“I expected to find you asleep,” he said, stumbling upon her sitting in a chair in the drawing room.
A smile touched her lips. “I’m so tired I could sleep for a week, but I cannot stop thinking.” She snatched the glass from the side table, swallowed the amber liquid and placed the vessel back on the table.
“Thinking about what?” Was it their current predicament or her feelings for him that kept her awake?
She shrugged. “About everything. Your father’s illness, Emily, those scoundrels who call themselves your family—” She stopped abruptly, yet he suspected the list was endless. “Do you think Justin and Selina will come banging on your door?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Will you let them in?”
“Definitely not. Not until I’ve spoken to Terence and discovered what the hell is going on.”
Claudia pushed out of the chair. “Then we should get some rest. Lord knows what dilemmas we’ll face tomorrow.”
She looked tired, weary. Then again, an hour before she had ravaged him senseless in a moving carriage.
A smile touched his lips.
He loved her—was in love with her.
It wasn’t that he’d become so rooted in his role that he’d lost sight of reality. The need to be her lover and husband lived and breathed inside him.
“Do you think you might sleep in the carriage?” he said, capturing her hand as she came towards him. “If Justin and Selina come, it will be sometime after midday. There’s no telling when I’ll find the time to take you back to Falaura Glen.”
She pursed her lips and seemed to mull over his suggestion. “It’s important you’re here when your family arrive to cause mayhem. If I check on Emily tonight, I won’t need to go back for a couple of days.”
“That’s what I thought, and it means I can collect the private papers I left with Dariell. I want to examine the letter from my father stating he’d struck me from his will.” With his parents’ erratic behaviour he had never thought to question its legitimacy. Pride had stopped him asking for proof. “The letter did not come from his solicitor, which leaves me questioning its authenticity.”
“Under the circumstances, I understand why you’re suspicious.” A frown marred her brow. She stared into nothingness for a few seconds before saying, “How easy is it to forge someone’s signature, do you think?”
“For fraudulent purposes?” He shrugged. “For the average person, I imagine it would take many hours of practice. But for a few pounds, one might hire someone to do the deed.”
“Someone skilled in penmanship?”
“Indeed, and someone without a conscience.”
She stared at him for a moment and then her eyes widened. “Then let us hurry to Falaura Glen and retrieve the items you need.”
Lockhart brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I shall inform Simmonds and Dr Hewlett. Call Lissette to help you out of that gown and be ready to leave in twenty minutes. It’s cold out. I’ll have extra bricks warmed but wear a thick cloak.”
Claudia came up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “I like it when you worry about me.”
Lockhart smiled. “This may sound perverse, but I like worrying.”
* * *
Darkness permeated every corner of the conveyance. While it served to aid Claudia’s need for sleep, a deep sense of foreboding forced Lockhart to remain awake and alert. Unease settled in his chest for no apparent reason—an omen some might say. It had nothing to do with the wind rattling the windows or the coachman’s cautious pace.
To distract his thoughts, he leant forward and tugged the tartan blanket around Claudia’s knees. She had fallen asleep within minutes of leaving the chaos of London behind. And while he missed her conversation, just looking at her proved comforting.
By Lockhart’s estimation, they’d been navigating the bumpy road for forty minutes when the coachman’s sudden shouts and wild cries held him rigid.
Saints and devils!
The carriage picked up speed, rocking and swaying on the road as the coachman pushed the team to their limits. Panic forced Lockhart to lower the window, to thrust his head out and enquire what the bloody hell was going on.
“Stay inside, sir,” Fleet cried. Dariell had hired the coachman two weeks ago and assured Lockhart the man was highly respected in his field. “I’ll not outrun the blighter, but I’ll ride the last breath outta that ’orse.”