Free The Ruin Of A Rogue by Miranda Neville

the driver revealed that the new destination lay in Surrey, just the other side of Blackfriars Bridge, and Marcus would be paying for the longer journey.
    He settled beside her in the despised carriage, which he’d selected for its cozy dimensions. “I’ve never heard of this place. Is Lever a collector of Roman antiquities?”
    Miss Brotherton sat bolt upright and looked forbidding. “I’m told his museum is extraordinary. Oh look! There’s a donkey. What a dirty creature.”
    She was not to be drawn on the topic of the delights ahead. Instead she kept up a disparaging litany about the smells and dirt and the unsavory appearance of the people in the streets.
    “So many beggars and vagrants! They should all be transported to the colonies.”
    To Marcus they looked like the ordinary people of London, of all ranks and occupations, going about their affairs. The drive went through the busiest part of London at the busiest time of day so she had plenty of subject matter for her observations and endless time to make them. Her illiberal attitudes surprised him, but perhaps they were typical of the political opinions of the very rich. Back in his naïve youth he and his friends had been fired by the ideals of the French and cheered the storming of the Bastille. Later he decided that a man who lived by his wits hadn’t the luxury of deeply felt principles.
    “A city is never at its best on a gray day. At least we are in a carriage and not walking through the dirt and fog.”
    Her answer was to run her fingertip down the window glass and stare disdainfully at the resulting mark on her glove.
    “London in damp weather is dirtier than any city I’ve visited, though in many other ways the public facilities here are superior.”
    She waved her solid hand dismissively. “Of course they are. Foreigners have no notion how to go on.”
    Marcus gritted his teeth and refrained from commenting that since she’d spent most of her life in Buckinghamshire she was hardly in a position to cast judgment on the citizens of the greater world. He muttered something soothing and hoped this new and unappealing facet of the heiress’s personality would recede.
    “The odor of the river is making me unwell,” she said as the carriage turned onto the bridge. “I fear I cannot speak.”
    Good , he muttered beneath his breath.
    Unfortunately she exaggerated her powers of silence. “The Thames is disgusting,” she said with a handkerchief pressed to her nose and mouth. “All those idle villains we saw should be put to work cleaning it.”
    “And how would they do that?” he asked curiously.
    “That’s not for me to say. But I hate to see people idle. A man without a useful occupation is a disgrace to his sex.” He winced and wondered if this crack was aimed at him. If he was seeing the real Anne Brotherton emerging from the reserved exterior, he’d prefer to remain in ignorance of her character.
    A nger carried Anne through the journey to Albion Street, enabling her to speak as she never had in all her life. Once the carriage stopped she judged it time to abate the torment—for the moment. She had every expectation that misery in plenty awaited her dastardly suitor beyond the walls of their destination. As he helped her alight, she favored him with a smile. “I do beg your pardon for my ill temper, Lord Lithgow. Carriage travel makes me peevish. I am so delighted to be here.”
    “I too,” he said, his beautiful, lying mouth curving into the false smile that no longer gladdened her heart.
    She enjoyed his displeasure—hastily concealed but she was watching closely—when he had to pay two shillings and sixpence apiece—including her maid—for their admission. One of the reasons she’d picked this obscure gallery. A dimly lit hall, dominated by a couple of gargantuan hexagonal stone pillars, contained several glass cases. She bustled over and squealed with pleasure at a collection of firearms.
    “Listen,” she said, reading from