Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

It covered her completely. The only things visible were her eyes, and a patch of finely woven black mesh shielded them.

Jonathan didn’t know which was worse. Having her dressed like a queen and wearing a fortune in precious gems or having her covered. Either way, they were bound to attract attention. “Is there any way to uncover your face?”

India shook her head. “That’s the point. Whenever women go out in public, their faces and their bodies must be covered.”

“That may be the way it is in the sultan’s realm,” Jonathan said, “but this is England, and there’s no reason for you to ever cover your face again.” He bent to remove a knife concealed in his boot. “Hold your hands against this.” He nodded toward the mesh. “While I modify the opening.”

India did as he asked, then watched in amazement as he used his knife to cut out the mesh and widen the opening in order to expose her face and neck.

“There,” he pronounced in satisfaction, before lifting her onto the saddle and putting his foot into the stirrup to mount behind her. “Now it looks as if you’re wearing a hooded cloak instead of a prison.”

Jonathan hired a dray and a team of oxen in Pymley, along with the men needed to work them. He knew the men he hired. He’d worked with them before and knew them to be completely discreet and trustworthy. And to insure that they remained completely discreet and trustworthy, Jonathan paid them handsomely for their services in removing what he had euphemistically referred to as a mound of Turkish rubbish.

Jonathan left Griffin’s gelding at the livery to be fitted for new shoes, then hired a gig so that he and India might travel in comfort when they accompanied the group back to Plum Cottage.

They found everything they needed at the village except a dress for India. Pymley was a working village too small to support a seamstress’s or a milliner’s shop. The dresses the matrons in the village wore were fashioned for work, except for their Sunday dresses that were cut and sewn from fashion plates published in Godey’s Lady’s Book and in London newspapers, but none of the women Jonathan encountered wore the sort of dress India required. Or the sort of dress he wanted to see on her. For that, they needed a lady, and ladies in P

ymley were in short supply.

Jonathan knew India was disappointed not to find a dress, but her disappointment paled in comparison to her excitement at riding into the village on horseback and returning to Plum Cottage in an open gig with her face uncovered and turned to the sun.

The journey back to the cottage was brief, and the road, though muddy, was quite passable. Jonathan tried to mitigate India’s disappointment by handing over the reins to the gig and teaching India to drive.

She laughed with delight as the pony sped along far ahead of the dray and the oxen. She laughed all the way to the cottage, and her laughter was contagious. Jonathan laughed more in her presence than he could ever remember doing. As he helped her slow the pony for the turn into the drive leading to Plum Cottage, India turned to him and exclaimed, “I wish I could drive all the way to London!”

“I see no reason why you can’t,” Jonathan told her. “So long as you allow me to in the event that we encounter heavy traffic.”

“Agreed.”

“Then I shall relax and nap while you drive us to London.” He’d do nothing of the kind because, like everything else she did, India drove with a joie de vivre that scared the trousers off him. But he wouldn’t dream of ruining her delight in her new accomplishment by letting on that she was anything but the most capable of drivers.

“Oh, Jonathan!” She released the reins into his capable hands, then flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Thank you! Thank you! A thousand times thank you!”

“You’ll want to take back some of those thank-yous when your arms feel as if they’ve been pulled from their sockets tomorrow morning,” he warned with a laugh.

“No, I won’t.”

“Then thank me properly.” Jonathan pulled the gig to a stop beside the hitching post near the paddock, secured the ribbons, then turned on the seat and kissed her in earnest. And India kissed him back. Thanking him most improperly for being the man who came to her rescue, for being the man with whom she had fallen in love in the space of a few hours.

They were still kissing when the men from the village arrived with the team of oxen and the dray.

One of the workmen cleared his throat, “Uh-hmm, sir, if you’ll just tell us where the mound of Turkish rubbish is, we’ll be about our work and leave you to your pleasure.”

Jonathan reluctantly ended the kiss, then met India’s bemused gaze. “Mound of Turkish rubbish?”

He shrugged his shoulders in a boyish gesture India loved. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Most appropriate,” she agreed.

“Would you like to wait inside the cottage while I help the men remove it or . . .”

India shook her head. “I wouldn’t miss this for all the spice in India.”

“Neither would I.” Jonathan laughed at the devilish sparkle in her eyes, then removed his coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. He looked at the workmen. “If you gentlemen will follow me.” He led the way to the back door of the cottage, flung it open, and pointed.

Mustafa cursed him vociferously from his position on the floor.

The workmen stared at the enormous eunuch trussed like a Christmas goose on the floor of the cottage. “But, sir,” one of them said, “this is a man.”