Her Grace's Daring Proposal
Autore
Joanna Johnson
Letto da
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Capitoli
14
Chapter One
Enveloped in a fug of stale beer and tobacco smoke, Isabelle Sherborne pulled her hood closer around her face as she wondered—not for the first time—whether she was making a grave mistake. There was little chance of her being recognised in a shabby place like this but she couldn’t be too careful. If she was discovered all of society would be ablaze with gossip by morning, and then any hope of discreetly bringing her sister home without a scandal would be dashed.
I can still hardly believe what I’m here to do. How has it come to this?
Seated at the dirty table to her left, a young man was whispering in the ear of his giggling sweetheart, the girl perched on his knee in a manner so intimate Isabelle almost choked on her glass of orgeat, while to her right two labourers were arguing with their voices rough and raised.
More than one pair of eyes had turned in her direction since she’d entered, but she kept hers firmly on the tavern’s door, trying to blend into the shadows while praying that he would come soon.
Not that I even know what he looks like. I have to trust the landlord will give me a sign.
A glance towards the bar showed the owner leaning against it, his brawny arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed his domain. He’d been reluctant to help, but a handful of coins had gone some way to persuading him, and a vague arrangement now existed between them she could only hope he’d honour. He would signal when her quarry entered, and she would conclude her business quickly—a bargain Isabelle had agreed to at once.
The quicker she could secure the meeting the better. Under any other circumstances she would never have set foot in this murky corner of Bishops Morton, and again she tweaked her hood lower to cover her distinctive golden hair. A woman of her standing ought not to know such a place even existed, only frank desperation making Isabelle risk tarnishing her impeccable name, but what choice did she have?
Little Marina had been just six years old when influenza had stolen their parents and Isabelle had cared for her ever since, throwing herself into the role of mother aged barely eighteen—which made knowing she was responsible for her much younger sister’s current danger even more difficult to bear.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the niggling ache behind it that refused to go away. It had been a near constant presence ever since her letters to Suffolk had begun to go unanswered, and it was made no better by the loud voices and laughter surrounding her. Given the choice she’d get up right that very moment and walk out—but she didn’t have that luxury. The stranger she was hoping to meet might be her only chance of saving Marina’s reputation, and so Isabelle stayed, with a block of ice sitting in her stomach, and waited tensely for her unwitting saviour to arrive.
‘Looking for some company?’
A voice at her shoulder made her jump. A man was standing beside her, leaning down so closely she could smell the hops on his breath, and instinctively she recoiled.
‘No, thank you.’
Unfortunately he didn’t seem the least bit deterred. A smile spread across his face and he reached for the chair beside her with a slightly unsteady hand.
‘No? Why else would you be sitting here all alone? Don’t be shy.’
Isabelle stiffened as he tried to pull out the chair, the legs mercifully caught beneath the table. She might have used the delay to escape, but she didn’t seem able to move, stark horror running over her like a cold draught.
Had he mistaken her for some kind of...?
The man grunted as he wrestled with the chair and Isabelle’s heart began to skip faster. If she left now she’d miss the person she’d come to see, but it might be her only chance to escape, her unwanted new friend probably too drunk to catch up with her if she ran...
‘I believe she’s waiting for me.’
A different voice at her other shoulder made her flinch again and she turned quickly to see another man towering above her. She couldn’t quite make out his face, the newcomer silhouetted against the fireplace behind, although something in it clearly told the first man it was time for him to leave.
Letting go of the chair he slouched away, leaving Isabelle to catch her breath, although not yet ready to feel relieved.
‘Are you—? You are Mr Carter?’
She squinted upwards, wishing she could see him properly. Obscured by the orange glow of the fire it was hard to tell anything about him other than he was fearsomely tall, a hulking dark shape, and that he must have entered while she was distracted. There was little chance she would have missed him otherwise, the sheer size of him enough to draw every eye in the room.
She shifted in her seat as he removed his hat and dropped it onto the table.
‘I am. Wainwright said you wanted to see me.’
Isabelle snatched what she hoped was a surreptitious glance at the landlord for confirmation, slightly reassured by his brief nod.
‘Yes. Would you be so kind as to join me, sir? If you’ve no other engagements this evening?’
It was an invitation more suited to a marquess’s card party than a sticky table in a cheap alehouse and Isabelle grimaced internally. He must be used to far rougher speech—but he sat, at last illuminated by the flames rather than hidden by them, and fresh discomfort knotted her insides.
