carriage.
Thea twitched the side blind to make certain it was securely down, although there was no one in the dawn-lit street to see her inside the vehicle, let alone recognise her with the thick veil that covered her face. She yawned and wriggled her toes, relishing the thick carpet and the comfortable squabs after the Spartan stagecoach. Her new maid—Molly, Polly?—would join her in the chaise and Rhys would travel in the carriage with his valet, she assumed.
That was a good thing. She had not realised quite what a shock to the system this fully grown Rhys would be. Other than some distant glimpses when their paths had crossed while she was doing the Season, her last memories were of a youthful, trusting twenty-two-year-old standing white-faced at the altar as his world fell about his ears. After that he had been in London and, even when she was there, too, following her come-out, the paths of a wealthy, sophisticated man about town with no interest in finding a bride did not cross those of a young lady in the midst of the Marriage Mart.
The door opened and a footman leaned in. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but shall I put your seat into the sleeping position?’ As he spoke he tugged a section of the padded facing panel away to reveal the darkness of the compartment that jutted out at the front of the vehicle, then he fitted the panel into the gap in front of the seat. She had heard about sleeping chaises, but had never travelled in one before.
‘No, thank you.’ She felt too tense to lie down. The maid deserved some rest after being dragged from her sleep to attend to her so she could use the facility.
The door opened again, the chaise dipped to the side as someone put their foot on the step. ‘Rhys?’
‘Not sleeping?’ Shaven but heavy-eyed, he climbed past her, shrugged out of his coat and slid down the bed the footman had created, his booted feet disappearing into the void. ‘Wake me when we stop for breakfast.’ He closed his eyes and curled up on his side. ‘Or for highwaymen.’
Without his coat Thea had an unimpeded view of the back of his head, his broad shoulders, the quite admirable lines of long thigh muscles and—she made no effort to avert her eyes—a firm, trim backside.
She stared for a long minute, being only human and female, then fixed her gaze on the postilions as the chaise lurched into motion. Oh, yes, indeed, her childhood friend had grown up. She felt rather as if she had whistled for a friendly hound to come to her side and had found instead she had summoned a wolf. He might be Rhys, but he was also a male. An adult male. With, she recalled, a reputation.
She brought to mind the sight of him in a box at Covent Garden Theatre, plying a beautiful woman with champagne, and hearing the whispers of the married ladies in her party. He had snatched that ladybird from the keeping of Lord Hepplethwaite and the displaced lord had blustered about calling him out—and had then recalled Rhys’s reputation with a rapier.
After a few minutes Thea lowered the blind. It was easier on her nerves to see where they were and, if she was looking out of the window, then she was not watching the man slumbering by her side. He was snoring a little, which was not surprising after all he had drunk, she supposed. The sound was oddly comforting.
A glint of water showed her they were crossing Westminster Bridge, the new gaslights disappointingly extinguished. But the view downriver was as dramatic as when Wordsworth had written about it. ‘The City now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning...’ she murmured.
Beside her Rhys sighed as if in protest at the sound of her voice and turned over, his eyes tightly closed in sleep. His hair was fashionably cropped, but one dark lock fell over his forehead, a vivid reminder of the youth she had known. Thea reached out to brush it back, then stopped, her ungloved hand a fraction above the slightly waving strands. They rose to meet her fingertips like the pelt of a cat that had been stroked until its fur crackled.
Thea folded her hands in her lap. Some things were better left as dreams and memories. Some things were safer as girlhood follies. After a few minutes she drew the road guide from her reticule, where she had placed it in case she had needed to set out by herself, and unfolded the map.
They were heading into Southwark. As she had since she had begun this journey, she began to count off milestones in her head. Gathering everything she needed, undetected. Escaping from the house to the King’s Head—not the closest inn, but one where she would not be recognised, despite the extra hour’s walking it added to her flight. Taking the stage. Finding a hackney carriage to Rhys’s house and then, the most difficult part of all, persuading him to take her with him.
Would he have agreed if he had not been drinking or if he had recognised that she was a grown woman now? She glanced down at his face, pillowed on his bent arm. Those blue eyes were closed, the veiling lashes a dark fringe. The bend in his nose was more visible from this angle and his lips moved slightly with his soft snores. There was a small scar just below his ear. That was new.
Thea wrenched her attention back to the map and the view from the window. Houses were thinning out; ahead was Deptford, full of history. According to her guidebook, it was where Sir Francis Drake was knighted and where Tsar Peter the Great stayed when he visited England. She watched eagerly for signs of the glamorous past and was sadly disappointed by crowded, dirty streets. They rattled over cobbles, the chaise jerked to a halt several times but Rhys slept on, much to her relief. When he woke, sobered and doubtless with a crashing hangover, would he change his mind about her?
The road began to climb towards Blackheath. Wake me for highwaymen, Rhys had instructed. Well, if they were to find any, this was a likely spot. She found she could not become very apprehensive, not on a clear June morning. More worrying was wondering where he had given the order for the first change. If it was too close to London, then there was the risk he would send her back. They rattled past the Sun in the Sands, the Fox under the Hill and the Earl of Moira as the road kept climbing. Shooter’s Hill, she supposed, and relaxed a little.
Now they were slowing. Ahead she could see buildings, swinging inn signs. The postilions turned into the Red Lion’s courtyard and ostlers ran out to make the change as the landlord strode across the yard towards them, attracted no doubt by the coat of arms emblazoned on the carriage doors.
Thea dropped the window. ‘Shh! His lordship is sleeping,’ she whispered to the man. Hodge appeared beside him and she murmured, ‘Please have something if you need to, but don’t wake his lordship.’
Hodge showed no surprise, but then, he must have been aware of the state his master had been in when he boarded the chaise. He nodded and went into the inn, her maid on his heels. Thea closed the window and sat on guard, her veil in place, jealously watching for anyone who might disturb Rhys’s sleep. But after the arrival of a stagecoach, an altercation between two stable dogs and the shrill laughter of a kitchen maid flirting with an ostler all failed to do more than make him bury his head more firmly in his arms, she began to think he might sleep all morning, and began to doze herself.
Hodge opening the door woke her with a start. He passed her a mug of coffee and a napkin wrapped around a bread roll stuffed with bacon and glanced at his unconscious master.
‘Does he always sleep like this?’ Thea whispered.
The valet shook his head. ‘No, my lady.’ He took the mug when she had gulped the cooling coffee and closed the door softly, leaving her more than a little disturbed. Did Hodge mean he always drank that much and therefore slept heavily?
It had shocked her to find Rhys castaway and to see him toss off brandy as though it were lemonade. The rumours immediately after the fiasco of his wedding day were that he was a man who did not care, who had been glad to lose the responsibility of a wife and that he had plunged into a life of rakish dissipation.
