to form in her mind. If she could be clever about it, which she felt she could, she could leave her aunt here in Brighton and sneak away to Scotland to rescue Lydia herself.
Portia was not one who dwelt on what was fair in life—other than for herself—but she owed it to her sister to rescue her. If she could find Lydia before their father did and return her safely to Bath, their father might never have to encounter Brodie and challenge him to a duel. She would never forgive herself if her father came to harm over all this.
She poked her head out of the private room she’d been shown to and glanced down the hall. Seeing no servants about, she began to peek into the nearest rooms until she found a room that would aid her plan. She ducked inside and closed the door. It looked like the Lord Arundel’s private study.
Rubbing her hands together, Portia noticed a large case at the end of what looked like a study. The glass case held a dozen long rifles and just as many flintlock pistols. Portia approached the case and eased the glass door open. She removed the smallest of the pistols, and, searching the cabinet below the case, she found what she would need to load the gun. She wrapped it in her shawl, never more glad that she’d taken a large thick cotton one this evening. The pistol almost peeped out of the woven material.
With a grim little smile, she returned to the dining room.
Later that night, once they had returned to their lodgings, Portia waited for her aunt to head up to bed. Portia pulled out a carpetbag in the dark of her room and removed a set of clothes she had paid a young footman for.
Now dressed in a boy’s togs, she covered her bound-up hair with a cap and hastily packed a set of dresses and other necessities for traveling. She slipped out of the servants’ entrance and walked the short distance to a large coaching inn nearby. When she found a Royal Mail coach, she inquired about the quickest route to Scotland. She was glad that the royal mail coaches ran almost continuously and she would have a chance to travel overnight.
Within minutes, she was riding next to four other passengers crammed inside. The top of the coach was carrying more passengers and dozens of pieces of luggage. As the coach rattled off into the night, Portia fell asleep, dreaming of what she would do when she reached Castle Kincade, climbing in through an unbarred window, waving a pistol and rescuing her sister. She only hoped that her sister was all right, but there was no way to know until she reached the angry Scot’s home.
19
Ashton and Brock came flying into the city of Edinburgh, their horses lathered and in desperate need of rest after the relentless pace the two men had set. Ashton led the way to his townhouse on the Royal Mile. He left Brock holding the reins while he rushed up the steps and banged the knocker loudly. His trusted butler, Shelton, answered the door quickly, even though it was still early in the morning.
“My lord!” Shelton looked flustered and a little panicked. “We were not expecting you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to send word,” Ashton said as he called for a groom to take the horses from Brock, who hastily joined Ashton in the hall. “Where is my brother, Shelton?”
Shelton paled. “Master Rafe?”
“Yes, I know he’s staying here. Where is he?”
“Well, actually, sir, he left town last evening.”
“What?” Brock cut in.
“Shelton, you had better explain everything, from the moment my brother arrived here,” Ashton said grimly.
“Of course, my lord. It all started when the Dowager Marchioness of Rochester arrived with Mr. Hunt. They said they were to meet Master Rafe and his companion, Mr. Kincade.” The butler proceeded to explain Rafe and Brodie’s late arrival, thereby missing Lady Rochester and Mr. Hunt. “Master Rafe was most insistent that I send Lady Rochester a message telling her that Master Rafe and Mr. Kincade were bound for the Isle of Skye.”
“Skye?” Brock muttered. “Why would he tell them his destination?”
“He wouldn’t. It’s a misdirection. Correct, Shelton?” Ashton asked.
“Aye, sir. Master Rafe, Mr. Kincade, Miss Hunt, and the wee one are bound for Castle Kincade.”
“Yes, that makes sense. Wait, what wee one? They have a child with them?”
“Aye, sir. A little girl, no more than six years old.”