Not quite what I was expecting—but then again, when have I met a mercenary before?
She hesitated, her carefully rehearsed opening stalling on her tongue. It had taken all her nerve to decide on this plan and it was too late to back out now, even if what she was about to do went against every shred of her better judgement.
For some reason, when she’d overheard a bootblack on the sodden high street telling his customer about an acquaintance just returned from overseas, she had pictured a much older man than the one now sitting before her.
The man the shoeshine boy had spoken of—a Mr Carter, usually to be found lodging at the Drake Tavern when not away on his shadowy business—had sounded like exactly the kind of individual she needed, and if all it would take to secure him was a purse full of gold there seemed little to stop her...apart from principles she could no longer afford. A grizzled old fighter would know just how to deal with the men scheming against her and Isabelle had dropped a few coins into the bootblack’s tray as she hurried back to her carriage, hardly caring that the black silk of her widow’s mourning clothes would be covered in water spots from the rain still ceaselessly falling.
That had been two days ago and now, as she considered the man in front of her, she realised how wrong her assumptions had been. This Mr Carter wasn’t particularly grizzled and he most certainly wasn’t old: by the look of him he was only in his early thirties—a few years older than herself—and completely lacking in the disfigurements one might reasonably expect from a hired blade. With his short-cropped dark hair and skin that hinted at time spent in sunnier climes than wintry England, he might be considered almost good looking—but only by those who chose to notice such things, and Isabelle, her mouth dry with apprehension and wondering how to begin, was not one of them.
Even so...
As he shrugged off his coat she watched broad shoulders moving beneath a shirt that struggled to contain them, the power of his unsmiling jaw enhanced by stubble that might have made another man look unkempt. On Mr Carter, however, the effect was different. It made him seem dangerous, and if she hadn’t already known he made his money through violence it would have come as no surprise. There was something in his hazel eyes that almost made her shiver—a shrewd understanding that spoke of more life experience than she could boast and suggested that he wouldn’t shy away from a challenge.
In truth, she’d never encountered such a man before in her entire sheltered life, and sitting opposite him made her feel strangely exposed—a sensation that only intensified when he settled his impressive forearms on the tabletop and fixed her with a direct gaze.
‘I could be wrong, madam, but somehow I don’t think a place like this is your natural habitat.’
Still hidden beneath her hood, Isabelle swallowed. Was there a hint of dark amusement in his voice? It was certainly deep enough to hold all manner of things, its gravelly pitch like a river so fathomless one couldn’t see the bottom. No gentleman would dream of beginning a conversation with anything less than perfect politeness... But then again, she thought uncomfortably, a gentleman was the very opposite of what she’d set out to find.
‘No indeed, sir. I would never have ventured in here if I hadn’t been looking for you.’
‘In that case, I’m flattered.’
The mercenary leaned back in his chair and motioned to the landlord. Clearly he didn’t intend to enter into any business negotiations without a drink in his hand, and Isabelle grasped her own glass tighter as a tankard was placed down between them, a thin rivulet of its contents running down one side.
Mr Carter reached out to claim it, drawing the tankard towards him with a hand crowned by a network of scars. His knuckles stood out beneath the patinaed skin—a mountain range roughened by who knew how many fights—and Isabelle’s apprehension was just beginning to build when he spoke again.
‘So, we’ve established that you know who I am. My question is, who are you?’
He took a sip of his drink, watching her steadily as he raised it to his mouth. His eyes never faltered, their greenish depths lit by the reflection of the dancing fire, and for the briefest moment Isabelle found it difficult to look away. The tavern was busy and yet the bustle seemed to recede into the background, the smoke and noise fading a little as the mercenary’s unfamiliar presence forced it back. Something about him made it hard to focus on anything else; perhaps the novelty of a man so far removed from everything she knew, an individual so unlike her late husband they might have been two different species entirely.
Isabelle felt an unpleasant lurch at the unwelcome thought. Poor Edwin had always been frail, bearing his suffering towards the end with a patience she wished she could have shared. Watching his decline had unleashed all her memories of nursing Mama and Papa through their illness, those awful weeks of ten years coming flooding back to drive a skewer into her heart as she’d clung to his cold hand... But he had slipped away despite her willing him to stay, pleading through her tears as she’d knelt beside his bed, and her only comfort had been knowing that Marina hadn’t had to watch the man she’d loved almost as a father cough out his final breath.
