The Scoundrel and the Debutante

by Julia London

  “Turn around,” Prudence said, so softly at first that she scarcely heard herself.

  “Pardon?”

  “Turn around!” She twisted on the bench and looked back. The village had disappeared, as if the empty landscape had swallowed it up. “Turn around, turn around!” she cried, and shoved both hands against his shoulder.

  The young man looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Turn around!” she shrieked.

  Whether she frightened him or he finally understood that she meant it, he pulled the team up and laboriously shifted them about in two steps back, then two steps forward, until the team and the wagon had turned about. It seemed to Prudence to take hours.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bulworth, they’re expecting me,” he said, looking concerned. “They’re expecting me to bring you, miss.”

  “You can tell them you waited and I didn’t come.”

  “What, you mean tell them a lie?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Robert, miss,” he said, wincing a little, as if he expected she would have him dismissed.

  “Robert, listen to me. I have left something very important undone. Do you understand? I can’t in good conscience do that, can I? And the only reason I am leaving the important thing undone is because Mrs. Bulworth is expecting me. You must tell her that. You can say it, can’t you? That I left something undone and will come as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he said fearfully. “Mr. Bulworth will box me if he thinks I’ve done something I ought not to have done.”

  “But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You must help me right a terrible wrong. Drive faster! Can you not make them run faster?”

  “We’ll lather the horses!”

  “But it may be too late! Please, please try and make them run faster.”

  “Hiya!” Robert roared, startling her, and slapped the reins against the horses’ backs. They broke into a run so quickly that Prudence bounced high in her seat, she shrieked with surprise as she grabbed the handrail to steady her.

  A quarter of an hour later, they barreled down High Street, and slid to a rough halt between the inn and the post house.

  “Oh no,” Prudence said. “No, no, no.” It was too late—the mailbags that had been set out this morning were gone.

  “What do I do now, miss?” Robert asked.

  But Prudence had already launched herself from the wagon’s bench. She ran into the post house, startling the clerk inside. “Has the Royal Post coach come?” she asked him anxiously.

  “Yes,” he said, as if that were a ridiculous question. “She ain’t never late, not unless there’s rain. Left promptly at a quarter past.”

  Prudence gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. The pain to her heart was very real, bubbling through her like a streak of hot grease. “Which way?” she asked.

  “Only way it’ll go this time of day.” The clerk pointed north.

  Prudence whirled around and ran outside. She looked at Robert and his team of two horses. The Royal Post was pulled by a team of four. It was impossible that a team of two horses could catch a team of four fresh horses.

  It really was too late, and Prudence felt her body sag with the weight of her loss.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ROAN FELT ILL.

  Not physically ill—he would have welcomed something as mundane as that. Just...ill.

  He’d taken one look into the interior of this coach, seen the young mother with her two children and a highborn gentleman who nodded congenially at him, and he’d shut the door without a word. He’d stalked to the back of the coach, where the coachmen had loaded his bags, and two sacks with the official seal of the Royal Post, and had climbed onto the back bench.

  He was angry with himself for having allowed this...affair with Prudence. That’s what it was—a dalliance. What else could it have been? He could tell himself that she was beautiful, and that he, being a man with urges more powerful than any force, had no hope of resisting the temptation of her. He told himself that like the dalliances before this, the sting of ending it would subside by the time the coach left Himple.

  Roan could tell himself any number of things, but as that damn post coach positively meandered down the road, none of the things he told himself seemed to ease him. The only thing working in him was a fervent, regretful longing.

  He was being irrational. Childish. Where was the man in him? Where was that mighty being capable of tamping down useless emotions? The one who could agree that a marriage to Susannah Pratt would benefit all concerned and easily convince himself that was reason enough to marry? That man was apparently lying in the road, trampled by his runaway emotions because Roan was truly and utterly heartsick.

  They stopped in a hamlet to change horses. Roan glanced at the two men in worn brown coats and buckskins who rode up top with him. None of them looked very talkative, and for that Roan was grateful.

  As the coach rolled away from the hamlet, the fresh team as plodding as the first, Roan closed his eyes, hoping to block the image of Prudence leaving, twisted around on the seat beside that boy to see him. But in his effort to block that image, another one, of the two of them last night, invaded his thoughts. Of Prudence’s creamy flesh, of the soft curves of her body, of how fragrant she smelled and how silky her hair. How she’d gazed at him. How it had felt to be inside her.

  A strong shiver ran down his spine.

  The coach rocked unsteadily, and his mood grew blacker. He hoped they reached West Lee soon, for who could say what tree he might fell, what beast he might taunt if this ordeal didn’t end. He stared off into the distance, watching fields turn to forest, then turned his attention to the ribbon of road they left in their wake as they jangled along. That was when he noticed a wagon coming at them. And at quite a clip, too.

  The driver was bent low over the reins, and Roan couldn’t make out if the driver meant to catch them or pass them. Whatever he meant to do, he was driving much too fast for that wagon.

  The guard had noticed them too and pulled his gun from his shoulder and readied it. “Highwaymen?” a passenger asked, but the guard said nothing.

