The Last Gamble. Anabelle Bryant

shopped at the market today, though, from appearances, everything remained as always. Still, there were distinct moments when she’d paused to dash a look to her surroundings, the weight of someone’s eyes setting her pulse into a fast rhythm. Could her parents have hired a runner to find her? It seemed the only logical explanation for the unexpected anxiety she experienced. Lord Tucker had left for London days earlier and the respected gentleman wouldn’t skulk about town but address her directly had he a reason to seek her out. He practised decorum, the epitome of respectability. Furthermore, no one else knew she lived in Coventry, the admission sad by its necessity.

      Dismissing her ill ease, she quickened her pace and was almost returned to her cottage when she noticed a lone man on the opposite side of the roadway, his attention trained on her every movement. Biscuit growled, his ears perked, and she bustled him into her arms as she accomplished the front steps and retrieved her key with practised alacrity. Her heart beat hard and at the same time she chided her foolish reaction to what likely was nothing more than an unfamiliar neighbour out for a stroll. It was possible his horse had lost a shoe or he visited a friend, for she’d never seen the likes of him in Coventry before. Unlike London, with its overwhelming population and vigorous social schedule, Coventry was an uneventful, mundane neighbourhood where most everyday proved predictable. There could be plentiful reasons to explain this man’s presence.

      Shutting the door firmly, she slid the lock and fell against the panel to heave a sigh of relief. She’d never felt unsafe before and would not begin now. Dismissing her mother’s voice in her head, which warned of a bounty of perils aimed at the gentler sex, Georgina reserved no room in her life for foolish assumptions. She placed Biscuit before his water bowl and moved towards the kitchen to deposit her purchases in the pantry at the same time a sturdy knock sounded on the door. The stranger from across the street? Whatsoever could he want? Was he sent by her parents to find her? And what if he was? Or worse, what if he wasn’t?

      With her mind a riot and an alerted pug at her heels, she cracked the front door open no more than the width of two fingers.

      ‘Miss Smith?’

      The stranger looked normal enough, though she honestly had no way to judge. London and high society hadn’t prepared her for situations like this. With a sad note of realization, her mother’s copy of Debrett’s social registry and its formal listing of introductions for fancy ballrooms seemed to exist a lifetime ago.

      ‘Yes?’ Should she not have confirmed he addressed her by the correct name? How did he come to know her name? Botheration, she wasn’t very good at subterfuge. Honesty was her code and thereby left her with few decisions when faced with fleeing London and perpetrating an invented existence.

      ‘May I speak to you a moment?’

      He sounded kind from what she could discern with her one eye, for that was all the space allowed, and he appeared harmless, though Biscuit growled. How unlike her dog.

      ‘You may.’ She didn’t open the door wider, not even a hair’s breadth, and the momentary pause offered the opportunity to further evaluate the stranger and put an end to her irrational concerns. He was tall, neatly dressed in a linen shirt and jacket over riding breeches. His boots were dust-covered, though he was otherwise clean. Dark hair and a strong jaw mimicked the demanding tone in his voice, for when he asked the question it sounded as if he expected her to answer in the positive.

      ‘Like this?’ His query expressed limited patience. ‘I will remain two strides away on the slate path if you’ll open the door to allow a discussion and hear me out.’

      ‘You are an unknown visitor and I am a single woman alone in this house.’ Perhaps again, she’d provided too much information. ‘I’m sorry but I have no time for conversation.’ She shut the door tightly. How poorly she’d handled the confrontation. Leaning towards the front window, she peered through a slit in the curtains to see if the stranger had left, but he now stood near the gate, seemingly fraught with indecision as he glanced to the front of her home and then towards the street twice in quick succession.

      Why was he here? As if he understood her hesitation or somehow heard her question, he again advanced up the walkway. His deep voice echoed through the door with another attempt to gain her attention. Still she couldn’t understand a word he said as Biscuit let loose a series of objectionable barks, sharp and angry. Her heart raced no matter her brain insisted she calm. Was she acting with prudence or in the manner of a spineless ninny?

      ‘Hush, Biscuit.’ She picked up the dog and brought him to her chest. ‘Let me listen a moment.’ The pug quieted to a low growl.

      ‘I only need to ask you a few questions. I’m trying to locate someone. Will you allow me to explain?’

      Her brows drew together in question. Locate someone? How could she possibly help? She was fairly new to the area and most definitely content with the anonymity she’d found in Coventry. Was he sent to locate her? Something in his voice expressed earnest, desperate concern. Would she be the biggest fool to open the door to this stranger?

      She glanced through the curtains again and watched as the stranger raked his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration, his expression of equalled disgruntlement. Sunlight glinted off his thumb. Did he wear a ring there? How unusual. She continued her perusal of his every detail noting his shoulders were as tense as the sharp set of his jaw. A runner wouldn’t act in such a manner as if he had emotion invested in the outcome. Still, she was alone, a female in a cottage with no means of protection. There was nothing of value to steal within these walls. Unless… her heart leapt in her chest. Were she to open the door he might take complete advantage. Good heavens, he could ravish her. Every horrifying warning her mother had drilled into her head since childhood rallied to support the illogical suggestion.

      Good heavens, she calmed herself. Surely men who intended to force themselves on unsuspecting women didn’t knock on the front door to do so. Dark alleyways and dangerous alcoves seemed more the thing. Her thoughts became a jumble of emotion and shredded logic.

      His thunderous knock interrupted her befuddlement and she jumped away from the door as Biscuit produced another string of barks in tune to the staccato of her pulse.

      ‘Please.’

      The word penetrated her fear and everything fell into stillness. The desperation in that one syllable spoke to her heart. Surely an investigator or Bow Street runner would not employ heartfelt sentiment or agonizing plea to beg her attention. Her resolve cracked, whether for the worse or better she could not know, compelled to answer the man.

      She leaned against the door and spoke loud and clear. ‘Meet me in the town square tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. There’s a small corner establishment named Ellen’s Tearoom. I’ll speak to you when I’m safely amidst others.’

      Tea? He would drink poison if it returned Nathaniel to him. Aware Miss Smith watched from the front window, he nodded and left her property straight after. He’d unsettled her enough for one day, so tomorrow would have to suffice. Locked up tight behind her cottage door, he’d failed to gain more than an arranged meeting in town, but wasn’t willing to take the chance he’d spur the young lady into fleeing or sending a message to his half-brother. He had no way to understand her involvement until he pressed her for answers in the morning.

      And that was why, after he’d checked on Snake Eyes and finished a simple meal, he returned to watch the cottage through the evening hours. Miss Smith was the only lifeline he had to Nathaniel at the moment. He had little idea what his half-brother wanted, Dursley’s denial of the abduction a repetitive argument that led to no end. And with no ransom note, extortion attempt or other motivation for Nate’s disappearance, he could only pursue the governess and hope, mayhap pray, a habit he’d never practised, that she knew something to assist his search.

Chapter Three

      Having a nocturnal lifestyle proved its advantages. The ability to prowl about as if invisible was a skill learned as a child on the streets of Charing Cross where Luke would steal fruit and other bits