A dull ache spread through Isabelle’s chest and her hand instinctively moved again to her hood to make sure her face was still in shadow. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t bring Marina home and she lifted her chin, determined the strength that had arisen from her grief would not abandon her when she needed it most.
‘I’d rather not divulge my name just yet. Not until we have an agreement.’
A dark eyebrow raised but Isabelle pressed on.
‘I was given your name by an acquaintance of mine. I understand you provide a certain kind of service?’
That wasn’t strictly the truth, and her conscience gave a tweak—although the slight tilt of Mr Carter’s head was an immediate distraction. The subtle movement threw deep shadows beneath his cheekbones, making his stern face suddenly seem sculpted from tawny stone, and Isabelle felt a flicker of something to realise he was more handsome than she’d originally thought.
‘I can’t imagine what kind of acquaintance you and I would have in common, but their information is correct. I provide a number of services. Which is it that you want?’
Isabelle looked down into her almost empty glass of orgeat, fresh uncertainty coiling through her.
Where do I start?
Of course she had to tell him what she needed, but putting her situation into words was a step she could hardly bring herself to take. Until that moment she’d spoken of it to nobody, and she wavered, sensing the mercenary’s impatience as he sat back in his chair.
‘Come now, Miss Mystery. You’ll need to be a bit more forthcoming. Is it a debt to be collected? Some valuables you need me to retrieve?’ He glanced at her left hand, where her wedding ring was a distinctive ridge beneath her glove. ‘Or perhaps some lover you’ve grown tired of is still hanging around, needing to be moved on before your husband finds out?’
Isabelle’s head snapped up at once. ‘Certainly not!’
Mr Carter shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t be the first well-bred lady wanting me to solve that particular problem. It’ll be difficult for me to take your case if I don’t know what it is.’
He took another mouthful of ale, his ease the complete opposite of Isabelle’s own agitation, and she was glad he couldn’t see her face. Her cheeks had flushed pink at his vulgar suggestion and she struggled to keep her composure—a struggle made worse by a rogue thought that wondered if he was referring to anyone she knew.
She took a deep breath. He was easily the least agreeable man she’d ever sat down to converse with. Apparently even the prospect of paid employment wasn’t enough to inspire him to attempt good manners, but she had to persevere.
‘It’s a delicate matter.’
‘They always are.’
‘Which is why I came here myself,’ Isabelle continued, ignoring his interruption. ‘I wasn’t sure about trusting a servant with this kind of thing.’
The almost black eyebrow flickered again and Isabelle gritted her teeth on another spark of irritation.
‘But you don’t mind trusting me?’
‘As I understand it, your trustworthiness can be purchased.’
To her surprise his lips curved, abruptly transforming the barren planes of his face. It wasn’t a kind smile, like the ones Edwin had turned on her for the duration of their comfortable marriage; there was an edge to it, and yet to her horror she felt her pulse pick up speed. With his lips set in that upward tick there was no question that he was attractive, a pair of matching indentations appearing in his cheeks that were more pleasing than they had any right to be.
‘That’s true enough. Once you’ve engaged me my mouth becomes yours—along with everything else.’
Mention of his mouth drew her attention to his wolfish smile all the more and Isabelle wrenched her eyes away, too flustered to reply. Thankfully the mercenary didn’t seem to notice, more intent on his tankard than on her, but aggravation swept through her all the same.
Did he have to be quite so crass? Her sudden unease in his company had to be explained somehow, and Isabelle seized on his manners for an answer, determined not to entertain any alternative. It wasn’t the first time she’d been alone with a man—her marriage to Edwin was a testament to that fact—but of course that had been different. Her mild, courteous husband had been the complete opposite of the man she was faced with now, and besides, their relationship had not been quite as it seemed. Encountering someone like Mr Carter, with his rugged looks and broad shoulders, was a new experience entirely, and Isabelle turned away, her frustration mingling with something she couldn’t quite name.
There’s no hope that I can work with him. I’ll have to think of something else.
It was his brusque, disrespectful conduct that made her mind up for her—or so Isabelle told herself as she rose to her feet, gathering her cloak tightly around herself as if it could magic away the last ill-spent hour. It had been folly for her to think he might be the answer to her problem, desperation clearly clouding her judgement. She’d have to place her complete faith in whoever she enlisted to help her and this Mr Carter had done nothing to earn that, making her feel wrong-footed instead of in safe hands.
