“You are coming to Vauxhall?” The fine lines around his eyes crinkled.
“Yes, but to appease Alcock I have said she might ride atop the box with your coachman.”
Mr Wycliff drew his head back. “Cutler will not permit her interference.”
“Then you may inform him that he has no choice.”
He gave a mocking snort. “You may inform your coachwoman that she is remaining at home.”
They stood, battle shields touching.
Scarlett considered her options. Some ladies might use their womanly wiles to persuade him, but she knew that would prove fruitless. Her only option was to retreat and attack from a different position.
“You must understand, Mr Wycliff, Alcock fears for my life. The first three attacks took place outdoors. Vauxhall hosts a wealth of opportunity when one is intent on murder.”
“I shall be your protector this evening.” Though he appeared resolute, the sharp angles of his face relaxed. “There is little your servant can do from the coach park.”
“Please,” she said softly enough so he would know she spoke from the heart, “she is the only person in the world who cares for my safety.”
“Not the only person,” he said but then quickly added, “I share the burden until the debt is repaid.”
The last comment was like salt to a wound. Her whole life, she had been someone’s burden. “Please. You must know I would not ask were it not important.”
The sound of raised voices outside captured Mr Wycliff’s attention. “I imagine your coachwoman is attempting to take her seat,” he said with some frustration.
Scarlett touched his arm then. “Alcock does not deal well with aggressive men. You don’t know how she has suffered.”
Mr Wycliff’s gaze slipped to where her hand rested. His sigh of surrender sent a rush of jubilation to her chest, but she dared not show it. “Then we should rescue Cutler before she has time to retaliate.”
Having dismissed Hanson, Mr Wycliff opened the door, and Scarlett accompanied him outside to find Alcock standing with her hands braced on her hips, and Mr Wycliff’s vicious-looking coachman growling back.
“Alcock is riding with you, Cutler,” Mr Wycliff commanded. “You are responsible for her, and she will remain with you in the coach park at Vauxhall. Is that understood?”
“Sir, there ain’t room—”
“I don’t pay you to argue, Cutler. I pay you to drive.”
“As you say, sir,” the fellow conceded. He glared at Alcock, and through gritted teeth said, “Climb up, sit tight and don’t say a word.”
Scarlett knew from Alcock’s sudden intake of breath that she was about to say something untoward. “Mr Wycliff has been good enough to permit you to ride atop his carriage,” Scarlett informed her servant. “Gratitude is the only emotion one should express.”
“Yes, milady.” With reluctance, Alcock inclined her head to Mr Wycliff. “Thankin’ ye, sir.” And then she climbed up to the box and settled next to Cutler.
Mr Wycliff turned to Scarlett and opened the carriage door. “Now, can we proceed to Vauxhall?”
“Of course.” She offered him a warm smile. “And might I say you can be quite the considerate gentleman when it pleases.”
Scarlett glanced inside the carriage to find Mr Cavanagh and Mr Trent sitting together on the left-hand seat. From her enquiries she knew both were also illegitimate sons of the aristocracy’s elite. The three men had formed lasting friendships at school, by all accounts. When Damian Wycliff was not gallivanting abroad, the rogues attended many of the demi-monde’s gatherings.
“Yes,” Mr Wycliff began, noting her slight hesitance, “I’m afraid you have the misfortune of sitting next to me.”
“No doubt I shall endure the hardship,” she said as he cupped her elbow and assisted her ascent. She settled into the seat opposite Mr Trent, a brooding fellow with piercing green eyes, a hard, sculpted jaw and a deep cleft in his chin.
“And a hardship it will be,” Wycliff replied. “I am possessed of rather wide thighs.” He slammed the door shut and dropped into the seat next to her. The sudden movement sent the carriage rocking on its axis. “Having taken a blade to my breeches, I’m sure you remember.”
Remember?
How could she forget?