”

  Miss St. George sat perfectly still for a moment, but then spun around on her bottom. What other choice did she have? She’d been found.

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked.

  Tom held up her book with a wry grin. He’d expected her to look sheepish or remorseful, but no. Not Miss St. George. She shoved her impertinent nose into the air, and stiffened her spine.

  “Well, nothing would make me happier than to be in London right now,” she spat out bitterly. “As far away from you as possible.”

  “Then pray tell, why the devil are you here? Hiding in my stable?”

  She drew in a breath. “The coach doesn’t leave until tomorrow. I had nowhere else to go.”

  “I thought you had money. Why not a room at the inn?”

  Finally, Miss St. George gave him a glimpse of true emotion. The bit of humility endeared her to him just a little.

  “It would have cost me nearly everything. And I’ve still a long road ahead of me. I don’t know when I’ll find a job that will pay me decent wages. I must be smart about my finances.”

  “Forgive me, but it’s rather obvious you’re a gently bred lady, no matter how much you try to hide it beneath your rude exterior.” Her eyes flashed hatred, emphasizing his point. “You ought to be looking for a husband, not a job.”

  “Oh, ought I?” At this, she struggled to stand, her feet tangling in her skirts making the action awkward and quite humorous. “Well, I’m so glad you informed me of this! I might never have known. Goodness me, what on earth have I been thinking?”

  Despite the fact she was being sarcastic, Tom answered her truthfully. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  The glare she gave him might have had another man shaking in his boots. But since Tom didn’t take her very seriously, he only laughed.

  Miss St. George grumbled as she picked up her things. “I truly wish I had never met you. And I sincerely hope I never have to see you again.”

  “Is this the thanks I get for giving you a place to stay?” he said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

  If her pursed lips were any indication, Miss St. George was about to explode like a goblet on a hot stove. Clearly, she didn’t care for his sense of humor. However, she didn’t utter a word as she stomped past him toward the ladder. Once she’d tossed her satchel to the ground, she climbed down, and Tom was forced to follow her.

  She waited for him at the bottom, her hand outstretched.

  Tom gave her a cock-eyed look as he jumped from the last rung to the hay-strewn floor. “Yes?”

  “My book, please.”

  He wasn’t ready to give it up so readily. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll have Fanny make up a room for you for tonight, and tomorrow I’ll take you to London.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “My, but you run hot and cold, don’t you? I thought you were just as eager to be rid of me as I am of you, yet here you are begging me to stay the night in your cottage.”

  “I wouldn’t call it begging, for God’s sake. I’m just…look, you clearly need my help. Why the devil won’t you take it?”

  “I don’t need help. Especially not from a drunkard who can hardly take care of himself.”

  Tom reared back, slightly taken off guard. It was one thing for his overly critical sister to say things like that to him, but what right did this little tartlet have to say such a thing?

  “You’re one to talk, aren’t you?” he said. “What about you? Here you are, unwashed, sleeping on hay, cavorting with a known rake and never mind how I found you in the first place, wandering about Covent Garden in the middle of the night.” He gestured wildly into the air, as if Covent Garden were on the other side of the barn wall. “I hardly think you have room to criticize me. And I daresay you’re not in a position to turn your nose up at my kindness. Unless, of course, you prefer sleeping on the hay to sleeping in a comfortable bed.”

  Miss St. George used her bottom teeth to bite her top lip, which made her look rather silly, but indicated she had no retort. Ha! He’d bested her, hadn’t he? Of course, he was merely stating the obvious—using sound judgment in hopes of prevailing upon her own good senses. If she even had any, that was.

  Actually, he was fairly certain she didn’t have any, so when she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off with, “I won’t take no for an answer,” and then began ushering her toward the front door.

  She didn’t protest, so perhaps she was going to accept his offer.
But it didn’t matter. He was assuming responsibility for the girl, no matter what. These games were over. He would see to her health and safety until she was back in London and secured in some kind of job. At least helping her would give some kind of purpose to his pathetic life.

  Seven

  Amelia hated this. The whole idea. She ought not stay in his cottage. Or ride to London with him, alone. As he’d said, she was a gently bred lady.

