Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

Chapter Twenty-One

By the by, what did you tell our host to explain our odd traveling arrangements?” asked Olivia the next morning, after the innkeeper set down a breakfast tray and bustled out of the private parlor.

“Oh, as to that, I managed to cobbled together a story worthy of Sir Sharpe Quill,” replied John.

She choked on her swallow of tea.

“But likely you are far too serious to read those horrid novels.” He took up a piece of buttered toast and downed it in two quick bites. “Cecilia seems to find them highly amusing—a fact which in this case proved very useful in spinning a colorful yarn.” A steaming cup of coffee, dark as Hades, washed down the bread. “We are husband and wife, racing to reach your dying mother in Plymouth before she shuffles off her mortal coil. Our coach cracked an axle, so we had to leave it behind with our servants and hire the only vehicle available in Guildford—the cabriolet.”

“Not bad,” she murmured. “Though, I daresay Sir Sharpe Quill would have added a few more embellishments.”

The idea of Olivia curled up in an armchair with one of the wild

ly racy books brought a twitch of amusement to his lips. “So, you have actually read his stories?”

“Every one of them,” replied Olivia.

John wasn’t sure whether she was jesting, but other more important things pushed the topic from his thoughts. “Finish your tea, Miss Sloane. The cabriolet will be ready shortly and we mustn’t waste a moment.”

Dawn was just beginning to lighten the horizon as a flick of his whip set the horses into a steady trot. His muscles were a trifle sore from the pounding pace of yesterday, but he had suffered far worse conditions in Portugal. As for Olivia, he slanted a sidelong look at her profile. Head bent, she was studying the large road map supplied by his sister’s coachman.

“Mr. Young says that if we take the left fork just past the village of Wheaton, it will cut over six miles off the distance to Andover.” She looked up, her face already powdered with gritty dust. “It’s a trifle narrow, he warns, and requires some driving skill. But the way is fairly flat and he’s confident that we can gain time.”

Pluck to the bone. Fatigue was etched at the corners of her lovely green eyes, and yet her spirit remained undaunted.

“Thank you,” he said. “It won’t be comfortable for you, but I cannot pass up the chance to gain ground on Scottie and his captors.”

She snagged the flapping ribbons of her bonnet and tied them tighter. “Curse my comfort, Wrexham. Let your team fly.”

The shortcut proved a testing route to negotiate, and the constant twists and jolts left his own insides feeling a little queasy. He could only imagine how his less battle-hardened companion was feeling. Her face, however, was a mask of stoic resolve.

I must be ruthless in pursuing every advantage, no matter how tenuous, John reminded himself. He couldn’t afford any tender sentiment. Not with Prescott’s life being used as a pawn in this dangerous game of check and checkmate.

Dangerous.

There was Olivia’s reputation to think of as well. So far, they had been traveling on less frequented roads. Once they returned to the main toll road, the chances of being recognized grew greater.

That neither of them had sought to shine beneath the glittering chandeliers of Mayfair’s ballrooms should be a point in their favor. However, John knew all too well how a chance encounter, a casual glance from some London acquaintance, could prove disastrous.

His brooding growing blacker by the moment, they made it to the outskirts of Andover an hour ahead of the expected time.

“I shall ask around among the stablehands about whether they’ve seen a vehicle resembling Lumley’s coach,” muttered John as he pulled into the yard of the first inn they came to. “If I have no luck here, we shall have to waste the precious time we have won in stopping at the others along the way.”

“Patience,” counseled Olivia. “It’s important to learn how far ahead they are, so we can begin to plan a strategy.”

“I’m well aware of that,” he snapped, then swiped a twist of brambles from the sleeve of his coat. “I’m sorry. My nerves are a bit on edge.”

Olivia was already climbing down from the cabriolet. “I shall see about ordering some hot tea while you make your inquiries. Sometimes, the tavern wenches and scullery maids are more observant than the men who handle the horses.”

No one, however, remembered a coach or tavern patron matching the descriptions that Davenport had given to them.

The same was true at the next two inns.

Fuming with frustration, John climbed down at the last possibility before the road skirted around a stretch of dense forest and led down into the center of Andover.

“If I were Lumley, I wouldn’t choose to stop in the center of town,” he muttered. “Too many eyes.”

Olivia nodded in agreement. “Shall I go order more tea?” A pause. “Or perhaps you would prefer a mug of ale.”