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“I say a lot of things to which no one pays heed. And yes, I did want to visit my friend again. Also to meet the people with whom he’s staying, the Reverend Perry and his wife. Mrs. Perry is one of the finest translators of ancient Greek with whom I’ve corresponded.”

  Georgette laughed. “This implies that you have corresponded with more than one.”

  “Of course.”

  She stuffed a few trailing strands of hair under her bonnet. “There’s no ‘of course’ to such matters, Hugo. Most people can’t be bothered with dead languages.”

  “Most people can’t be bothered with anything outside of the everyday,” he said. “But I don’t think that describes you, Miss Bone-box Gothic Novel.”

  “Ah, that was almost a compliment. Then you had to go and spoil it.”

  “It was not a compliment. Only an—”

  “An observation. Right, right.” She squinted up at the sky. “It’s good to be out of that coach for a few minutes. At what hour do you think the mail leaves for Doncaster?”

  “I’ve no idea. I haven’t a Pocket Gazette with me.” Of habit, he felt for his watch to check the time.

  His waistcoat pocket was empty.

  Was it in one of his other coat pockets? He patted them all, coat and greatcoat. No, it wasn’t there, either. He looked about on the ground for the familiar gold case.

  “You have suddenly gone into a frenzy,” Georgette observed.

  “I’m looking for my watch. I just had it—I know I put it back in my pocket. . . .” He had stepped that way to retrieve his case from the coach . . . he had turned . . . “That man! That drunken man!” He scanned the courtyard.

  “Where?” Georgette followed his gaze.

  He gritted his teeth against a curse. “I don’t see him now. Though I wouldn’t know him by sight; only by the smell of inebriation. He bumped into me. I thought it an accident, but he must have done it intentionally to steal my watch.” Now he did curse. What was he to do without his watch?

  “That’s unfortunate. But we can inquire after the time inside the inn.”

  “I want my watch.” His fingers scrabbled at his pocket again, as if they might find the watch within it this time.

  Georgette blinked at him.

  How petulant he must sound. With an effort, he drew in a deep breath and spoke evenly. “It’s not merely a watch to me, Georgette. It’s one of a pair that my father gave to Matthew and me on our eighteenth birthdays.” Matthew’s last birthday. The case was chased in both their initials; two watches engraved identically, since, as the duke liked to joke, there was no difference to speak of between the two sons.

  At the time, they had both found the statement annoying. Now Hugo liked turning it over in his mind, one of a precious and dwindling store of memories involving his twin.

  Georgette grabbed his arm. “Shhh,” she murmured. “You’re too loud. The Runner is looking this way. Shh, don’t make a fuss.”

  “If he is a Runner, then he’s exactly the person I want to talk to.” He shook off her hand, ready to stride in the direction of the slouch-hatted man.

  “You can’t,” she insisted. “You’d have to tell him who you are, and then he’d want to know who I am. And either it would come out that you were traveling with an unmarried woman, which would ruin me, or we would have to be wed, which would ruin us both.”

  But his watch. He took another step toward the possible Runner.

  “Hugo. Please. Don’t talk to him. Don’t draw attention. Oh! And take off your signet.”

  If only he had climbed into the coach and continued on his way to Strawfield. He’d have his watch, and he wouldn’t have Georgette Frost tugging on his arm, and he wouldn’t feel so torn about what was the right thing to do—which was something he rarely, if ever, doubted.

  He looked at his leather case of hospital plans. He looked at Georgette’s face: imploring and wide-eyed. With her features framed by the pale-blue lining of her bonnet, she looked young and fragile, though he knew she was certainly not the latter.

  But her pleading look plucked a string of loyalty within him, setting it to sounding through his body. He was here to protect her, wasn’t he? That’s what one should do. That—and his hospital plans—and so many other pieces of his life—were his atonement. His distraction. His response to a bone-deep grief.

  Whatever word one wanted to put to it.

  He tugged the gold signet ring from his finger and put it into his watch’s place, in his waistcoat pocket. “You are a hard woman.”