  Roan squinted at the wagon through the dust the post coach was kicking up. That was no highwayman. Highwaymen did not make daring mistakes in wagons, they made them on horseback. A movement to the driver’s right caught his attention and Roan gasped. That was Prudence, and she was trying to stand!

  “Slow the coach!” he shouted and surged to his feet. “Stop!”

  “Sit down, sir!” the guard ordered him. “You’ll fall and break your neck but good.”

  “Halt!” Roan shouted. “Halt, halt!”

  “What call have we to stop?” one of the men demanded. “So that we might be robbed?”

  “That wagon is for me!” Roan yelled. “It’s for me!”

  “Then let them be for you at the next stop,” the man barked. “We don’t all stop for it.”

  “Halt the goddamn coach!” Roan roared. The guard shouted at the driver, and the coach began to slow so quickly that Roan did indeed almost fall from it.

  “Bloody hell,” the man in buckskins swore at him as the wagon shuddered to such a violent halt behind the coach that it appeared as if it might come apart.

  The two horses were lathered and breathing hard as if they had raced all the way from the Bulworth estate. Roan leaped to the ground as Prudence scrambled down from her seat. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed. “What utterly mad, foolish, imprudent thing are you doing?”

  Prudence was beaming. She was breathing as if she’d run alongside the team of horses, but she was beaming. “Weslay,” she said as she tried to drag breath into her. “Maybe I ought to see you to Weslay.”

  Emotions Roan didn’t recognize rushed through him, and he grabbed her
up in a rough embrace.

  “Maybe you ought,” he muttered, and kissed her cheek. He put his arm around her and dragged her to the coach, yanked the door open and practically shoved her inside. “Make room, make room,” he commanded, and to Prudence he added, “I’ll get your things.”

  He stalked to the wagon and took her trunk himself, carrying it to the coach and lashing it on. He grabbed her smaller bag, too. “There you are,” he said to the young driver, and handed him a banknote, the value of which he didn’t even notice. Whatever it was, it was not enough, it could never be enough. Roan was elated, his heart rushing with the thrill of knowing she’d come back to him.

  He carried Prudence’s smaller bag to the coach’s interior.

  “What of the cost of her passage?” the driver called down.

  Roan handed him a few coins and stuck his head in the door of the coach. He could see by the expressions of the other passengers that his bulk was not welcome inside, but he came nonetheless, fitting himself in beside her and taking her hand in his, held it tightly.

  Prudence was speaking to the man she was pressed against, her speech animated, her breath still ragged. “...thought perhaps I should take the morning coach, but my father he...he is particularly unwell and I shouldn’t like to go alone. So we raced ahead to catch the post coach and...and my cousin.”

  She was explaining herself, he took it, and he knew a moment of consternation—she owed these people no explanation. But she beamed at Roan, clearly pleased with her story.

  The man beside her, who was dressed in a coat of navy superfine, a brocade waistcoat and boots polished to a very high sheen, smiled as if particularly amused by her story. “My, all this way to travel with your cousin?”

  Roan gave the man a look that conveyed fair warning.

  “Yes, my cousin,” Prudence said, nodding with great enthusiasm. Too much enthusiasm, really—no one was that excited to see a cousin.

  The gentleman noticed it, too, Roan could see, and smiled again, his knowing gaze meeting Roan’s over the top of her head.

  Let him think what he wanted, Roan didn’t care.

  Prudence smiled up at Roan. “You’re not cross with me, are you?” she asked gaily. He noticed her face and clothes bore a thin coat of dust from the road. But he saw only the color in her porcelain skin, the flash of happiness in her eyes. “It seemed the only possible solution.”

  “I am very happy you heeded my advice. But how—”

  “I don’t know!” she said with breathless enthusiasm, anticipating his question. “I thought we’d never reach you.”

  “We are fortunate that these post teams plod along, aren’t we?” he said. He smiled, too, as if this were all a trifling thing, a silly thing for his young cousin to do. But he was acutely aware of the gentleman’s study of him and Prudence, of the way the mother made her children look away from Prudence. And still, he didn’t care, he didn’t care. She was here, beside him, and he was astounded by how happy her race to catch him had made him. Imprudently so. Disturbingly, imprudently, ridiculously so.

  Perhaps she understood him, for Prudence laughed lightly and her eyes shone at him. “I lost my bonnet,” she said.

  “You lost your bonnet!” he repeated absurdly, and chortled with joy, so loudly that he drew the attention of the others in the coach.

  The coach rolled on, through forests of chestnuts and oaks, past fields dotted with sheep and cattle. The land began to roll, the fields giving way to big hills that taxed the teams. They changed horses every ten miles now instead of fifteen, and on one of those stops the gentleman from the coach sidled over to Roan. “Your cousin is quite comely.”

  Roan slowly turned his head and glared at him. “And?”

  “She’s English, isn’t she? And you are...well, I don’t know what you are, but judging by your accent I’d say you’re an American.”

  “What of it?”

  The man shrugged. “Nothing at all.” He smiled at Roan and sauntered away.

  The man made Roan uncomfortable. He worried for Prudence. Still, he reasoned once they reached West Lee, they’d never see the man again. In the meantime, Roan wouldn’t allow the man’s overt curiosity to dampen his happiness.

