me standing on her doorstep, unexpected though I may be. And I know I can trust you not to speak of it to anyone.”
“Of course. See, you can do this on your own. You didn’t need Beaufort to ruin you at all.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Whatever was I thinking?” Elizabeth pressed her hand to her forehead. The fight with Harold had one benefit: it had made her temporarily forget her humiliating and short-lived foray into wickedness.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Perhaps you just wanted a bit of fun before consigning yourself to a life of drudgery. The duke is rather, um, red-blooded, isn’t he?”
“Charity!” Elizabeth giggled in spite of herself.
Her sister grinned back. “When will you leave?”
“This evening, after Mother has gone out or retired for the night.”
“Perfect. I’ll simply say you sneaked out while I was sleeping. And I shall act hurt, as though I’m disappointed you didn’t confide in me.” Mischief lit Charity’s eyes as she warmed to the falsehood.
“Thank you.” Her sister’s love for drama had gotten them into more than one awkward scrape, but Elizabeth was grateful for it now. She gave Charity a quick hug, then snapped her valise shut. There was no point in packing more, since she had no idea what her next step in life would be. If she needed additional items later, she could always have Charity sneak them to her.
The two sisters moved aimlessly about the house for the next several hours, pretending all was normal whenever the servants were near, and making plans in whispered exchanges when they weren’t.
The darkness of night now lurked at the windows, but neither girl showed any inclination toward sleep. Charity was staring out Elizabeth’s window, unconsciously gripping the curtains until her knuckles turned white. Elizabeth, oddly calm, sat near her dressing table.
“I heard Mother say she was attending a gathering at the Jameson residence this evening,” Charity said. “As soon as she goes, you can be on your way. There. That new man is preparing the coach.”
Elizabeth nodded. Their old driver, Fuston, had disappeared shortly after her father’s death. He’d been driving the night of the accident. Presumably he’d been too guilt-stricken to remain in the Medfords’ employ, though from what Elizabeth understood, there was little he could have done.
“There. Mother’s climbing in. He just closed the door.”
Elizabeth stood.
“They’re gone. The coach just turned the corner. You can leave now and not be seen. I’ll find a hired hack and tell them to pull around back, if you want. That way no one else will see you leave either.”
Elizabeth looked at the golden-haired little sister she loved with all her heart. “Charity, are you absolutely sure you’ll be all right after I go?”
Her sister grinned. “Of course. Oh, I know they won’t be happy with me, but I can stand it, E. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”
Elizabeth gave her a quick hug, then quickly composed herself. “I’ll miss you more than anything. Go ahead and hire a carriage. I’ll finish here and be ready by the time it arrives.”
She gathered a few last things as Charity left the room. She debated leaving a note, then decided against it. Better to simply let them wonder.
Her mother would be furious, especially when Harold cried off, but Elizabeth was long past the point of caring. She was strong enough to make it on her own, and Charity was wily enough to withstand their mother’s interrogations. That was all that mattered.
Elizabeth took one last glance at the lovely green-and-gold bedroom she’d known for years, then shut the door on that former life.
The Derringworth stables, located just outside London, catered only to discerning customers—mostly the nobility. The firm raised everything from racehorses to ladies’ mounts, with only one stipulation: any horse the Derringworths signed off on was of highest quality. The operation represented the epitome of what Harold Wetherby aspired to be. Which was exactly why he was on his way there to purchase a new mount, preferably one that would draw attention to him.
He even had an appointment. The morning held considerable promise.
Harold left his unimpressive rig—another item that would have to be upgraded, now that he was marrying nobility—out of sight when he neared the stables.
He tugged down his straining waistcoat, then entered the posh facility. It smelled of leather and fresh hay—so unlike the manure and sweat of the farmers’ stables where he’d grown up.
A young man sat in a small office to the left of the entrance. He stood as Harold entered.
Harold thrust out his chest. “Harold Wetherby,” he announced. “Here to see about that stallion I’ve heard is for sale.”
“Mr. Wetherby,” the young man said. “Yes, I see your appointment in our book. Tim Kemble here, Mr. Derringworth’s assistant manager. So, it’s the stallion you’re interested in?”
An assistant. His appointment hadn’t merited the owner. Harold cleared his throat, irritated. “Yes, the stallion, of course.”
“Of course. If you’ll follow me, we’ll have a look at him.”
They passed an empty stall, then several that housed beautiful geldings and mares, before Kemble paused. “The stallion, he’s quite a beast. Descended from Warrior Prince. Now, if it’s a gentleman’s horse you’re after, you may wish to have a look at Marty here.” He gestured inside a stall. “Fine gelding.”
Harold flicked the animal an impatient glance. The horse was fine, but he suspected Kemble had mentally deemed him, Harold, unworthy of the finest animal the stables currently had to offer.
“Anyone there?” A deep male voice sounded toward the entrance.
“One moment, Mr. Wetherby.” Kemble rushed off to greet the new visitor.
Harold ground his teeth.
“Your Grace! This is a surprise.” Kemble’s voice carried through the stable. “And an honor, may I add. If we’d known you were coming, I’m sure Mr. Derringworth would have arranged to greet you personally.”
Harold peered toward the entrance as Kemble returned at the side of a man Harold immediately recognized. The Duke of Beaufort. Powerful and respected, the man could have anything in the world just for the asking. Harold hated him. Or would have, if he hadn’t wanted so badly to be him.
“What can I do for you?” Kemble was asking.
“My brother-in-law tells me you may have a stallion worth looking at.”
Harold felt his chest swell. The duke was interested in the very same horse as he was. Yes, he, Harold Wetherby, former nobody, was a man on the rise.
“Indeed. Fine creature.” As they drew close to Harold, Kemble started, having seemingly forgotten his presence. “Right. In fact, Mr. Wellesley and I were just headed back that way. Mr. Wellesley, what did
