Free A Scandalous Lady by Rachelle Morgan Page A

around and wait for it to happen.
    She raised her head from the pillow. Millie snored on, dead to the world, and Lucy had finally settled into peaceful oblivion. She drew the soft cotton nightgown she’d been given over her head and started to shove it into her rucksack, then stopped. Do not steal from me. It was the nicest thing she’d ever worn, and she hated to part with it, yet she’d not give him any more reason to come after her than he already had. She got the feeling that the baron was not the sort of man to spout empty promises.
    With one last, wistful glance, she carefully folded the gown and laid it on the pillow. It took only a few minutes to find her own clothing, and she recoiled at the stench. Just the thought of the stiff, filthy clothes against her clean skin made her want to vomit, but there was no help for it; the set in her rucksack was just as bad. She’d not leave with anything she hadn’t brought with her.
    Faith dressed quickly and without a sound. With the rucksack looped across her shoulder, she crushed her hair and wrestled the too-silky curls under her hat, then tiptoed toward the door. Where she’d go and what she’d do, she had no idea. Going back to Jack was out of the question; she’d burned that bridge. He had three unbreakable rules: don’t get caught, don’t squeal, and don’t run away. She’d already committed two out of three. If she went back, they’d find her carcass floating in the Thames.
    She supposed she could attempt a position as an orderly at the hospital—except, she couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Applying as a governess was another possibility, but she’d need references, and she didn’t think petty thief would be the ticket.
    Sadly, she really wasn’t qualified for anything besides picking pockets. It might not be a respectable means of making a shilling, but she knew every technique in the book. More, she was bloody good at it—even the baron thought so. And as long as she could filch, it kept her from living on the streets. Not such a bad prospect if there were more ways for a woman in her twentieth year to make a living than prostitution. . . .
    Well, first things first. Get out of the house. Make her way back to London. Find Scatter. She’d take everything else one step at a time. At least the decisions would be her own.
    She stepped out of the room and looked up one side of the hallway and down the other. The house was dark as pitch and quiet as a tomb as she made her way down the first flight of steps to the second floor. Solid wall waited behind her, a short, blackened corridor stretched ahead, and she could make out a dip in the floor where the main staircase would take her to the front door. A high sense of risk stole through her veins. Any moment she expected Jack Swift to fling himself into the foyer, barge up the steps, and drag her out of the house by the hair. Surely by now he knew of the incident at Jorge’s. . . .
    Well, all the more reason to pad the hoof.
    Ten years of creeping stood her in good stead as she made her way toward the staircase. The soles of her shoes were thin enough not to squeak on the hardwood floor, and her clothes were dark enough to blend well with the shadows. The baron no doubt rested behind one of the closed doors on either side of her, and if he caught her, she’d be hard-pressed to explain what she was doing, skulking about at this time of night.
    She made it to the top of the steps without incident and blew a breath of relief between her lips. She was just about to begin the long descent to the main floor when the sound of a door opening below froze her in her tracks. A wedge of light spilled onto the foyer floor. A long shadow crossed the foyer.
    Faith pressed herself against the wall. She glanced behind her toward the back set of stairs; too far to make it back safely. Ahead, beyond her stretched a dark passageway, more