Lord Braybrook's Penniless Bride. Elizabeth Rolls

She needed to see him. Harry would ignore her letters to him. She must see him, try to persuade him of the wrongness of his intention to ensnare Miss Trentham or any other woman without telling her family the truth.

      It might even ruin Harry if the truth were generally known. She wasn’t sure, but she could not take that risk. As a last resort she might have to tell the truth, but it would drive a wedge between them and she had no other family. None that she cared to acknowledge.

      And there was another consideration—the money Lord Braybrook offered. She did have some money. Enough to manage if she were very careful, and prices didn’t rise. But there was little left over to hoard against illness or chilly old age. With this position, she could add to her meagre nest egg. Even if it were for a year or less, she would earn far more than she could in any other position, and she would save her keep as well.

      She could pack up her books and take them with her. Braybrook had said his man of business would help; very well, she would ask him to sell the furniture bequeathed to her by Mama. It might not fetch very much, but every penny helped, and she was damned if she’d leave it for Goodall to sell on Harry’s behalf!

      Accepting Lord Braybrook’s offer was the sensible thing to do. As long as she remembered her place. Separate. Apart. If only she could succeed in teaching Harry that lesson.

      There was no real choice. She must go into Herefordshire and make Harry see the truth—that a greater gulf than mere money lay between the Daventrys and the Trenthams. If she failed, then, in the last resort, she must tell Lord Braybrook the truth herself.

      Despite the fire warming the room, she shivered, imagining his disdain, the brilliant eyes turned icy. She stiffened her spine. It didn’t matter. There was no question of her being upset by his contempt.

      That sort of thing only hurt if one committed the folly of allowing someone too close. A warning voice suggested that in breaching her reserve and triggering her temper, Lord Braybrook had already stepped too close. She must ensure he never did so again.

      Chapter Three

      Three days later an elegant equipage pulled up St Michael’s Hill to the Chapel of the Three Kings. Julian sat back against the squabs, still not quite able to believe what he had set in motion. On the seat opposite sat his valet, Parkes, stiff with disapproval, apparently determined to remain so for the entire journey. The news that he was required to sit inside, rather than on the box hobnobbing with his crony the coachman, had been ill received.

      Not a chaperon precisely, thought Julian. For a young lady of quality, Parkes would be thoroughly inadequate. For the governess, however, his presence would dampen gossip. Besides which, Julian still felt uneasy about Miss Daventry. Something had sparked between them. Something dangerous, unpredictable. He found himself thinking about her at odd moments, smiling slightly at her stubborn independence.

      He should have put her in her place, reminded her of the abyss between them. But that had been impossible with her cool façade shattered. They had spoken as equals. That must never happen again. No matter how much it piqued his interest.

      She was just a woman with a temper that she had learned to control. Nothing more. There was no mystery behind the prim glasses that would not upon closer acquaintance fade to mundanity. In the meantime, it was safer to have Parkes, rigid and disapproving, on the opposite seat beside Miss Daventry. If nothing else, it would serve to remind her of the gulf between master and servant.

      The carriage drew up outside the Chapel. Glancing out, he discovered Miss Daventry had foiled his plan to assist with her baggage. She was seated on one of a pair of trunks and accompanied by a female of indeterminate age and generous proportions. Julian wondered how the devil the pair of them had got the trunks up the street.

      Miss Daventry had stood up. ‘Goodbye, Sukey. Thank you for your help. I wish you would let me—’

      ‘Oh, go on with you!’ said the woman. She shot a suspicious glance towards the carriage and lowered her voice to the sort of whisper that could cut through an artillery engagement. ‘Now you’re quite sure all’s safe? Can’t trust these lords. Why, only t’other day—’

      She broke off as Julian stepped out of the coach. Miss Daventry, he was pleased to note, flushed.

      ‘I’m sure it will be all right, Sukey,’ she said, darting a glance at Julian. ‘Good morning, my lord.’

      ‘Good morning, ma’am. My valet is within the coach,’ said Julian, with all the air of a man setting a hungry cat loose in a flock of very plump pigeons. ‘I do hope that allays any fears your friend has.’

      The woman’s eyes narrowed as she stepped forwards. ‘Aye, I dare say it might. If so be as he ain’t in your lordship’s pocket, in a manner of speaking. If you are a lordship an’ not some havey-cavey rascal!’ She set her hands on her hips. ‘I ain’t looked after Miss Christy this long for her to be cozened by some flash-talkin’ rogue! Why, only t’other day a chap persuaded a young lady into his carriage and had his wicked way with her. Right there in the carriage! An’ her thinkin’ it was all right an’ tight, just acos he had another lady with him. Lady, hah! Madam, more like!’

      ‘Ma’am, I assure you that I have no designs upon Miss Daventry’s person,’ he said with commendable gravity. ‘Her brother is known to me and my only object is to convey her to her new position as my stepmother’s companion.’

      Sukey snorted. ‘Easy said!’

      ‘Sukey,’ said Miss Daventry, ‘I am sure it’s all right. Truly.’

      Clearly unconvinced, Sukey stalked to the coach and peered in, subjecting the scandalised Parkes to a close inspection. She stepped back, clearing her throat. ‘I dare say it’s all right.’ She looked sternly at Miss Daventry. ‘But you write soon’s you arrive. Vicar’ll read it to me, like he said. And keep writing so’s we know.’

      ‘Sukey—!’ Miss Daventry appeared completely discomposed.

      The older woman scowled. ‘Can’t be too careful, Miss Christy. You do like we said an’ write!’

      ‘Yes, Sukey,’ said Miss Daventry meekly.

      Julian blinked. There was someone in this world to whom Miss Daventry exhibited meekness?

      ‘This is everything, Miss Daventry?’ he asked, signalling to the groom to jump down.

      She looked rather self-conscious. ‘Yes. But one of the trunks is only books, so if there is not room—’

      ‘There is enough room,’ he told her.

      The groom hefted one trunk into the boot along with the valise. The other trunk was strapped on the back.

      Sukey came forwards and enveloped Miss Daventry in a hug. To Julian’s amazement the hug was returned, fiercely.

      Finally Sukey stepped back, wiping her eyes. ‘Well, I’m sure I hope it’ll all be as you say. You be a good girl. Your mam ‘ud be real proud of you. You take care, Miss Christy.’

      ‘I will. You have the keys safe?’

      ‘Aye. I’ll give ’em to that agent fellow. Off you go, then.’

      Ignoring Julian’s outstretched hand, Miss Daventry stepped into the coach and settled herself beside the valet.

      Julian found himself facing judge and jury. He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Sukey. You may rest assured that Miss Daventry is safe.’

      Sukey accepted the proffered hand, after first wiping her own upon her skirt. ‘I dare say. Miss Christy—Miss Daventry—she’s a lady. Just you remember that, my lord. I’m sure I hope there’s no offence.’

      ‘None at all,’ Julian assured her.

      He stepped into the coach and sat opposite Miss Daventry. They moved off and Miss Daventry