  But then, what did it really matter? She was ruined good enough, and she’d face even greater ruin once she secured a position at Drury Lane. That should have upset her, at least a little bit. After all, she’d spent longer than any young lady should at Ms. Denby’s, learning how to be a proper young lady.

  “Miss St. George, sir,” Carlisle announced as he led Amelia into the small parlor. It was modest but comfortable, and Mr. Barclay gestured to a white and yellow striped chair for her to sit in.

  “Thank you, Carlisle,” he said, dismissing the servant, and then turned to Amelia. “I see you got all the hay out of your hair.”

  “Is that your way of paying me a compliment?” she asked.

  “You may take it however you want. I was simply making an observation.” He crossed to the bellpull. “Are you hungry?”

  She was starved, but she wouldn’t admit as much. “A spot of tea wouldn’t hurt.”

  Being that it was such a small house, Fanny arrived at the door within moments and took orders from Mr. Barclay to bring refreshments. Amelia secretly prayed there would be some kind of cake or sweet biscuits involved.

  Once the maid had gone, Mr. Barclay took a seat opposite Amelia. He leaned back into it and rested an ankle upon his knee. The bastard was far too smug for her liking, what with that knowing smile he wore. She hated that he’d convinced her to stay, but she was willing to swallow her pride to avoid another night upon the hay.

  “Now, Miss St. George,” he said, cutting into the quietness of the room with his silky voice. “What are we going to do with you?”

  His voice might have been silky, but his manners were made of burlap. How dare he speak to her as if she were a vase that needed a good spot in the parlor? “I’m not an object that needs dealing with. I’m a person. And I can handle myself. I will accept your offer to take me back to London, but beyond that, you have no responsibility to me.”

  “What skills do you have?”

  “Skills?” Amelia repeated, taken off guard.

  “Yes, skills. Can you sew, bake, write?

  “I can sew, and I like to paint,” she said, still uncertain about sharing anything personal with Mr. Barclay. But then again, perhaps he could help her get what she wanted. She dared to speak of the dream she had of being on the stage. “But what I am really good at…that is, what I think would utilize my talents best is…”

  Mr. Barclay furrowed his brow and sat up a little straighter. “Well, go on. What is it?”

  Amelia took a deep breath. “I am exceptionally good at memorizing things.”

  “Things?”

  “Lines,” she clarified. “As in, lines of a play.” Heat started to infuse her cheeks, blast her nerves. Still, she forged on, hoping he wouldn’t hear how terribly her voice shook. “I’ve never had the opportunity to be on the stage, but I think I’d be rather good at it, if only given the chance.”

  Silence fell between them, and Amelia fought to calm her racing heart. Why did speaking of her dream make her so very anxious?

  “Well?” she said at last, unable to bear the quietness or the concerned way Mr. Barclay stared at her. “Aren’t you going to say something? Tease me for being so ridiculous?”

  “Why on earth would I tease you?” he asked. “I will, however, caution you. The life of an actress is not an easy one. You will be ostracized from polite society, you know?”

  There was a tenderness in his voice that unnerved her completely. When had he begun to care what happened to her? “Perhaps I don’t want to be part of polite society,” she answered. “Perhaps I want a life of my own. A life of anonymity.”

  “That’s a bit contradictory, isn’t it?” He narrowed his sharp, green gaze and sat forward on his seat. “Unless you want to be someone else. Someone you’re not.”

  Amelia’s stomach fluttered and flipped. She wasn’t sure if it was because of how he regarded her, or because he’d guessed her secret. Sort of.

  “What is it, Miss St. George? What are you hiding?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she replied, tartly.

  “Yes, I would.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or goading in his tone. But could she trust him? If she told him the whole story would he help her, or send her back to Father? Perhaps if she only told part of the story…

  “My father wouldn’t approve of me becoming an actress.”

  “I can’t imagine any father would be happy to see their daughter fall willingly into ruin.”

  Amelia changed her mind. He wouldn’t understand. Part of her wanted so desperately to tell him everything. To unload the burden of all she’d been through as a child. To finally be understood. But what if he didn’t understand? She might not be able to take the disappointment. All he needed to know was that she didn’t want to go back.

  “Can you help me then?” she finally asked.

