Hardly a Husband (Free Fellows League 3)

On the road to London, Sarah realized that they needed more than a miracle. They needed a plan of action. It had taken Sarah most of the journey to devise one, and another few hours following their arrival to convince Mr. Birdwell to stay on in London as their personal driver, and several days of reading the society pages and gossip columns to obtain the information she needed in order to proceed.

But her plan was decidedly unconventional and since it was best that Aunt Etta not know the details, Sarah had spent much of the night lying awake, listening for the snoring that signaled her aunt's deep slumber, waiting to begin. And now, it was time to put her plan into action and pray that the object of her plan would willingly comply with her request.

Slipping silently out of the bed she shared with her aunt, Sarah shoved her feet into her slippers, pulled her heavy black traveling cloak on over her nightgown, tiptoed across the room, and carefully made her way down the main corridor to the back of the hotel, where she negotiated the stairs at the rear of the hotel as quickly as she could. A few yards beyond the back entrance, Mr. Birdwell waited to take her on the boldest and possibly the most foolish adventure she had ever undertaken.

Mr. Birdwell had argued against Sarah's traveling through the streets of town alone and had threatened to go to Aunt Etta with his concerns, but Sarah had stopped him with a threat of her own. If Mr. Birdwell wouldn't agree to drive her to her late-night appointment, Sarah promised to hire a public conveyance to do so. She didn't like forcing Mr. Birdwell's hand, but she had no choice. It was one thing to allow a young lady to traverse London alone at night in a coach driven by a longtime friend of the family and something else entirely to allow her to hire a public hack. Mr. Birdwell could guarantee that no harm would befall her in his carriage, but the same couldn't be said about a hack hired off the street. Sarah knew Mr. Birdwell would never allow her to take that sort of risk. Whether he agreed with her or not, the village coachman would drive her wherever she needed to go and never say a word to worry Aunt Etta.

Clutching the lapels of her cloak tightly in one hand, Sarah flipped the hood over her hair with her other hand, opened the back door, and groaned in dismay. "Oh, no."

The gentle spring rain that had persisted throughout the day and into the night had become a torrent. Her velvet cloak offered little protection against the pouring rain and her slippers afforded none at all against the puddles forming on the cobblestones as Sarah darted from the rear of the hotel, across the wet cobblestones to the mews and the shelter of Mr. Birdwell's coach.

"I could have waited at the back door," Mr. Birdwell told her as he held out his hand to assist her into the coach.

Sarah shook her head. "Our habits are well known here, Mr. Birdwell. I didn't want to risk having anyone inquire as to why you were waiting with the coach when Aunt Etta had retired for the night."

The coachman eyed her velvet traveling cape. "But now you're soaked to the skin."

"Not quite," Sarah told him, fighting to control the chattering of her teeth as she settled onto the cushions. "Just damp around the edges."

But Mr. Birdwell knew better. He handed her a thick wool lap robe, then reached for the brass pan in the floor of the coach. "Wrap this around you while I freshen the coals in the warming pan."

Sarah unfolded the wool blanket and settled it over her wet cloak. "I don't need the warming pan, Mr. Birdwell," she said. "I'm in a bit of a hurry and the blanket is quite sufficient."

Mr. Birdwell left the warming pan where it was, tucked the ends of the blanket around Sarah's feet, then closed the door. "Are you sure you still want to do this, miss?"

"I'm not sure of anything," Sarah admitted, "except that I have to do this."

"All right then, miss." Mr. Birdwell acknowledged her decision with a tip of his hat. He had known Sarah all her life. He didn't need to understand the nature of her venture to understand her determination to see it through to the end. "Rap on the ceiling if you change your mind," he instructed. "And I'll turn this coach around and we'll come back and join Lady Dunbridge in a good night's sleep."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Mr. Birdwell frowned. "Don't be thanking me, miss, for doing something that goes against my grain. As a matter of fact, I don't look forward to driving you around the city this time of night. And the only reason I'm doing it is because I know that look of determination on your face and because I know that you must have a very good reason for doing what you're doing." He leaned into the coach and looked Sarah in the eye. "What are you doing, miss?"

Sarah returned his gaze steadily. "I'm waiting for you."

The coachman heaved a sigh as he climbed up to his seat, released the brake, and lifted the ribbons. "Where to, miss?"

"Mayfair."

Mr. Birdwell wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. "Mayfair, miss?"

"Yes, Mr. Birdwell," Sarah confirmed. "Mayfair. Drop me off on Park Lane."

"Where on Park Lane?"

"The beginning," she replied. "I'll walk from there."

"In this weather?" The coachman was stunned. "I'll do no such thing."

"Yes, you will, Mr. Birdwell." Sarah's firm tone of voice brooked no argument. "Because I'd rather you not draw attention to my presence by pulling up to the house."

"Where shall I wait?"

"You're not to wait," she said. "You're to return here immediately."

"I can't do that, miss."

"Yes, you can, Mr. Birdwell."