The groom looked offended. “I wouldnae do such a thing to ye, or stab my eyes with a needle.”
Patience, Niall reminded himself. The others had consequences to worry over as well, and none of the benefits he was looking to reap. “I apologize, Gavin. Off with ye.”
“There are easier ways to do this, ye ken,” Coll commented, edging forward with Nuckelavee just enough so he could see around the corner.
“A straight-up brawl, aye. That willnae gain me what I want, unless ye mean we should murder a man.” Niall flexed his hand around the reins. “And me killing a Sassenach lord isnae likely to aid me in finding domestic bliss.”
Aden snorted. “‘Domestic bliss.’ I reckon I’ll be after one of those empty-headed lasses, after all. I’ve a dozen lasses in the Highlands who dunnae expect me to sit in the parlor while they embroider.”
“And I hope ye find one who makes ye want to give up yer gambling just so ye can sit at home and watch her embroider,” Niall returned.
“The hell ye say.”
“Gavin’s waving at me,” Coll announced.
Niall blew out his breath. Once they left this alleyway, there was no turning back. Amelia-Rose was worth this. But he still didn’t know the other side of the equation—if she would think he was worth this. “Let’s go,” he ordered, kicking Kelpie in the ribs.
Gavin stood in the middle of the street, gesturing like a madman. Aden tossed the reins of the gray gelding back to him, and the groom swung into the saddle like a man who’d been born to it. “They turned north,” he said. “Came out of the carriage drive like he was late for his own wedding.” He sent a glance at Niall. “Apologies, Master Niall.”
“Nae need.”
Three blocks up they caught sight of the coach, a big black monstrosity with the red-and-blue coat of arms of the Marquis of Hurst. “Aye?” Aden asked, gazing at Niall.
“Aye. Dunnae get yerself killed.”
With a swift grin Aden sent Loki into a gallop, Coll and Nuckelavee on their heels. Niall wanted to be the one taking the most obvious risk, but in the outfit he presently wore, he’d end up rolling about on the street with all his seams split. At least his brothers were dressed for battle.
Aden reached the rear of the coach, stood in the saddle, and grabbed onto the luggage straps at the rear to swing over onto the vehicle. Coll caught Loki, keeping just behind the vehicle as Aden scrambled onto the roof and then took a seat beside the coachman.
Having a wild-haired man in a kilt plopping down beside him must have scared the shite out of the driver, and the coach rocked sideways before it straightened again. At the next corner they turned, headed out of Mayfair and its crowds. As far as Niall knew, Aden wasn’t armed with more than the single-bladed sgian-dubh in his boot, but the middle MacTaggert brother could be very persuasive even barehanded.
They continued on for another twenty minutes, and while Niall didn’t see any movement from inside the coach, he knew Hurst was in there. He had to be, because otherwise none of this would work. Perhaps the fool hadn’t realized they’d left Mayfair for Whitechapel.
Aden had told him where they would be going, but as they left the opulent West End, Niall frowned. Wherever his brother had been going at night, it hadn’t been clubs or any high-end gaming establishments. Aye, Aden could do better than hold his own under most circumstances, but a man alone could always be bested.
Finally they turned up a dirty, trash-strewn street with boarded-up shops on either side and what looked like a pie shop on the corner. The coach stopped. Coll swung down from the black and yanked open the door. “Ah, yer lordship,” he said, reaching inside.
The Marquis of Hurst half fell out of the coach, stopped from falling only by Coll’s hand knotted into his cravat. “What is the—” He spotted Niall, and his jaw clamped shut.
“Good morning, m’laird,” Niall said, carefully dismounting. “Lovely day for a drive, aye?”
The marquis sent a quick look at their surroundings, his pale complexion taking on a gray hue. “There will be witnesses to anything underhanded, you scoundrel. Release me at once.”
Instead Coll dragged him over against the front of one of the closed shops. “Send yer lad down, Aden.”
The driver climbed down hurriedly but didn’t make any attempt to run. “Don’t murder me, if you please,” he said, raising his hands.
Gavin approached him. “We dunnae need ye, lad,” he said. “Just yer clothes. Strip. Now.”
The coachman looked toward his employer, and Coll thumped the marquis against the wall. “Tell him.”
Hurst squeaked. “Do as they say, Edward.”
Gavin and Edward stepped inside the coach and shut the door. Five minutes later they emerged again, Edward in nothing but a long-tailed shirt, and Gavin dressed in a crimson coat, black trousers, and a black top hat. “I feel mighty conspicuous,” the groom muttered.
“Ye look bonny,” Aden said. “Come up here and take the reins.”
Doing as he was bid, he settled into the driver’s seat. Aden hopped to the ground and took the horses from Niall. “It’s up to ye now, little brother,” he said.
“Dunnae hurt him. Just … delay him for a bit.”
“We know yer plan.” He poked a free finger into Niall’s shoulder. “All the luck in the world to ye, Niall. We’ll see ye soon.”
All the luck in the world sounded like just the amount he would need. With a nod to Coll, Niall stepped into the coach and pulled the door shut. “Let’s go, Gavin.”
Amelia-Rose wasn’t certain if she could actually still catch Niall’s scent on her pillow, or if it was just her imagination. Either way, her pillow was in her bedchamber, and she was in another room altogether. Perhaps she could ask for it, tell her mother that she could only sleep with her regular bedding or something.
A pillow hardly made up for being separated from him, but until she could figure out what to do next, it was all she had. She’d already tried going out the window, but the height was dizzying and she couldn’t make out a single foot-or handhold despite the fact that she knew Niall had made it up to the second floor somehow. But then he probably climbed all sorts of things, and had been wearing boots rather than very impractical slippers.
“You’re being very quiet today,” Mary observed as she put a last hairpin in place.
“Should I be singing a tune?”
“I … I apologize, Miss Amy. Amelia-Rose. I didn’t mean to offend.”
Amelia-Rose took a breath. “Of course it’s not your fault, Mary. Perhaps I should be singing. But I’ve been deemed untrustworthy and I’m being pushed into something I don’t want, so I’m irritated. Annoyed.” Angry. Furious. Desperate to speak to a man her mother was making every effort to keep from her.
“Lord Hurst is quite handsome, you have to admit. And such soulful eyes. I would imagine he writes poetry.”
“Yes. Lugubrious poetry, no doubt.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
Her door rattled to the sound of a key turning, and a footman allowed Jane inside the bedchamber before he closed them all in again. If this continued, the entire household would be locked in here before long.
“Good morning,” Jane said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I half expected to see you refusing to get out of bed.”
“I considered it,” Amelia-Rose admitted. “Going to luncheon with Lionel seems to be the only way I’ll find the sun on my face today, however.”