  “Help you what?”

  “I tried to secure an audition at Drury Lane, but they wouldn’t see me. I only need a recommendation. If I have that, then I at least have a chance.”

  Mr. Barclay turned very quiet and sat back against his chair again. He opened his mouth to say something, but Fanny barged through the door with the tea tray, replete with cake and biscuits, much to Amelia’s delight. She and Mr. Barclay sat in silence for a while, eating and drinking. He never looked at her while they ate. He mostly stared past her, out the window, and occasionally at his cake. What was he thinking about?

  Just when she thought he was about to say something—give her an answer—he stood abruptly and bowed to her.

  “I shall see you at dinner, Miss St. George.” And then he was gone, leaving Amelia confused and frustrated.

  Eight

  “Miss Margaret, you’re being requested in Ms. Denby’s office.”

  Meg looked up to find Shirley, the upstairs maid, standing in the doorway. “Why? I haven’t done anything, have I?”

  Shirley tucked her chin against her chest. “Erm…I…”

  “Well?” Meg rose from her seat before the fire and crossed to the maid. “Go on. Tell me what it is.”

  “It’s Mr. Harding, miss. He arrived just a bit ago and he’s been having it out with Ms. Denby for the last half hour or so.”

  Meg felt light headed all of a sudden, and her right eye began to twitch. Good heavens, what was she going to say? Of course she’d known this day would come when Mr. Harding and Ms. Denby discovered that Amelia was missing, but perhaps she should have planned better what she would say. In truth, she hadn’t suspected they’d call upon her. Foolish girl she was. Of course they would call upon Amelia’s very best friend. But she couldn’t let on that she knew. She must feign ignorance. In order to do that, she must also get hold of her nervous tick. That blasted twitching eye was a dead giveaway every time she was lying, and Ms. Denby knew it, too.

  “Please tell them I’ll be down presently,” she instructed.

  Shirley curtsied and left the room. Meg stood very still, taking long, deep breaths, trying desperately to calm her racing heart. It would be fine. Everything would be fine. All she had to say was that she knew nothing about Amelia’s plan and had heard nothing since she left.

  Once she felt sufficiently composed, she walked down the long corridor to the staircase, down to the first floor where Ms. Denby had her office. As she grew nearer she heard the raised voice of Mr. Harding. He sounded old, and rather gruff, as he berated Ms. Denby for being so irresponsible.

  Meg had never met Mr. Harding, but she’d heard enough stories about him to know he wasn’t a terribly kind man. Actually, if the storie
s were true—and she suspected they were—he was a downright tyrant.

  “Mr. Harding, I understand your frustration,” Ms. Denby said, her tone louder than usual to be heard over Mr. Harding. “But the truth of the matter is that she’s pulled the wool over both our eyes. I hardly think it’s fair to lay the blame entirely at my feet, when—”

  “You were supposed to be the best, they said. The iron-handed Ms. Denby won’t let the girls get away with anything, they told me. She’ll make sure they stay out of trouble!”

  “I might remind you, sir, that I have looked after your daughter for nearly six years without incident.” Mr. Harding tried to butt in, but Ms. Denby’s voice was louder than his. “Two years longer than I should have. Your daughter should have been presented at sixteen.”

  “Then why didn’t you send her home?”

  “Because…because she wasn’t ready.”

  Silence fell in the room, Ms. Denby having said her piece, so Meg took the opportunity to knock lightly upon the door.

  “Come in,” Ms. Denby called.

  Meg turned the handle and pushed open the door. She didn’t dare to look at Mr. Harding. It would only unnerve her more, and she couldn’t risk it. “You asked to see me, Ms. Denby?”

  The headmistress rounded the desk until she stood in front of it. “Yes, Miss Pickering. It seems there’s been a mix up.”

  “I’ll say,” Mr. Harding gruffly interjected.

  Ms. Denby gave him a scathing look then turned back to Meg.

  “What is it?” Meg asked, trying to play the innocent as best she could.

  “Well, Mr. Harding came to collect his daughter today.”

  Meg gave Ms. Denby what she hoped was a perplexed furrow of her brow and said, “Collect? But didn’t he call for her to come to London last week?”