Free London's Last True Scoundrel by Christina Brooke

withered quite nicely until her avid stare stirred them up again.
    Davenport dropped a washcloth on top of his privates and sat up.
    “Actually, Trixie my girl, there is something you can do for me.”
    He smiled his most charming smile.
    *   *   *
    This was not a household in which servants were up before dawn, lighting fires, drawing curtains, dusting, and making ready for the day. Hilary was reasonably certain she and Davenport had another hour or so, at least, to be gone.
    She dressed and ordered Trixie to pack her meager belongings, then lay and light the kitchen fire.
    While Trixie tended to the kitchen hearth, Hilary raided the larder and packed a hamper for the journey, then hurried down to the stables. There she found Billy the stable hand already putting the horses to the ancient traveling coach.
    “Do you think it will run?” she said, eyeing the vehicle dubiously.
    “Should do, miss.” The boy showed not the slightest curiosity about where his mistress might be going at this hour and why she’d need to resurrect this ancient coach to do it.
    She supposed she’d have to take his word for it. Really, there was no other alternative. Hiring a chaise in the village would cause gossip, and neither she nor Davenport had the funds to do it, in any event. If she could just get to London without anyone seeing her in Davenport’s company, she’d be safe.
    Thus, the hamper. They must change horses, of course, and have this pair sent back to the Grange. But she need not alight from the carriage for that. She’d chosen a hat with a veil, and since she was not at all known on the road to London, she was reasonably certain of passing unnoticed. If only Lord Davenport kept to his promise not to punch anyone on the way.
    She hurried back to the house, to find that her escort still had not risen. The fire burned brightly in the kitchen hearth, but Trixie hadn’t reappeared. Perhaps she was seeing to her own packing.
    Impatience gnawed at Hilary. She glanced at the clock. If his lordship didn’t make haste, her plans to get to London within daylight hours might be ruined.
    Unable to stand the delay, she raced upstairs to his bedchamber and scratched on the door.
    No answer.
    Unwilling to knock more loudly in case someone might hear, she turned the knob and slipped into the room.
    He slept.
    Thankfully, the big body that had kept her awake far into the wee hours was covered this time by sheet and coverlet. Only one arm, strong and muscular, was flung carelessly free.
    He looked … sensual in repose. Abandoned, as if he’d thrown himself into the arms of sleep.
    She supposed he’d had a rough time of it over the past twenty-four hours. A kind woman would let him slumber on.
    But Hilary was not kind. She was desperate.
    “My lord,” she said. “Lord Davenport. Wake up.”
    He did not stir.
    She took one step toward the bed.
    “ Please wake up.” She said it as loudly as she dared but got no response.
    He was dead to the world.
    Hilary ventured as far as the bedside. His hair was still damp from his bath. She noticed he had not managed to remove quite all of the bits of plaster from the dark tangle. Her fingers itched to do it for him, but she forced herself to hold back.
    As if he were made of hot coals, she poked him, a quick jab to the shoulder with her index finger. His skin was smooth; the muscle beneath it, hard.
    Still no response.
    She glanced toward the tub by the fireplace and saw that the water in his bath was a cloudy gray. He ought to have had a change of water, but the lateness of the hour had made that impossible. Considerate of him to dismiss the servants as soon as the bath was drawn.
    Her eye alighted on a ewer on the washstand. Upon peering inside, she saw that it contained clean water. A fresh towel hung over the washstand rail, ready for use. At least he could finish his ablutions before they set out.
    She slid a quick glance at him in the looking glass.
    And caught him watching her.
    The