Her heart began to thump harder than ever. She knew what would happen if she climbed those stairs and demanded to speak to Sinclair. He would refuse to have any conversation with her. And if she insisted, then he would refuse to take her with him. She couldn’t win, not on his terms. And she had to win, for Terry’s sake.
Eugenie needed a better plan; she needed to hand Sinclair a fait accompli.
“Jack,” she whispered, “will you do something for me?”
While she explained her idea he nodded seriously, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He was only a boy, after all, and to him this was probably a great adventure. Eugenie slipped from her mare, taking her bag with her, and made her way as close as she could to the coach without revealing her presence. Jack waited until she was in position, and then dug his heels into the mare’s flanks. The silly creature darted forward, kicking up gravel, and flew past the coach, servants, and the waiting coachman.
The sudden commotion made them all jump and shout. The burly servants started after Jack, waving their arms, while the coachman followed a short way, then seemed to remember that it was his job to look after the duke’s horses and turned back. But the distraction gave Eugenie time enough to reach the coach, quietly open the door and slip inside.
Creeping into the farthest corner, she curled up and made herself as small as possible. There was a neatly folded travel rug which she spread over herself, hoping she resembled some lumpy piece of luggage that had not fitted onto the back of the coach. She could not hide here for long, she knew that with a stark sense of inevitability, but perhaps it would be long enough for her to persuade him it was easier to let her stay than to waste time turning back.
Sinclair drew on his gloves as he strode down the steps. He didn’t feel cold, although his breath was white in the night air. The urgency of the situation was keeping him warm. Behind him in the doorway his mother stood with a stiff back and a white face, watching him go. As he’d expected she blamed him for the entire dire situation, and because he felt it was justified, he’d bowed his head and accepted her anger.
“I will bring her back,” he swore, when she was spent.
“I never did trust that Gamboni woman. She is behind all this, you can be sure of it. Annabelle would never do such a thing without encouragement. She is at heart a sensible girl, Sinclair.”
They had still not found Miss Gamboni, although the clothing in her bedchamber was untouched and her luggage was still in the box room.
“What of the scandal?” His mother’s eyes were red-rimmed with grief. “How can that be dealt with?”
“The scandal can be managed. Once she is married to Lucius and living in London all will be forgotten. You will see, Mother. We will get through this without too much tarnish attached to our name.”
“You do not understand, Sinclair. Her life will be ruined. She may think she wants to be free of all this,” she waved a hand about her at the pomp of her home, “but she will soon come to realize her mistake. When it is too late.” She took a deep breath, trying to quell what she would see as too much emotion. In his mother’s world one did not display one’s feelings in front of others, not even one’s son.
“I promise you it will not come to that.”
“And what of this boy? His family will crow from the rooftops when they know he has secured himself such a prize.”
“They may well crow but no one of any importance will listen to them. I will make sure the boy never spe
aks of what he has done and we never set eyes on him again.”
His mother opened her mouth and then closed it again. Perhaps something in his voice, his face, made her think it was wiser not to ask how he was going to achieve that.
“Very well,” she said instead. “Remember who you are and what you represent, Sinclair. The family is relying upon you to set this matter to rights.”
He kissed the cold cheek she turned to him, and hurried down the steps. The coach was ready and waiting and he climbed in, calling for Robert the coachman. He’d decided against any other servants or outriders, thinking the less people who knew what was happening the better. And then there was a question of speed. A large retinue would slow him down and he needed to catch the runaways as soon as possible.
Sinclair had barely settled back against the leather seat when the vehicle lurched forward and then began to roll across the gravel, swinging around the circular drive and heading out between Somerton’s grand gateposts and their stone lions.
Deep in thought he did not notice the shape in the corner, or if he did, it did not strike him as anything to be concerned about. He knew that time was of the essence and according to Annabelle’s maid the eloping couple was heading northward, so they should be easy to trace. Sinclair had the advantage. He kept horses at some of the inns along the way, to enable his mother to visit her family in the north whenever she wished. He could travel with speed and would not have to deal with inferior horseflesh. No, this nightmare would soon be over and Annabelle would be back, safe in the dowager duchess’s care.
A question niggled at him. How could his sister have done such an insane thing? He knew she was unhappy and anxious about her coming marriage—she had spoken with him about it—but he never for one moment imagined she would behave with such deceit. Such wanton recklessness. He’d believed that she was simply betraying her youth and inexperience, and once she married Lucius all would be well. That was the way of their world and in time she would come to accept it.
Just as he had.
He’d underestimated her willfulness and her determination to throw aside the traces of privilege for the sake of that wretched boy.
Restlessly, Sinclair stretched out his legs and knocked against something tucked by his seat. He gave it a kick and when it remained in his way, reached down. He found himself in the possession of a luridly flowery carpetbag. Confused, he stared at it, and then with growing suspicion he unfastened the straps and peered inside.
Women’s clothes, badly packed. Curiously he lifted up a well-worn chemise and then a pair of darned stockings. A nightgown with a line of lace about the throat drew his eye, and before he knew it he was holding it to his face. Breathing in the scent.
He knew the scent well; he’d even dreamed of it. He did not need to see the hairbrush with a few strands of curly hair still caught in the bristles—brown with more than a hint of red—to know who it belonged to.
Sinclair thrust the carpetbag aside, reaching for the traveling rug that covered the lump occupying the seat in the far corner. He tugged it hard. As he’d suspected his stowaway was none other than Eugenie Belmont.
Chapter 22