  “I’m not this way because I chose to be. I’m this way because I’ve had to be. Left to my own devices, I would be calm and delightful and would never be involved in melodramatic situations.”

  “I doubt all of that,” he said drily. Well, maybe not the “delightful” part. Her resourcefulness was becoming—how had she once put the matter? Acceptable.

  She glanced across the courtyard. “The Runner is still here. See? Now he’s talking to that maid to whom I gave the newspa—oh, no. He’s looking at us again. Hugo, he’s coming toward us!”

  Yes. He was definitely right about melodramatic situations following her about. “What would you like me to do about it? Shall I shoot him?”

  “Do you have a pistol?”

  “No. Good Lord, Georgette.”

  She bit her lip. “I think we shall need false identities again. But don’t make me mute this time. Or say that I am given to brain fevers.”

  “I’m not going to lie to an Officer of the Police. If that’s who he is.”

  “Then I will instead. We’re traveling together without servants or chaperones, so we’ll have to be siblings or married.” Narrowing her eyes, she looked him up and down. “It’ll never do.”

  “What?” He stepped back, not liking her scrutiny. At least, not liking it when it brought on that look of doubt.

  “Siblings. We don’t look a bit alike. He won’t believe it. Plus, I don’t know enough about your family nor you about mine, in case he questions us.”

  “I thought you wanted to lie to him.”

  “It’s hard to remember a great lot of lies.” She looked abashed. “Er . . . or so I’ve heard. No, best to stick as close as possible to the truth.” She glanced over her shoulder again, then fairly hissed, “We’re newly wed. We eloped. You’re madly in love with me.”

  “What? No. No, I’m not doing this.”

  “How sweet! Our first argument as a married couple.” She tucked her arm through his. “You ought to embrace me.”

  “You’re lucky I’m such a gentleman,” he said, “or I should dunk you in the rain barrel over there.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “Embrace me, Hugo, unless you want our journey to end right now.”

  “I do, rather.”

  But he didn’t. Not really. Returning to London right now wouldn’t bring him success. He needed this journey, the promise of this reward, to bring the plans for his hospital to fruition.

  His hands moved, uncertain. He couldn’t just touch her. She was a lady. Under his protection. The sister of his friend.

  “Hugo,” she hissed again. “Pretend you like me. Pretend . . . I’m your hospital plans.”

  “If you insist.” Dropping his leather case, he shook free of her arm and grabbed her around the waist. She squeaked. Then he swept her off her feet, still holding her about the middle, and carried her a few steps. “Happy? Did you love that?”

  “You are a strange man.”

  He dropped her.

  Oh, not dropped dropped. She had her footing; he only let go of her abruptly.

  “Ugh.” She stood straight. “He’s almost here. We can’t run off now. He saw me seeing him. Look, I know you have a second brain in place of a heart—”

  “A biological impossibility.”

  “—and I don’t expect you to make believe well.”

  This stung. Everyone always expected the best from Hugo, and he prided himself on surpassing their expectations. So what was different about her? W
hy was she unimpressed?

  “But I can.” She smiled up at him—and her face changed. It was warm, it was bright, and her eyes crinkled as though the mere sight of him brought her joy.

  His mouth fell open. He swayed on his feet, tugged toward her by the longing in her look.

  “Begging your pardon?”

  The bland figure in the odd hat had reached them. With a tip of that hat, he looked at them each in turn. “Everything all right over here? I noticed you left your coach in a hurry. Then you were arguing.”

  Georgette turned toward the man, seeming to blink away her soppy expression with an effort. “Oh, no! Not at all. We are newly wed. It’s too soon for us to argue.”

  Bah. They’d been arguing since the moment they met. Every bit of her statement was a lie.

  Hugo straightened up, trying to look as if he agreed.

  “Newly wed?” The man looked skeptical. “Have your parents’ permission, do you? You look young to be wed.”

  “Not particularly,” Hugo said. “I was thirty-two in spring.”

  “I meant the lady.”

  “I’m twenty-one,” said Georgette. Another lie. “Of age to marry. We’re honeymooning. Going north, where my uncle has promised us work.”