‘This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. Please forgive the intrusion.’
The mercenary didn’t move. He gazed up at her, that damned impertinent smile still lingering, annoying and fascinating in equal measure.
‘Ah. So I’m not what you were hoping for after all? I can only apologise that I caused you a wasted journey.’
Unable to think how to respond Isabelle drew back, dipping him the quickest curtsey her own good manners would allow as disappointment and dislike warred to see which would triumph. She’d have to begin all over again in her quest to rescue Marina, but Mr Carter’s unpleasantness left her no alternative—a sentiment that only grew when he muttered after her as she turned away.
‘A word of advice, ma’am. Next time you want to avoid being noticed in a tavern, choose a less expensive cloak. Silk’s a dead giveaway that you don’t belong.’
Joseph Carter watched his would-be employer disappear through the door with a single shake of his head. It probably wouldn’t have killed him to be more polite—but where was the fun in that?
They were all the same, he thought as he drained the dregs of his ale, these clueless upper classes who expected him to do their bidding with no questions asked, and they wore his patience thin. The pampered lives of his private clients were too fortunate to know any real trouble—but then, their self-indulgence had always been his gain. Sorting out the ton’s squabbles and tepid love affairs was far easier than going overseas to fight in other people’s wars, and as Joseph set down his tankard he wondered how much money he’d just allowed to walk out of the door.
She’d have been a difficult one to please, though. Hiding her face completely and then refusing to give her name—I might have had a lucky escape.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the short hair spiky against his palm. He was used to those who sought his services behaving skittishly, wrestling with the idea of sharing their problems with a man they thought far below them. Occasionally one would deign to ask his origins—more to satisfy their anxiety than out of any real interest—but Joseph had no intention of revealing such private matters to someone who could never understand.
It was nobody’s business how he’d managed to drag himself out of the gutter, abandoned as a nameless newborn on the steps of the workhouse but now a man of experience who had travelled to almost every corner of the globe selling his strength to the highest bidder. If those desiring his services considered him beneath them then they were welcome to do so—just as he could never view them with much respect, a lifetime of hardship having made it impossible for him to think highly of those who had no idea how fortunate they were.
Women like the one who had just left in an offended flurry knew nothing of struggling, regarding him as little more than a guard dog or messenger boy for their convenience, and he couldn’t pretend to be sorry that she hadn’t liked the glimpse of the real world that he’d given her.
All the same...
Joseph frowned. She shouldn’t have come directly. Usually the well-heeled sent a note or a servant to summon him for a first meeting—and for good reason. A lady like that had no business in a place like the Drake, and she’d stuck out a mile among the labourers and jaded women plying their trade. She’d be jumped by thieves before she could take a dozen steps outside at this time of year, with the February evenings starting early and draping the streets in a cloak just as dark as her own black silk.
As an unfeeling brute for hire he shouldn’t have given the mystery woman a second thought, although with a grunt of annoyance he realised he was hesitating.
Damn it. She’s not my responsibility...
He scowled down into his empty tankard, ignoring a scuffle that had broken out somewhere behind him. Violence was such an intrinsic part of his life that it barely registered, something he’d been forced to grow used to in the workhouse before he’d even learned to speak. His next lesson had been to show no fear of it, any weakness drawing predators like wolves to a sheep, and the fact that some shadow of decency still lingered behind his uncaring façade was a secret he’d take to his grave.
Ethics were bad for business and yet years of watching the strong prey on the weak had taught him another lesson he held close to his heart. Only a coward made victims of the vulnerable and he would never disgrace himself by doing what he’d witnessed countless times, the pride that even struggle and suffering hadn’t managed to beat out of him still guiding his hand. He refused any job that fell short of that strict standard, which meant harming no children and no women—and so knowing he’d just allowed one to stray into certain danger made him get wearily to his feet, pushing himself up from the table with reluctance he didn’t bother to hide.
Whoever heard of a mercenary with something so useless as a conscience?
‘Going after her, Joe?’
At the sound of his name he turned, midway through pulling on his coat, to see the landlord watching him from behind the bar.
‘You know me. Too soft-hearted for my own good.’
