“It does, rather. On the other hand, Lord Ventnor has a finger in hundreds of pies. There is no reason he should not make such an arrangement with Lord Luxborough, given he is his father-in-law, or with Papa, given their acquaintance. Either way, the Earl of Luxborough cannot possibly know who you are, and it is too late to stop your scheme now.” Arabella shot a glance at the door leading into the noisy tavern and extended her left elbow. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Thea slipped her fingers around Arabella’s elbow and looked down, the tunnel formed by the bonnet’s brim revealing little more than the toes of her half boots and a circle of uneven flagstones. She swung her head but all she could see of Arabella was the blue skirt of her pelisse, the little white tassels down the front perfectly aligned.
“When I came in, Ventnor’s men were seated at a table that will be on our right as we leave,” Arabella said softly. “Remember, chances are they will identify you only by your dress and not bother checking your face, but no need to give them the opportunity to prove they are not complete muttonheads. Whatever happens, keep your head down and do not look at anyone.”
Thea was already fighting the urge to look up. “I shall try, but it will tax my resources immensely, and I’ll likely faint with exhaustion at the end.”
“Duly noted. If you manage to cross this room without looking up, I shall commend you to the Crown for a medal of valor.”
Arabella set off, and Thea let herself be guided into the tavern like a horse in blinders, eyes on the floor, which did not bear such scrutiny well; it could use a good scrubbing. The thick air dried her throat; a man ranted about a missing box; the smell of burned toast filled her nostrils. Through it all, Thea did not look up.
“Ventnor’s men have seen you,” Arabella drawled in a low, bored tone. Thea did not look up. “Keep walking. They are watching you, but they do not seem suspicious. We are almost— Oh dear.”
Arabella stopped abruptly. Thea stopped too and zealously studied the floor.
“What?” she hissed. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Don’t look up.”
Thea looked up.
First, she saw boots. Men’s boots, dusty and scuffed. Their toes were pointed toward her and Arabella, from which Thea deduced the rest of the man must be facing them too. Even with her limited education, Thea could discern a finely crafted boot of expensive leather: Whoever this man was, he was not one of Ventnor’s rough hires.
And as though someone had attached a string to her bonnet and was pulling on it relentlessly, Thea’s gaze traveled up, up that expensive, dusty leather to the top of those boots, up the man’s long, powerful, buckskin-clad legs, to an exquisitely tailored dark-blue coat—he was definitely facing them, and definitely not moving, and he was not only sufficiently big to block their path, but also sufficiently rude. This man was an aristocrat, Thea decided, for only an aristocrat would stand so nonchalantly in their way.
Up, up her gaze traveled, racing against the brim of her bonnet, up past the rows of buttons spanning a broad chest, to the white neckcloth and collar, to the darker hue of his long, angular jaw.
To his scars.
Ah. Now she understood. This man must be the Earl of Luxborough.
The thick lines, too jagged to be truly parallel, began on the high crest of his left cheekbone and continued relentlessly down, over the hollow of his cheek, narrowly missing his ear to disappear under his neckcloth. Another two thick marks scored his temple.
These scars had long since settled into his skin, but Thea could not help but imagine how they might have looked once. What a horrifying experience it must have been! And what a monstrous great cat, to have paws the size of a man’s face!
A sharp point in her side made her jerk: Arabella’s elbow. Ashamed for gawking, Thea dragged her gaze off the earl’s scarred cheek and gathered an impression of tangled dark hair tumbling haphazardly over a high forehead, before she found herself looking into his eyes. He was staring right at her, his gaze intent, his eyes golden-brown against his thick lashes and straight, lowered brows. He could not have been much older than thirty, but those eyes—those eyes were ancient, as though they had seen a million things and wearied of them all.
Those tired eyes pinned her to the spot, as he took one deceptively lazy step toward her, and another, until he filled her narrow vision, both fascinating and terrible. His haunted eyes, his careless hair, his coiled energy, his storied cheek. His air of utter indifference to anything but her. Thea felt uncomfortably aware of the tightness of her stays, her scalp itching under the bonnet, the warmth of her cheeks.