Abandoned to the Prodigal - Mary Lancaster Page 0,5

the other passengers complain about him?” she asked. “Will he have to go on the roof with the luggage?”

“Oh, we’re both on the roof with the luggage,” Mr. Stewart said cheerfully. “He makes an excellent blanket.”

She regarded him with some respect. “You don’t stand too much on your dignity, do you?”

“Nothing to be dignified about,” he replied carelessly, and yet some dark, only half-readable expression flashed across his eyes and vanished. He was not proud.

And neither, in the present circumstances, was she. Although she had done nothing wrong, the world would not agree. Her betrothed had already cast her off. His mother had refused to receive her. This was now her life. Even this easy-going young man would look at her differently once he knew.

“But I am happy to help you in any way I can,” he said, and she realized his gaze was still steady on her face.

Her chin lifted in instinctive denial. “What makes you think I need help?” She waved one dismissive hand. “Apart from almost being fleeced by that horrid porter.”

“The fact that you’re traveling alone by public coach,”

“Lots of people do.”

“Not people like you.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know you’re a lady of birth and wealth.”

“The dress? I could be the daughter of a wealthy cit.”

His lips twitched. “But you’re not.”

She regarded him with sudden dread, searching his face. “We have not met before, have we?”

“I doubt I move in your circles, ma’am.”

“Why not?” she pursued. “You are a gentleman, are you not?”

“Opinions vary.”

“Well, they shouldn’t,” she said, perversely annoyed on his behalf. “You have been most gentlemanly to me. And believe me,” she added darkly, “I have seen men use the description who clearly have no right to it whatsoever.”

“Who?” he demanded.

“My betrothed for one. For another…” She broke off, appalled. She had been thinking of the aristocratic men who had been in the princess’s house last night, had nearly blurted the whole to a complete stranger. What was she thinking of?

But Mr. Stewart seemed to have fixed on her first accusation. “Your betrothed?” he said, startled. “Does he know about this journey of yours?”

“Oh, he is not my betrothed anymore,” she said airily. “Which is a good thing since he turned out not to be a gentleman at all, except by birth.”

“In that case, I wish him an ugly shrew of a wife who keeps him on a very, very short leash. And employs a shockingly bad cook.”

Juliet laughed. “Perfect. And I wish you an excellently cooked fatted calf at your grandfather’s.”

“Unlikely.”

“Won’t you be treated as the prodigal grandson returned?”

“I would doubt it. My grandfather is a parsimonious old skinflint. Which is another reason he dislikes me so much. Money just slips through my fingers. So, he really doesn’t want me to inherit his.”

“Are you his heir?”

Her new friend shrugged. “Not necessarily. He has three grandsons he’d like to compete for the privilege.”

“Will you?”

“I never have before,” he said restlessly. “It goes against the grain.”

“But you are going to him,” she pointed out.

“I have to think about my mother,” he said ruefully. He shifted. “But you don’t want to hear my life story. I would rather hear yours.”

“I have nothing to tell. I have had a perfect, privileged, and quite trivial life, as anyone will tell you.”

“Traveling two hundred miles on the mail coach isn’t much of a privilege.”

“I shall give all that up,” she said with mock grandeur. “I shall retire from the world and go into a nunnery.”

He grinned. “How long would you last there?”

“About an hour and a half before the abbess decided I am too frivolous. But at least,” she added wistfully, “I would get to travel abroad.”

“I’m sure you could come up with a better reason to travel.”

“Have you been out outside of England?”

“I was born in India,” said the surprising young man. “And I spent a fortnight in Scotland, which I suppose doesn’t count as abroad. Pretty, though, if one likes to paint.”

“Do you paint?” she asked in surprise.

“I dabble. I’ve dabbled in most things over the years.”

“Over the years?” she repeated. “You are not Methuselah!”

“I’m five-and-twenty, which is more than enough years for considerable dabbling.”

“I used to be considered quite proficient in watercolors,” she offered.

“Now who sounds like Methuselah? Is there any reason you shouldn’t still be proficient?”

“No,” she allowed. But no one will care. No one will look.

After a few moments, she realized he was rummaging in his satchel. Gun edged closer to him. He came out with a bundle in a folded napkin, which