Free Anita Mills by Miss Gordon's Mistake Page B

indecently to her.
    “I do not suppose you would seek out Lord Sturbridge, would you?” she asked hopefully.
    The coachman’s eyes followed hers. “And tell ’im what?” he fairly howled. “How we’s abducted a swell, and ain’t nuthin’ been right since? I was leavin’ ye ere we got ter the gate ter Rose Farm, ye know. They ain’t clappin’ me up, I’ll be bound!”
    “If you would but get word to Lord Sturbridge—’twould be all I’d ask,” she promised.
    He wavered. “Un-uh. Miss Kitty, we—” The appeal in her blue eyes was unmistakable. “Ye goin’ ter visit me in jail?” When she said nothing, he exhaled and nodded. “If he ain’t ter home, I ain’t comin’ back.” Shrugging his shoulders helplessly, he started off.
    Yet another wave of guilt washed over her. “Jem—” She waited for him to turn back to her. “Jem, I don’t mean for this to touch you, you know. I intend to tell everyone the fault was mine—that you attempted to dissuade me even—and I am sure they will believe me.” When he said nothing, she added, “They will think it all of a piece, don’t you see? I have not gone on as I ought since I arrived here.”
    “But I oughter have knowned better,” he answered glumly. “And so’s the mistress ter say.”
    As he walked down the narrow country lane, she felt sorry for him. Life as a stableman was not easy, and whilst she had been inside the carriage, he’d been soaked above. And now she had more than likely cost him his position at Rose Hill. She turned back to where the coach sat atilt, and her already low spirits plummeted. That it was not her aunt’s only conveyance was little consolation, for Isabella could not wish to go everywhere in the cabriolet, particularly not since there would not be room for the family in it. The carriage would be but one more item on a list growing ever longer, more fuel for the peal her aunt would ring over her.
    Dispirited, she climbed back into the coach to tend to the baron. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
    “No.”
    “Your shoulder—’tis not bleeding again, is it?”
    “No.” There was a whiteness about his mouth, and his hand gripped his thigh as though he would strangle the pain there, but his eyes still betrayed the barest hint of humor. “Tell me, Miss Gordon—would you lie upon it again if it were?”
    “I beg your pardon—” She felt an involuntary rush of embarrassment as her face went hot. “Oh—but you are not supposed to recall that, sir.”
    “I could scarce forget.” Despite the condition of her gown, despite the bedraggled appearance of damp hair that flattened against her face, she was still more fetching than most, and he relented. “I possibly owe you my life for it,” he added quietly. “I have seen men bleed to death from wounds that weren’t supposed to take them.”
    “I did nothing that anyone I know would not have done, my lord,” she protested feebly, disconcerted by the sudden warmth in his eyes. Once again, they seemed to be gold.
    “You must have a remarkable set of acquaintances then, my dear.”
    She stared out the window toward the misty shadow in the distance, wondering what Sturbridge would say when Jem apprised him of what they had done. “Let us hope so,” she said, her voice low. “I suppose,” she mused, more to herself than to him, “that I must be thankful for my competence at least. ‘Twill repair this and pay my passage to America.”
    He could see her swallow, and he had a fair notion that she was far more upset than she would admit. “What will you do there?” he asked quietly.
    She turned sober eyes on him. “I have hopes that my father’s partners will welcome me back. We had a shipping business, you see, and I am accounted a fair hand with the figures. While Papa lived, I assisted with the books.”
    “And yet you came here, where a female cannot pretend to such skill.”
    “ ’Twas Papa’s wish,” she said simply.
    “Why?”
    ‘I