The other man scoffed, but Joseph didn’t stay to defend himself, heading with long strides to the door. The sooner he steered the woman back to where she belonged the sooner he could forget all about her. The only thing that interested him about her class was their money, everything else about them so removed from reality that to him they seemed to exist in their own separate world, and if she wasn’t going to pay him then there was nothing to be gained from his involvement but wasted time.
It was bitterly cold when he emerged onto the street, and he shivered as he pulled his hat down firmly onto his head. Which way had she gone? It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but the chill had driven everyone indoors and the usually crowded street was still, the cobbles stretching out into emptiness and even the moonlight dimmed by heavy clouds.
The woman seemed to have disappeared into thin air, and he was just about to cut his losses and return to the warmth of the Drake’s fireside when a scream sliced through the silence—and all at once Joseph knew precisely where to find her.
A narrow alley ran down one side of the tavern, dark and ominous even during the day, and Joseph turned towards it. He’d imagined nobody would be foolish enough to enter that rabbit warren at night but evidently he’d been wrong, the echoing note of the woman’s voice drawing him into the shadows with his face set in resignation.
Just as I thought. Barely a dozen steps.
His heart beat a fraction faster as he broke into a run, but he wasn’t afraid. It had been years since he’d felt any dread at the prospect of a fight, daily hidings at the hands of boys bigger than him hammering that out until he’d grown strong enough to make them think twice. There had been little point in hoping the workhouse wardens might intervene and Joseph couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known that the only person worth relying on was himself.
Even his own mother hadn’t loved or wanted him, the other boys had never tired of reminding him until he’d accepted it as fact, and as he’d grown into a hard, unflinching man he had come to know that his only value to those around him was in the towering frame that meant few dared meet his eye. If brute strength was his sole worth then those in need could have it—for a price. Nobody ever cared for him otherwise and he cared for nobody in return, an untouchable island who hired out the worst parts of himself while keeping the rest locked down tight.
There was only one of them, Joseph saw as he rounded a sharp corner and took in the scene with a single glance. The thief had his prey pushed up against the wall of the alley, one hand at her throat as with the other he tried to rip the small bag she was clinging to from her grasp, and although she twisted and thrashed she had no hope of breaking free.
It was as effortless as breathing for Joseph to hurl the thief to the ground and he stood over him, watching as the man sprawled out on the dirty cobbles mere inches from his boots. Behind him he heard the woman take a rasping gasp, her throat clearly raw from being squeezed so mercilessly, but he didn’t turn around, instead addressing the figure at his feet with a contempt that could have blistered iron.
‘You’ll be leaving now, before I lose my temper.’
The thief didn’t need telling twice. Without a word he scrambled back on his hands and knees and then he was up, fleeing down the alley, and Joseph felt his lip curl as he listened to footsteps disappearing into the dark.
Pathetic. Picking on someone weaker and then running when confronted with a fair fight—just the same as every other coward.
He flexed his fingers, allowing them to relax from their tight fists before glancing over his shoulder. The woman was still slumped against the wall, one hand pressed to her throat and her chest rising and falling far too fast, the movement clear even beneath the cover of her cloak. At some point during the struggle her hood had been knocked back and at last Joseph caught sight of her face, a pale oval gleaming in the shadows, but even that indistinct glimpse was enough to make him pause.
She was much younger than he’d thought, her smooth skin silvery in the moonlight and the wide set of her eyes reminding him suddenly of a deer. It was difficult to tell what colour they were, but the thick dark lashes surrounding them contrasted with the fair sheen of her hair—the complete opposite to his own almost black crop. They might have been images in a reverse mirror, everything about them contrary to the other, although in the next moment Joseph dismissed such romanticism as the nonsense it was. He shared no bond with this woman, and a comely face meant nothing—just a countenance belonging to a stranger he would never see again.
‘That was pure stupidity. You ought never have walked here alone.’
The mysterious young woman looked back at him, her chin lowered as she fought to regain her breath. She didn’t shy away, and Joseph couldn’t help a twinge of grudging respect that she hadn’t simply given in without a fight.
So she has a thimbleful more mettle than some others I’ve met.
Her voice was hoarse, her attacker’s grip having roughened its cut-glass edges. ‘I wanted to reach my carriage as swiftly as possible. I thought perhaps this alley would be a quicker route.’
‘You should have brought someone with you. Or why not tell your driver to meet you somewhere closer by?’
