“Good.”
“I will be prepared for trouble.”
“Good.”
“Then allow me to bid you adieu and—”
“No need. I am going with you.”
He raises one brow.
“I know exactly where you were set upon. I can be certain there is no confusion, and I can be there to assist, should anything go wrong. I have a knife. Two, in fact.”
“Naturellement.” He peers at me. “I do not suppose I can dissuade you?”
“You cannot.”
He checks his watch again and sighs. “Then you’ll need to be quick about it.”
“Quick about what?”
“Changing your attire, of course. It is a five-mile walk. You cannot do it in that.” He eyes my dress. “I do not know how you doanythingwith all those petticoats.”
I bite back a tart reply. When one has no choice but to wear “all these petticoats” one learns how to do almost anything in them. Still, he makes a valid point. As I recall, women’s attire in this century is far less restrictive, which would work much better for both the long walk and any combat situations.
“I will be quick,” I say.
He waves his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
3
Ialmost laugh when Nicolas gives me fifteen minutes. Does he think I’m dressing for a ball? Even with the endless layers of nineteenth-century women’s fashion, one learns how to disrobe and re-dress swiftly, at least for daily wear. It’s not as if I employ a lady’s maid.
Still, since he gave me fifteen minutes, I can take a little longer selecting an outfit. That turns out to be more necessary than usual, given that I am not in my own home with my own wardrobe. I open the one for the presumed Mrs. Thorne only to have my hopes plummet. William Thorne is a tall and sturdy man, but he did not inherit his size from his paternal grandmother. The only person I know small enough to fit into these dresses is Rosalind. I am my sister’s height, but certainly not her weight.
I open the next wardrobe. Mr. Thorne’s, it seems. They won’t do me any good, even if he does appear to have been rather stout...
Wait.
When the solution hits, I let out a laugh loud enough that I’m surprised Nicolas doesn’t come running to see what happened.
In my novels, heroines often dress as men. It is the only way to embark on such adventures. I have never done it myself, but if I was to start, is this not the perfect opportunity?
Lord Thorne is taller than me—most people are—so his clothing fits quite loosely. All the better to hide my true identity. My bust—flattened by extra corset tugs—forms a proper barrel chest. Admittedly, I will be somewhat short for a man, but a glance in the mirror shows that I ought to be able to pass for a youth. With smooth cheeks and blond curls escaping my cap, Nicolas will only have more reason to call me a child.
No matter. This “child” is about to save his life.
I find places for my knives—pockets! Glorious pockets!—and take the pouch with my notebook and writing utensils. Then I am ready for battle.
I march to the door, turn the knob and yank, only to have the knob slide from my grip, sending me tumbling backward.
The door did open inward, did it not? I try again.
The door does not budge.
The door is locked.
I take a moment to be certain of that, but when I peer through the doorjamb, I can clearly see that it is bolted.