  “What sort of work? Where are you going?”

  Georgette looked beseechingly up at Hugo. “Oh, don’t tell him, my love! He wants to follow us and try to peep in our carriage windows!”

  The man in the odd hat set his jaw. Gritting his teeth, likely. It was an urge with which Hugo had become very familiar in the past day. “Callum Jenks, Officer of the Police. I have my reasons for asking, you may be sure, and they don’t include peeping.”

  “You are a Bow Street Runner!” Georgette sidled next to Hugo. None too gently, she elbowed him. Again. Wonderful. Now she’d crow about being right about spotting Runners along their path.

  “Officer of the Police, if you please,” Jenks replied. “I noticed you taking off a ring, sir. Mind if I have a look at it?”

  This was not, of course, a question. Hugo took the ring from his pocket and handed it over.

  Jenks took a quizzing glass from his pocket and held up the ring before it. There wouldn’t be much detail for the man to see. The band was finely worked, but the ring was simple, with no stones in it.

  “Too old,” grunted the Runner, and handed it back. “The design’s been worn down.”

  “I’m sorry my family heirloom doesn’t meet with your approval,” Hugo said. Naturally, Georgette elbowed him again.

  “I’m not looking for family heirlooms.” Tucking away his quizzing glass, Jenks said, “Either of you heard of the theft from the Royal Mint?”

  Another elbow to his side. He was going to pay her back for this. “Indeed,” Hugo wheezed, easing his ring back on. “Surely everyone in Europe has.”

  “I’ve been commissioned by the Mint to look into the matter.”

  “Good luck to you, then,” Hugo said.

  “Hmm.” Jenks looked them up and down. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again on the road north. I never forget a face. Or a name, for that matter. And what are yours?”

  “Crowe,” said Georgette. “Mr. and Mrs. Crowe.”

  “A murder of Crowes, are you?” For the first time, the Runner looked amused instead of suspicious.

  “Give me time,” Hugo muttered. “I’ve only just wed the lady.”

  Yes. She elbowed him again.

  “Right,” said Jenks. “Well, as long as there’s been no law broken, I wish you a pleasant journey.” Again, he looked them up and down. “Crowe. He and she. Thirty-two and twenty-one. Black hair. Blond hair. Six feet. Five feet . . . say, five inches.”

  “Five feet, six inches,” sniffed Georgette.

  “If you say so.” With a tip of his hat, Jenks strode back the way he’d come, then entered the coaching inn.

  “How delightful,” said Hugo. “We have been added to the mental catalogue of a Bow Street Runner. I can’t thank you enough for removing us from our nice, safe, calm mail coach.”

  “Good. You ought to be thanking me.” She beamed up at Hugo. “Didn’t you hear? He’s following the stolen gold, and he’s traveling north. We made the right decision.”

  Except that now they would be traveling as a married couple. Under false names. Under the eye of a suspicious officer.

  None of that seemed at all like protecting Georgette or avoiding scandal.

  “You made the decision,” he said. “I agree only under duress to continue on this journey. And by duress, I mean the threat of another elbowing.”

  In truth, his heart had taken up a quick, excited rhythm. He had felt the curve of her waist; he had been smiled upon as though he delighted her. She had taken his arm, a gesture of casual affection that caught him unawares, with his defenses down.

  No, he wasn’t going with her under duress. That was a lie. But how many times today had a lie been preferable to the truth?

  Chapter Six

  Georgette almost felt guilty about wasting the remaining fare to Strawfield. Almost. But when one had the chance to plunge into a bathtub full of hot water, scrub clean of the past day’s travel dirt, and change into fresh clothing, it was difficult to feel much of anything but contentment.

  Hugo had bidden Georgette go into the inn and make herself comfortable while he determined their options for traveling northward. Probably by comfortable, he hadn’t meant order a bath brought to a guest chamber, but she didn’t intend to waste the opportunity. Once she had bathed, the innkeeper’s wife helped her dress and pin up her hair. Georgette then placed a few orders with that good lady and went downstairs in search of Hugo.