‘I told you why. I didn’t want to trust a servant with this particular task. They’re loyal, I’m sure, but they might talk—even if not with malice—and I couldn’t risk anyone knowing where I’d gone.’
The woman tentatively rubbed at her throat. Even in the darkness Joseph could see bruises beginning to form on her delicate neck and he looked away again at once, irritated that his eye had been drawn there in the first place.
‘You could have been killed. Whatever your trouble is, it can’t be worth that. You’d be better off staying at home rather than wandering the streets at night looking for an answer.’
He was mildly surprised when her head came up, her eyes seeking his in the moonlight. In the tavern she’d seemed ill at ease, and then, when her face had been finally revealed, she’d looked afraid. But now as she stared up at him it was with a passion more striking than anything before.
‘It is worth it. It’s the only thing I have left in the world worth sacrificing myself for. And if I don’t find an answer nobody else will.’
She shut her mouth with a snap and Joseph saw her jaw tense, perhaps regretting revealing so much to a man she’d already decided she didn’t like. She didn’t enjoy his company—that much was clear—and for his part Joseph had no desire to waste his time with some prim upper-class miss if he wasn’t going to be paid for it...even if she was undeniably pretty as she took a cautious step closer, the top of her head hardly reaching his shoulder.
‘I must thank you, Mr Carter. If you hadn’t come I should have lost my purse, and along with it a very precious miniature. I’m truly grateful for your help.’
She gave him an uncertain smile and Joseph felt something stir low down in his belly. The portrait was of her husband, no doubt, but for a split second that didn’t seem to matter. All he could focus on was the sweetness of her smile and the real appreciation in her voice as she thanked him—both things so unfamiliar that he could only respond with a grunt.
‘We won’t speak of that. I’ll take you to your carriage and then we can part.’
He saw her blink at his brusqueness but he didn’t wait for a reply. He was tired and hungry and had better things to do than shepherd stray ladies back to their rich husbands, he thought as the sound of silk-slippered feet followed him from the alley towards the relative safety of the main street. She didn’t try to engage him again and for that he was thankful, aware of her presence at his elbow and wishing her no closer as they walked in silence through the darkness, her hood once again hiding her face and Joseph trusting to the darkness to do the same for his.
At last the woman spoke. ‘That’s my carriage.’
Joseph looked up from his study of the pavement. A grand carriage was indeed standing a short distance away, its lamps casting a puddle of light across the ground around it and a fine pair of bay horses patiently waiting to move. At last it seemed he was about to be rid of his unwanted companion, and Joseph almost sighed with relief—although a shadow of his previous irritation still lingered.
‘So I see. Can you cross the road without assistance?’
The woman bridled a little and Joseph had to fight back a dark smile.
‘Of course. I believe I can at least manage that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. In that case, I bid you goodnight.’
He tipped his hat and turned abruptly away, determined not to spend another moment in such unprofitable company. A wealthy married woman with a pretty face was still a wealthy married woman, and unless she employed him there was no reason for two such incompatible species to mix.
This time, however, it was he who walked into an ambush after barely twelve steps.
‘Mr Carter? Please wait.’
He sensed a black-swathed figure behind him and suppressed a groan. After the trouble he’d already had that evening he was hardly in the mood for more—and yet for some reason he found himself turning back.
She was looking down at the ground, nothing visible beneath her hood but the very tip of her well-shaped nose. ‘I was too hasty before. I think... I think perhaps you might be able to help me after all. Would you call on me tomorrow? If you have the time?’
A remark balanced on his tongue but Joseph just managed to restrain it, taking from her the little white card she drew out of her reticule. She still didn’t sound entirely sure that she was doing the right thing and he wondered drily how long it would take her to regret it, their acquaintance already built on a firm bedrock of mutual disapproval.
‘As you wish. About ten o’clock?’
‘Ten. Yes. Thank you. Goodnight.’
The woman lowered her head and walked away, her cloak camouflaging her against the darkness as she melted into the gloom, and Joseph made a point of not watching her go. If she were to turn suddenly she wouldn’t see him looking after her with anything approaching curiosity, and he waited until she was securely in the carriage before looking down at her card.
It was difficult to make out the words at first, printed very small in a curling font the dim light did nothing to make any clearer, but when he deciphered the letters Joseph let out a low whistle.
Well, well, Miss Mystery. No wonder you didn’t want to tell me your name.
