Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

So she wasn’t going to confide in him. “If you won’t tell me what is in Brighton,” he said, “I fear I will have to come to my own conclusions.”

“And those would be?”

“A lover.”

She made an inelegant snort. “You and Mrs. Maguire. She thought I was going there to meet a gentleman as well.” She sighed, her fingers twining around her reticule strings again. “That isn’t why I am going to Brighton.”

“A job, perhaps?”

She shook her head.

Jemmy sat back and took another long look at her. “Perhaps you are going to escape a wretched betrothal. I would venture your ne’er-do-well guardian has engaged you to a terrible and hideous old roué and you are running away to escape a disastrous future.”

At this, she laughed again. “That only happens in French romances.”

He shrugged. “I suppose so. But I still think you mean to escape a betrothal.”

She shook her head and then looked away. “Nothing like that, I assure you,” she said softly. “I’ve never been engaged.”

Something about her wistful tone made him pause. “That seems impossible,” he told her. “What is wrong with the men in …in…Where is it that you are from? I’ve forgotten.”

“That’s because I didn’t say,” she replied, once again smiling.

“Ah, yes. Another of your mysterious qualities.”

She peeked up from beneath her bonnet, a blush stealing over her cheeks. “You think I’m mysterious?”

“Immensely,” he told her, and was rewarded with another burst of laughter, sweet and entirely filled with joy. “In fact, I find you quite—”

They rounded a corner and as they did, his words fell to a halt at the sight before them.

A single man stood in the roadway, his hand in the air signaling them to stop. Behind him sat a large carriage filling the way, an obstruction capable of stopping even the most determined criminal.

“Who is that?” she whispered.

“Mr. Holmes. The village constable.”

“And am I to suppose that inside the carriage is this magistrate you hold in such terror?”

Jemmy shook his head. “No. Worse.”

“Worse than the magistrate?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Who could be worse than this unholy magistrate you’ve told me so much about?”

“My mother.”

“Lady Finch?” she gasped.

And from the way the color drained from her once rosy cheeks, he had no doubts she understood exactly what fate had in store for them.

The hangman would have been a far more welcome sight.

As Jemmy had explained hastily to Amanda, it would do them no good to make a run for it, so they had continued toward the barricade as if they were doing nothing more than taking a companionable morning drive through the countryside.

“Jemmy, you’ve found her!” Lady Finch exclaimed as he pulled to a stop before the frowning constable. “Excellent! Esme came by this morning just after you left, and when we arrived at her cottage there was no sign of you or the young lady.” Her brows rose at the significance of such a situation. “But here you are safe and sound—both of you.”