Last Dance in London (Rakes on the Run #1) - Sydney Jane Baily Page 0,32

enthusiastically. “Yes,” she declared. “Cricket! At Lord’s in...”

“St. John’s Wood,” the earl supplied. “It recently opened. Perhaps you would like to join us, countess?”

“Maybe I will,” Sarah said, although not sounding thrilled by the prospect.

“You would be welcome in my carriage,” Lord Marshfield insisted with generosity.

Having mollified her, he bowed toward them each in turn and took his leave.

Sarah waited until they heard Mr. Dawson close the front door. Then she turned her bright blue eyes upon Julia.

“Well?” she demanded. “What was that really about?”

“I’m going to watch a cricket match, and apparently you are, too. Won’t that be fun? Simply two sisters out with...,” Julia trailed off. “Well, I suppose it will be like when Father took us on an outing.”

Sarah pursed her lips, looking concerned. “Marshfield is not anything like Father. And if you are of the opinion that man,” she pointed toward the open door, “of whom I’ve read eye-blistering accounts of bad behavior is suddenly going to let you put a collar around his neck and lead him like a trained monkey, you are mistaken.”

“It’s just a cricket match, dear sister.” And with that, Julia left Sarah mounted high upon her righteous horse and went upstairs. Quite possibly, tales of the earl’s antics were greatly exaggerated in order to sell newspapers. At least, she hoped so.

Once in her room, she went back to fretting over the lost reticule. If Sarah hadn’t barged in, Julia might have asked Lord Marshfield for his help, although what precisely he could do, she wasn’t certain. When found and examined, as it had surely been by then, the reticule would have yielded damning evidence of thievery.

The latter fact had caused an ache in Julia’s stomach all night. Every moment, she expected some sort of repercussion from her careless actions, although no one could know the bag was hers except the despicable viscount. Would Lord Chandron say anything, considering his egregious attack?

A knock on her door caused her to jump to her feet, yet it was merely the maid with a letter delivered a minute earlier by a footman.

Dear Miss Sudbury,

It seems we are going to a cricket match together. The weather promises to be good in two days, and I shall be at your Hanover Square home at one o’clock unless I hear back that such a time and day do not suit. Dress for the outdoors.

If your sister does not accompany us, please secure a suitable chaperone.

I look forward to seeing you again. I am, as ever, at your service.

Yours truly,

Marshfield

A smile spread over her face, and she clasped the note to her chest before she gave it a perfunctory sniff.

Her smile grew. The notepaper smelled like him, although she hadn’t realized he even had a scent until his delightful cologne tickled her nose and reminded her of being in his arms. Predictably sandalwood, but with a more surprising aroma of juniper. Now, she would never forget it.

What’s more, she now had something to show Sarah, transforming her fib into the truth. And the earl had impressed the need for a chaperone. All the better! It helped to distract her from the loss of the reticule.

Just before dinner, while Sarah and Julia were talking in the parlor, another footman arrived.

“Something more from the earl, do you think?” Sarah asked. “Maybe reneging on the invitation or wondering if he can bring his latest mistress.”

Julia winced but looked with curiosity when the butler brought in a small bundle wrapped in coarse paper, as one would for a hunk of fish or meat. Despite its strange appearance, Mr. Dawson had put it on his usual silver tray upon which he brought in visiting cards and other missives.

“For you, my lady,” he intoned, holding it out to Sarah, seated on the sofa, before disappearing as swiftly as a cat.

They both stared at the package on Sarah’s lap, and then Julia set down her glass of claret and scooted closer.

“A gift maybe?” she guessed. “From your Lord Denbigh.” She wiggled her eyebrows, teasing her.

Even if the man truly was a Bow Street hound as Lord Marshfield had indicated, if he made her sister happy, then Julia would simply figure out how to steer clear of him.

In any case, ever since Sarah’s evening alone with Lord Denbigh, she’d been behaving strangely. Melancholy one moment, then devil-may-care the next.

Her sister merely shrugged, ignoring Julia’s guess, as she undid the string and unwrapped the brown paper.

Julia gasped at the sight of her lost reticule, particularly when Sarah was