  He was planted in the entryway of the inn, arguing with a beefy man in a high-crowned hat and a long, drab-colored greatcoat with four capes. The man looked like a dandy gone to seed, his every garment once fashionable and expensive but now worn and dingy.

  “Fine, fine. We’ll split the difference,” Georgette heard Hugo say. He and the other man shook hands, neither one looking particularly pleased.

  Hugo turned, catching sight of her. “Ah. My dear.” He looked weary, but a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “How good of you to make an appearance. You are a treasure spit down from heaven.”

  “Heaven’s spittle? My darling, you flatter me. You are a pearl excreted from an oyster’s unspeakable bits,” she responded sweetly. “What have you been arranging?”

  “This is Mr. Seckington.” Hugo introduced the large man at his side, who gave a courteous bow. “He maintains a private carriage for hire and has agreed to drive us northward.”

  “Only I’d be missing days and days of fares,” commented that man with a hangdog look, “so I couldn’t take you two up unless your man paid me for all the time I was gone from home.”

  “A fare you estimated outrageously,” pointed out Hugo.

  “A body never knows when he’ll be given the best fares of his life,” said Seckington. “I have to think of the future. I’m a family man and all. You’ll understand soon enough, newly wed as you are.”

  Hugo looked as if he wanted to argue, so Georgette interrupted to thank the man. “I am ready to leave at any moment,” she said.

  “Generous of you to say so,” said Hugo, “considering you’ve had time for a bath.”

  Hmm. Apparently she hadn’t got her hair as dry as she thought.

  “You’ll be glad of how clean I am when you have to sit in close quarters with me,” she replied. “I smell of rainbows and delightfulness.”

  “I have no doubt.” He rubbed at the stubble darkening his chin. “Would that I had time for a shave, but we’d best be on our way. Mr. Seckington, have our bags taken to the coach, then toss the lady in as well. I’ll see to a hamper.”

  “It’s already done,” said Georgette. “The innkeeper’s wife is packing it now.”

  “What?”

  “I ordered one.” She shrugged. “Mrs. Brundadge’s hamper of food was a good companion last
night. I thought we’d like our own. I ordered you a quart of strong hot coffee, too.”

  For the first time this morning, Hugo looked pleased. “Did you really?”

  “I really did. I’m not so cruel as to promise a man coffee and not provide it.”

  “Oh.” His brows knit—and then he smiled. It was a tight, awkward twist of the mouth, as though he were embarrassed to express happiness. “Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.”

  The rarity of his smile made it too sweet to look upon. Georgette felt as if she were standing before a bakery window, determined not to look at cakes she could not afford.

  “It’s of no consequence,” she muttered, looking at the toes of her boots. They were neat and brown, the same shade as the wooden floor on which she stood. She would have faded into it if she could; anything to avoid the gentle scrutiny of his gaze.

  Soon enough, they were bundled into Seckington’s carriage, valises and hospital plans and hamper and coffee and all.

  Compared to the ducal carriage in which she’d been transported semi-involuntarily the day before, this was a worn vehicle. She guessed it had once belonged to a noble family, but like its driver, it had come down in the world. The outline of a crest showed through the dull black paint on the door, and the once-crimson spokes were flaked, showing patches of bare wood. Inside, the thick velvet nap remained at the edges of the squabs, with derriere-shaped worn spots and sags at their centers.

  “I like it,” Georgette decided. “It suits me.”

  “It’s merely a conveyance. It doesn’t suit you any more or less than the Willingham carriage I used yesterday, or than the mail coach did.” Hugo was seated across from her. From his valise, he took a small shagreen case.

  “Well, I feel like it suits me.” She inhaled deeply. “What’s that smell coming from the fabric of the squabs? Snuff?”

  Hugo opened the little case and withdrew a pair of gold-framed spectacles. “I think it is. One of the maids can clean the insides of the doors before we set off.”

  “I like it.”

  “You cannot convince me that you like snuff.”

  “Not exactly, no. But I like that it’s not perfect. Perfection is . . . intimidating.”