The miles pounded by. He began to grow concerned that she didn’t regain consciousness. Minutes ago they’d bowled past the signpost for Helderton, a small village not many miles from the halfway point to Smithfield. He gazed down at her again and saw for the first time a dark purplish bruise forming over her temple. She must have struck her head when she fell. He quickly laid his hand over her breast to feel for her heartbeat. It was, he thought, rapid but steady. A blow on the head could keep her from regaining consciousness. He prayed silently that it wasn’t serious.
He found himself wondering if he was not a coward. Had he hidden her identity from the others to protect his own reputation? By God, who would want it known that he’d been challenged to a duel by a girl? That she’d managed to have him at her mercy, the tip of her foil against his heart? Was he, in fact, endangering her life to keep himself from being a laughingstock?
He looked up as the carriage drew to a halt in the yard of the Red Rose Inn, in the center of Smithfield.
Silken’s small, pointed face soon appeared at the carriage window. “The cattle are winded, your grace.”
“Change ’em, quickly, Silken. Five minutes, no more.” As soon as Silken had bustled away to search out the ostler, Pottson scratched lightly on the carriage door to gain the marquess’s attention.
“Is Miss Hetty all right, your grace? Please, sir, she’ll live, won’t she?”
“Yes, Pottson. The bleeding has stopped. When she fell, she hit her head on a rock, and it’s that keeps her from consciousness. Now, what is it you want to say?”
“Miss Hetty wrote two letters, your grace. One to Sir Archibald and the other to Sir John. If something happened to Miss Hetty, I was to give the letters to her maid. You see, your grace, Miss Hetty always has luncheon with Sir Archibald at precisely twelve o’clock. If she’s not there, he’ll miss her. There’ll be hell to pay.”
“Damnation. Well, it must be dealt with. No, be quiet, Pottson, I must think.” He stared down at the unconscious girl in his arms. “I’ve got it. Listen, Pottson. You’ll rent a hack from the ostler and return to London immediately. Tell Miss Rolland’s maid to inform Sir Archibald that Miss Rolland has been invited by my sister, Lady Alicia Warton, to spend several days with her at Thurston Hall. She will then accompany you to Thurston Hall by this evening if possible, Pottson. I shall attend to my sister. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your grace. Lady Alicia Warton.”
“You may ask my butler, Rabbell, in Berkeley Square, the directions to Thurston Hall. Here,” the marquess added, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. “This should be enough money. You must pull it off correctly, Pottson, there is much at stake. You know it as well as I do.”
“I know, your grace, I know. It was a mad scheme, but once Miss Hetty had the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. I couldn’t blame her, your grace. After all, her brother”
The marquess interrupted him. “No, don’t tell me any more. Go now, there’s no time to lose. Don’t forget, Lady Alicia Warton. I fancy she and Miss Henrietta Rolland are going to become bosom pals.”
The marquess thought about Sir Archibald and his general vague perceptions of his family, and decided that his plan was likely to work. Moreover, Sir Archibald wouldn’t question an invitation from Lady Alicia Warton. He must remember to write to his sister this very evening, and warn her not to appear in London.
The marquess lifted her shirt again and saw with dismay that his hand was covered with her blood. The wound was bleeding again. He shouted to Silken to bring him several very clean napkins from the inn.
Gently, he laid her on the opposite seat and unfastened the soaked handkerchief.
He winced at the raw wound, remembering all too clearly the unbearable pain he’d suffered when he’d accidentally been run through the shoulder by a school friend, George Pulmondy. Strange, he thought, that he remembered George’s name, for he hadn’t heard a thing about him in years.