  They continued on, passing over old stone bridges, rolling past a castle ruin and disappearing into the shadows beneath a canopy of trees. A few pine trees began to appear in the mix of foliage as they wended north. The sun was sinking into the western horizon. Roan longed to be off that coach and be with Prudence while he could. He thought he was on the verge of expiring with impatience when at last they crested a hill and one of the coachmen shouted “Weslay! Weslay’s next!”

  “Look there,” Prudence said, and pointed out the coach window. In the distance, a large house sat majestically on a hill, built of graying limestone and anchored by two square towers on either end. The house was so large that it boasted enough chimneys to warm the entire Hudson Valley in winter.

  “Howston Hall,” said the gentleman next to Prudence. “It is the home of Viscount Penfors.”

  Roan was startled. That was the Penfors residence? That’s where Aurora had gone? “It’s enormous,” he muttered.

  “Sixteen guest rooms,” the gentleman said, and at Roan’s look, he added, “his lordship is a friend of mine. I am rather familiar with the property.”

  That was unwelcome news. Prudence must have realized, too, they’d not be rid of him, as Roan felt her stiffen beside him.

  The coach veered right and rolled into the picturesque village with its whitewashed cottages, a pair of churches with tall spires and a lovely center green, upon which some elderly gentlemen were lawn bowling in the late afternoon. All the passengers disembarked here; the team was taken out of its traces, and several men appeared to remove the luggage and then pull the carriage to a brick carriage house at the end of the high street.

  The woman who had ridden in the coach bustled her children across a crowded street and disappeared into a path between two buildings. The two men who’d ridden up top disappeared into the inn. But the English gentleman lingered.

  Of course he did.

  “I shall inquire if there is transport to the hall, shall I?” Prudence asked, shaking out her skirts as she spoke.

  “To the hall?” the gentleman asked, overhearing her. “I beg your pardon, I thought you were hastening to your poor father’s side.”

  Prudence blinked. “We are. We will. But we should pay our respects to his lordship while we are so near.”

  “Well, then! If you’re among his lordship’s guests for the weekend, there is no need for transport—I’ve already arranged a carriage.” He smiled at Roan. “You and your cousin are welcome to join me.”

  “Oh no, we wouldn’t think of imposing,” Prudence said, and glanced at Roan from the corner of her eye. “We’ll manage well enough.”

  “Impose! It’s a carriage, Miss...?”

  “Thank you, but we might linger in the village. It’s lovely.” She clasped her hands and turned partially away from the gentleman, pretending to admire the village.

  But the gentleman was not going to be swayed. “This is not Mayfair,” he said jovially. “There are not hacks on every street corner. You best seize your opportunity, and I am happy to be of service. That is...if you are certain you are not needed by your ailing father?” He smiled.

  Roan didn’t know about Mayfair, but he could see the flush in Prudence’s neck and knew she did not want to get in a carriage with this man. He was also aware that the gentleman was probably correct—there were not many alternatives other than their feet. He stepped forward. “Her father is in good hands. We should like to pay a visit to his benefactor.”

  “Oh, his benefactor,” the gentleman said, looking very amused now.

  Roan wanted to plant his fist in the gentleman’s face. “Is there
something you’d like to say, sir?”

  “Only that I would be happy to take you up to the hall.”

  Roan was uneasy with this turn of events. But he was also acutely aware that Aurora may be up on that hill now, preparing for supper. He swallowed his pride and misgivings—if Aurora was there, he had to reach her. “Who might we have the pleasure of thanking for this offer?”

  “Lord Stanhope,” the gentleman said cheerfully, and Roan was certain he heard a tiny mewl of despair from Prudence. “And you are...?”

  “Matheson,” Roan said.

  Stanhope’s gaze slid to Prudence.

  “We’ll just get our trunks,” Roan said.

  “I’ll have the boy do it. If you’ll just tell me the names on your trunks?”

  “They’re heavy,” Roan parried. “Cousin, will you come? You can carry the valise.” He put his hand on Prudence’s elbow and quickly moved her away from Stanhope.

  “Roan,” she whispered frantically. “This is a disaster.” She stole a glimpse of Stanhope over her shoulder. “I should never have come! I should have stayed on the wagon, I should have gone to Cassandra!”

  “No, you shouldn’t have, you should have done precisely what you did and come with me. I have never been so happy to see anyone as I was to see you. I don’t know who he is, but, Pru, don’t fret,” he said as he examined the luggage on the sidewalk. “He’s curious.”

  “He’s Lord Stanhope!” Prudence frantically interrupted. “He’s an earl, Roan.”

  “Royal?”

  “What—no!” She grabbed Roan’s arm. “I know him,” she whispered hotly.

  “Calm yourself, Pru. He’ll see your distress and suspect any number of things.”

  She nodded, agreeing, and took a breath. “I know of him,” she amended, a bit calmer. “I have never been formally introduced, but Honor has, and he is familiar with my family and belongs to the same club as Augustine. He will know my name, he will know what I’ve done and he will tell all of London!”