She heard a coachman speak to the horses out on the street, and an idea came to her. She would hide in Podmore’s carriage. No one would look for her there. She could hide inside until Podmore came back, then slip out the opposite side when he returned. She would miss his visit completely.
Pleased with her plan, Ines opened the courtyard gate, slipped outside, and went around the side of the house, where she spotted the carriage. It didn’t look exactly like the one Podmore had showed her last time. It wasn’t as shiny and didn’t have gold accents. This was much plainer, though she was certain he could make it sound like the most amazing carriage ever constructed.
The coachman had left his box and was speaking with a deliveryman nearby. His absence made Ines’s task easier. She walked to the door of the coach, careful to stay low so the coachman would not see her through the windows. But even that was not a worry as the coach’s curtains were closed. She opened one door, slipped inside, and closed it again. In the darkness, she couldn’t help but smile at her own cunning.
She sat back, prepared to wait until she heard Podmore returning. The squabs were comfortable but not as luxurious as she’d anticipated. Where was the velvet Podmore insisted upon? Perhaps he had realized that velvet seats in summer were far too warm. The heat in the closed space was already making her uncomfortable and sleepy.
A few minutes passed, and then a few more, and she heard the coachman climb back on his box. The coach started moving a few minutes later, which was to be expected. They were looking for her inside the house, and Podmore would not want his horses to stand for too long.
Ines was rather used to riding in coaches now, though she had never even seen a coach in the tiny village where she’d grown up. But even after having ridden in coaches dozens of times the past five years, she still enjoyed the feeling of being carried by a momentum not her own. She closed her heavy eyes and waited for the horses to come to a stop outside Draven’s house again. She should probably hop out as soon as the coach stopped. Podmore would have given up on her by now and might be waiting for his coach to carry him home. She would exit on the street and try to sneak back into the house via the courtyard.
Catarina would scold her, but Ines was not sorry. She had told her sister she did not care for Mr. Podmore and that she did not wish to marry any man that she didn’t love. She wanted a man who could offer passion, excitement, and—Catarina usually cut her off by then. Her sister treated Ines’s pronouncement the same way she treated Ines’s requests to move to the little room above the lace shop: with a big sigh. Her older sister seemed to forget that when she had been only a little older than Ines, she had run off on her own and tried to find a husband to save her from the marriage her father had arranged. Not long after, Catarina had swooped in the night before Ines was to be married and offered to take Ines with her to Spain. Ines had agreed, eager to escape a life she hadn’t wanted. But now, when Ines craved a little freedom of her own, Catarina still treated her like the girl of only fourteen.
The way Catarina babied her infuriated Ines, but emotional scenes did not sway Catarina. They’d grown up with a violent father who often screamed and yelled for hours. That was before he used his fists. Catarina was not impressed if Ines yelled or stamped her foot or even if she cried. Ines was not ashamed to admit she’d tried all three tactics. Now she would have to think of something else. Perhaps if she took on more responsibility at the lace shop. She could prove that she could be trusted with greater obligations. She pondered that idea for a little while.
She must have fallen asleep because when she jerked awake, she was surprised to find her muscles stiff, as though she had been in the same position for some time. Then she noticed the heat of the day had faded and the noise of London, a noise she had become so accustomed to, had quieted. At the same time, she realized the carriage was still moving. Why was it still moving? Wouldn’t the coachman have just made a circle or two and returned to her home to collect Podmore? Ines snatched open the curtains closest to her and stared out into a field dotted with sheep. She opened the curtains on the other side, heart pounding, and stared at a small cottage.
This was not London.
This was not Podmore’s coach.
STRATFORD
Stratford Fortescue sat in a chair on a hill overlooking his family’s estate, the sun on his face, and the wind ruffling his hair. He could relax now that the baron had gone inside after the picnic lunch. His mother and aunt had strolled away, heads together as usual, but his cousins and siblings and their spouses were enjoying a game of lawn bowls at the base of the low hill. He had an excellent view of the prospect of Odham Abbey from this vantage point. The building was undeniably Georgian in design, though the original structure had been Tudor. In the eighteenth century, the Tudor origins had been covered by granite and white paint and fashioned into a Palladian mansion.
Even as a child, Stratford had liked the clean lines of the house and its perfect symmetry. A year shy of thirty, he was a man of logic and reason. He’d studied the art of war and was known for his ability to develop efficient yet ingenious strategies to win even when the odds seemed improbable. Stratford liked simple elegance in a house and in a plan. His older siblings had invited Stratford to join their games, but he had declined. He’d spent the last few months in London surrounded by inane conversation. He had no desire to subject himself to more if it could be avoided. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the company at the country house. Indeed, he only ever came if there were guests. Less risk of being alone with the baron then.
But even in the midst of a house party, Stratford enjoyed his solitude. Besides, if he joined the group, someone would want something from him. He’d long ago been designated the lowest ranking family member; he was always the one sent to fetch and deliver and squire.
Even his Aunt Harriet and his cousins ranked above Stratford in the unwritten family hierarchy. She was not really his aunt. She was related to his mother in some form or fashion—his mother’s second cousin or some such thing. It was easier to call her his aunt and her children his cousins. Before her husband had died, the so-called aunt and uncle had produced four females and a male. Not a one of the distant female cousins was married, and their brother was all of ten and off at school, which meant Stratford was always taking this Wellesley sister or that one to some ball or other. He could use a moment’s peace. Of course, as soon as he thought it, one of the cousins started up the hill toward him. It was Abigail Wellesley, the youngest of the quartet of daughters. At fifteen, she was not yet out, but Stratford was certain she’d be dragging him about Town next Season.
She smiled at him, her blue eyes bright against her pink cheeks. She wasn’t wearing her bonnet, and Stratford motioned to the white umbrella swaying in the breeze. “You’d better cower under that or your mother will have your head.”
Abigail made a face. “I like a little sun on my cheeks.” But she sat dutifully under the umbrella. When he didn’t say anything, she started in. “I tired of the game. Hester kept winning, and she has a bad habit of gloating.”
“Behavior not to be borne,” he drawled.
“I wish we could go back to London. There’s nothing to do here. Surely you wish you could go back to London, Stratford.” She meant because the baron didn’t want Stratford here. Even a girl of fifteen could see Stratford did not belong.