Jani had been there, assuring her the telegram had been delivered to London posthaste.
The news did little to uncurl the fingers of dread threatening to squeeze her heart into stillness, which would be preferable to these constant, breathless palpitations of anxiety.
She’d done what she could to keep her growing panic from the Mackenzies and Jani. Much of the journey was spent indulging the children with descriptions of London.
Barraged with endless questions, Liam did take the time to tell her about their town house off Oxford Street overlooking Hyde Park.
“I want to go to the marina to look at warships.” Andrew’s blue eyes had gleamed with relish. “And to see the Egyptian exhibit at the British Museum!”
“I want to attend a real opera, and a ballet, and a play at Covent Gardens. Oh! And then one at Vauxhall Gardens! And we have to go to a real Russian tearoom; and a Turkish bath, they’re all the rage, Father.”
“And I am going to try my hand at gambling,” Andrew speculated.
“You most certainly will not,” Mena indignantly chimed in.
“Why not?” Andrew threw his father a plaintive look. “’Tis a gentlemanly pursuit,” he argued as he drew his wiry frame to a more erect posture, trying to take advantage of every inch that he’d sprouted in the past few months.
“Sorry, son,” Liam rumbled as he shook his head and hid a smile.
“They willna let a whelp like ye in the clubs, ye have to be a man first.” Rhianna elbowed him in the ribs. “Like Jani.”
“I am thinking that even I am too young to attend,” Jani had said, more solemn and serious today than his usual jolly self.
Andrew huffed indignantly. “I’ll likely be an old man the next time we get to visit London … if we keep up this rate.” He eyed his father accusingly, but the point was lost by the well-timed crack in his pubescent voice.
“We’ll have to supplement your wardrobes if you have such lofty goals for the city.” Mena’d considered, momentarily forgetting herself.
“Och.” Liam grimaced. “And how much is that going to cost me?”
“A small fortune, if I have anything to say about it.” She cast a wry glance at the marquess, and blanched as his dark eyes glimmered with hot reminders of their previous night.
As soon as the children had settled, Mena escaped them, finally struck with the idea to beg a need for fresh air, announcing that the rocking of the train caused her to feel unwell.
However, her only malady remained her ever-growing panic. Another lie, however inert, had fallen from her lips. She despised them, loathed herself for telling them, and detested the need for her dishonesty.
Cursing her fear-driven weakness, Mena remained with her forehead pressed to the cool window and watched the fields of the Scottish Lowlands give way to Northern England.
Mena’s thoughts flew faster, trying to keep ahead of the train. If she could ferret out every possible contingency, and formulate a plan to avoid discovery, she might make it to Paris with her guise intact.
God, how she wanted to tell him. Most especially after last night. His secret had been revealed to her and she’d not only understood it, but she accepted his intentions as noble, if his actions had not been.
Hamish had been right about one thing, sometimes great men did evil things.
Even in the name of good.
She’d come close to confiding her own secret so many times the night before, but had decided to leave it to the light of day. The right moment had never truly presented itself. And she hadn’t the opportunity this morning.
But what could she do? There was a chance Liam would forgive her if she confessed, but to do so now would be out of the question.
What if his famous temper got the better of him? What if he cast her out, or worse, handed her over to the authorities?
She simply couldn’t risk it.
The tiny striations of her veil felt gritty against her forehead, but it did let the coolness of the glass temper the flush of panic heating her face. With Farah’s and Millie’s help, she just might avoid detection altogether.
Her husband, Gordon, and his parents ran in completely different circles than the Marquess Ravencroft and his former mother-in-law. Lower circles, to be sure. Even as a viscountess, Mena never had the opportunity to meet Lady Eloise Gleason.
As a high-ranking military officer, a national hero, and the carrier of a very ancient title, no one would dare to close a door to Ravencroft. In fact, when word reached London that he’d arrived, invitations would inundate his household with startling alacrity.
But Liam Mackenzie attended the parlors of such lofty people as His Grace, Collin Talmage, the Duke of Trenwyth, and even His Grace, Lord Grosvenor, the Duke of Westminster upon occasion.
This time of year, the St. Vincents would undoubtedly have retired to their home in Hampshire for a country Christmas like a great deal of the ton was wont to do. They’d filter back to the capital for the New Year and the season, but it didn’t seem like the Mackenzie family planned to linger in London for that long before moving on to the Continent.
As a lowly governess, she would not be included at any social event the marquess attended, as Rhianna was not out in society until she was presented to the queen next year. Excluding a few shopping and sightseeing outings, there was really no call for her to leave the house.
She could wear very unremarkable clothing and perhaps hide the color of her hair under a few bonnets, and if heaven was on her side, she’d avoid recognition.
If it wasn’t … well, it didn’t bear thinking about.
“I know what ye’re afraid of.” Liam’s dark voice echoed off the wood of the tiny compartment.
Mena jumped from her seat and whirled around, wondering just how a man so large could sneak up on her like that.
Today he looked every inch the English marquess. Polished black knee boots complemented his dark gray wool breeches and waistcoat, making the stark white of his shirt all the more dramatic. A silver-gray cravat tied loosely at his chin belied his inherent distaste for English clothing. His hair was bound in an ebony queue gleaming against the white of his shirt and caused his rawboned features to stand out in stark contrast to the implied gentility of his attire.
No one wore their hair long these days, and Mena imagined no one would dare mention that to the marquess.
His uncultured appeal stole her breath, even now, and she found her gloved hand clutching at her own lace cravat as she struggled to reply.
“What—what makes you think I’m afraid?”
One dubious brow lifted, but he said nothing as he stepped forward and slid the silent door to the passenger compartment closed and locked them inside, pulling the blinds down over the window to the cramped hall.
Mena found herself drawn into the circle of his arms, sheltered by his massive shoulders, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he could fit through the cramped walkways of the train. His heart thumped a strong rhythm against her ear and his arms settled around her shoulders, cocooning her in his masculine warmth and unfathomable strength.
She leaned on him heavily, breathing in the scent of starch from his laundered clothing, the cedar soap he used, and something earthier. Sharper, like iron and stone. Like he’d been underground.
“How did it go with your brother this morning?” she asked, partly trying to divert the conversation, and mostly because she worried about the shadows she’d earlier seen in his eyes.