Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

Used as Amanda was to her mother’s critical eye, nothing could have prepared her for Lady Finch’s sharp gaze. Heavens, she’d rather have to go through another tea with Mrs. DrummondBurrell in hopes of receiving vouchers to Almack’s than face this all too discerning inspection.

From Lady Finch’s furrowed brow and none-too- keen expression, Amanda suspected her false front was about to be uncloaked.

“Miss Smythe, I believe it is?” the baroness asked.

Amanda nodded, afraid to breathe even a word before the lady all the ton held in an unearthly terror. ’Twas said that even though Lady Finch had come to town only once in the last thirty years, she knew what the king had for breakfast before the man was served his plate.

If anyone could ferret out her true identity, it was Lady Finch.

“Where are your people, gel? Where do you come from?”

At this question, Jemmy turned to her, one of his brows quirked in a quizzical air. She’d denied him these answers, but in the face of the indomitable Lady Finch, they both knew there was no eluding the questions now.

“I’m …I’m…I’m from London,” she offered.

Lady Finch huffed, then leaned over and tapped her cane on the side of her barouche. “Mrs. Radleigh, your assistance please.”

A moment later a woman climbed down from the carriage, notebook in hand and pen at the ready. She was dressed in widow’s weeds, with her face buried within the expanse of her black bonnet, so it was hard to determine how old Mrs. Radleigh was or what she looked like.

Jemmy leaned over and whispered, “My mother’s secretary, poor chit. East India widow. No family to speak of, so Mother took her in.” He shook his head woefully, as if that were the worst fate to befall the lady. “Why, just the other day, the old dragon had her writing a—”

“What is that, James?” his sharp-eared mother called out.

“Nothing, ma’am,” he said in a polite and deferential tone, though Amanda didn’t miss the lingering sparks of mischief in his eyes.

“So, Miss Smythe of London,?

? Lady Finch began as she elbowed Mr. Holmes out of her path and stalked toward the pony cart. “I will have your parents’ directions in London. Now.”

It was an order that brooked no refusal. “Number Eight, Hanway Street,” she told the lady. She might have to answer the baroness’s questions, but that didn’t mean she had to tell the truth. Besides, it wasn’t a complete lie. It was the house they had let six years ago during her Season, or as her father liked to call it, “that demmed waste of my money.”

Besides, it was the only London address she knew by heart. And it would take even the indomitable Lady Finch some time to determine her falsehood. By then Amanda would be well on her way to Brighton.

“Harrumph! London, you say?” The lady thumped her cane to the hard-packed road. “You haven’t the sound nor the look of a girl brought up in the city, but then again, I daresay you went to school in Bath, where they were able to rid you of those wretched Town affectations.”

Amanda’s mouth opened, despite her very proper Bath education. How had Lady Finch known where she’d gone to school? Why, she might as well ’fess up right this very moment and return home. Return to the dreadful future awaiting her there.

But before she could do anything so drastic, something incredible happened, something so miraculous that it gave her the faith to believe that all was not lost. Not quite yet.

For as Lady Finch turned her attention to Mrs. Radleigh, instructing her hapless secretary to make a notation of the address and check it against her previous correspondence, Jemmy pressed his leg against Amanda’s.

It was such a slight movement, at first she thought he’d just accidentally bumped her, but then as the pressure increased, Amanda slanted a glance up from beneath her bonnet to find him shooting her a quick wink.

“Hang in there, minx,” he whispered. “Her Dragonship is feisty, but my money is on you.” Then he leaned closer, so his lips were but a hair’s breadth from her ear. “And I haven’t forgotten my promise. I’ll see you get to Brighton if I have to take you there myself.”

See her all the way to Brighton? Why, the very idea was scandalous. Amanda didn’t know what to say. Not that she could have responded with Lady Finch so close at hand.

Nor did it appear that the baroness was paying them any heed, for she was engrossed in dictating a long list to Mrs. Radleigh. “…and you’ll need to send a note to Tunbridge for those fellows who played at Lady Kirkwood’s soirée last winter. They were tolerable musicians and should suffice for a betrothal ball.”

“A wha-a-at?” Amanda blurted out.

“Why, your betrothal ball, Miss Smythe,” Lady Finch replied matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Maguire and I decided it is the most expedient means of finding your match. She is of the opinion that time is of the essence, and I”—she glanced from Amanda to her son and then back to Amanda—“share that notion.”

“But I don’t want to be—” Amanda’s protest was cut short by a none-too-gentle jab in the ribs by Jemmy.

He made a great show of floundering with the reins as if he’d dropped them. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Smythe,” he said. “How terribly clumsy of me. What was it you were saying? That you didn’t want my dear mother to go to such bother? I agree. Really, Mother, is a ball entirely necessary?”

“I don’t see that this is any of your concern, Jemmy,” Lady Finch said, her sharp gaze still fixed on Amanda.