The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

What honor did she have, really? What was there in honor, if it meant no life at all? And if that were so, why couldn’t she go to Weslay? Why couldn’t she wait the week with Roan? She didn’t know Penfors personally and was certain they had never been properly introduced. He wouldn’t know her at all.

Ah, yes, but if he had guests, there was a chance that Prudence would know someone. But would she, really? Who would come from London all the way to Howston Hall at this time of year? It was too hot, too dusty for such a long journey. She could almost hear Lady Chatham holding court in her salon. If Penfors meant for us to come, he would have invited us in June. Not in August. The roads will be dusty and the journey too hot. He never meant for any of us to come.

The other ladies would agree with Lady Chatham because they always agreed with her. It was quite possible that Roan would find Penfors and his family alone. And if they claimed not to be acquainted with Aurora, what then? Roan would be hopelessly lost. A stranger in their midst with no connections. Would they even allow him entrance?

“Seen him lift a rock the size of a sheep once. No help at all.”

Prudence sat a little straighter as a thought occurred to her. How could she not go to Weslay? How could she leave the poor American man to navigate English society? It was reprehensible of her, really, to let him go alone, especially after he’d saved her.

“Very nearly dropped it on the poor farmer’s feet. He didn’t actually hit his feet, mind you, but the farmer howled like he had.” The young man chuckled at the memory.

“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.