“What?” asked Caro, his expression stirring a frisson of alarm.

“Aunt Adelaide wouldn’t be so bacon-brained as to invite any acquaintances to visit. And yet…” He let out another grunt. “Perhaps the barouche belongs to Andover.”

“Andy doesn’t own a barouche.” Pressing her nose to the window glass, Caro squinted into the sun. The light must be playing tricks with her eyes, for the glint off the distinctive brass trim on the door panels looked horribly familiar…

“No, it couldn’t be,” she whispered.

“Is something wrong?” asked Alec.

She pursed her lips. “I must be mistaken.”

But as the carriage rolled closer to the manor house, the crest on the paneled door was all too clear.

“Oh, dear.”

Alec edged forward on the seat and angled his head for a better look. “Perhaps Andover borrowed—”

“It’s not Andover,” intoned Caro. “That is Wrexham’s traveling coach.”

Not that she wasn’t delighted that Olivia and her husband had returned to England. But seeing them at this precise moment…

“Then I take it the dark-haired, willowy young lady descending the portico stairs is your eldest sister.” A pause. “I need not ask the identity of the petite blond who has just joined her.”

Anna? Anna was here as well?

“I thought Anna and Davenport were in Russia,” mused Alec.

“So did I.” Caro expelled a sigh. “That will teach me to write a letter late at night when my emotions are aroused. I thought I was being exceedingly clever, but apparently I was simply being exceeding dramatic.”

His brows tilted upward in question. “Dare I ask?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

I have enough explaining to do.

Crunch, crunch. The wheels rolled over the gravel. Resigning herself to the inevitable, Caro tried to smooth the worst of the wrinkles from her much-abused gown, then abandoned the effort in favor of snagging an errant curl and refastening her hairpins.

Alec was watching her in bemusement. “They are your sisters, not the Royal Princesses.”

“You don’t understand.” Tug, tug. “Men may take courage from a bottle of brandy, but ladies take heart from feeling they don’t look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Ah.”

Her eldest sister uttered the same brief syllable some moments later as the carriage steps were let down and Caro climbed out from the shadows. Olivia was clearly making an effort to keep a myriad of questions in check. But her face, always very expressive, betrayed not only affection but also a quirk of appraising amusement as she caught sight of Alec.

“You must be Lord Strathcona. I have heard quite a lot about you, but look forward to forming my own impression…” Olivia paused to envelop Caro in a fierce hug. “Once I’ve had a lengthy chat with my sister.”

“Indeed, you and McClellan will have much to talk about—other than this little adventure.” Anna hurried down the portico steps to stand by her elder sister. “But as you say, politics can wait for a bit.”

“I—I can explain—” Caro untangled herself from Olivia’s embrace, only to find the air squeezed from her lungs by the middle Sloane sibling.

“I am looking forward to the story,” drawled Anna. “It promises to be more entertaining than any horrid novel.”

“So am I.” Anna’s husband, Lord Davenport—better known as the Devil Davenport—sauntered up to the carriage. “I thought you a sensible man, Strathcona. Didn’t the experiences at Dunbar Castle teach you a lesson about the dangers of getting involved with the most impetuous member of the high-spirited Hellions of High Street?”

Caro huffed.

“If you wished for a quiet existence in your wild Highland hills,” went on Davenport, “you have made a very grave mistake.”

Tags: Cara Elliott Hellions of High Street Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net