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

In Manchester, he secured a room for them at the public inn. But the long journey from Weslay had been so uncomfortably jarring, and the day so thick and warm, that they’d collapsed onto a lumpy bed and slept like the dead. They were up at dawn again the next morning, boarding a coach that, impossibly, was even more crowded than the one to Manchester.

After another interminable day of riding apart due to the crowding, of their private thoughts carrying them away from each other, Roan and Prudence arrived in London. It was half-past eight, and the sun was beginning to set. Roan worried about Prudence; she seemed to be swaying lightly on her feet, exhausted to the bone by her adventure.

“I’ll find us a place for the night,” he said, his hand on her waist to steady her.

“Oh no,” she said, and put her hand on his arm. She smiled, but there was no heart in it. “I’ve lived half my life in London—people around Mayfair know me. It’s best that we go to my sister.”

Roan didn’t like it, but he understood it. He rubbed his temples and realized that his head was pounding with a terrible ache. When had that come on him? “I’ll take you there,” he said. “Give me the direction and I will take you to your sister.”

She looked down and fidgeted with the string of her reticule. “What will you do?”

He would find a place to drink away his grief. “I’ll find a room somewhere.”

The last slivers of pink were beginning to fade from the late-evening sky when they arrived at the house on Audley Street. The air was so thick now that it pressed against Roan’s throat and chest. He looked up at the house Prudence directed them to. It was painted a sunny yellow, four stories tall with balconies on the top three floors. The windows facing the street—sixteen in all—stood as tall as Roan. Light was glowing invitingly through the windows.

The hackney driver had deposited them on the street along with their trunks. Prudence sat heavily on them and stared up at the house. “I don’t know what to say,” she said absently.

Roan sat beside her, put his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. “I’ll tell them what has happened. Leave it to me.”

“You’re a dear,” Prudence said with a smile. “Thank you...but somehow, I think that would make it all worse.” She turned his head to her and kissed him, her lips lingering on his for one crystal moment.

“What will you tell them?”

She shrugged. “The truth, I expect.” She smiled. “Most of it, that is.”

Her eyes shone up at him, and Roan suddenly felt lost. “Pru,” he said, his voice rough with the emotions that rushed through him, regret and hope in one unsettling mix. He stood up, pulling her with him, his arms around her, his face in her hair, her neck. He couldn’t bear that the end could be near. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving England without her. He lifted his head, held hers between his hands. “It’s only been a few days, but I can’t imagine being without you.”

“Neither can I,” she said softly. “In truth, I can’t imagine much of anything at present, only that I don’t want to go on without you.”

“Then don’t,” he said.

Prudence smiled ruefully and pulled his hand from her face and leaned back. “If only it were that simple. We must go in, Roan.”

Roan was in no such hurry, but Prudence slipped away from him and walked to the door of the yellow house. She lifted the brass knocker and rapped three times. Several moments later, the door was suddenly pulled open and the light of a candle spilled out onto the street. Behind it, Roan could see the shadow of a man. He moved the candle so that he might peer out and squinted at Roan and Prudence. He was slender, with dark hair and darker eyes. He was handsome, Roan thought, and wondered if he was Mr. Easton.

The man looked first at Prudence, then at Roan, who stood behind her. One brow rose above the other. “Well,” he said. “This ought to make for an interesting evening. Miss Prudence, do come in. Miss Prudence’s companion, you are welcome.” He stepped back and bowed.

“Thank you, Finnegan. May I introduce Mr. Matheson?” She glanced nervously over her shoulder at Roan. “This is Finnegan, Mr. Easton’s butler.”

“And valet,” Finnegan said with a smile for Roan. “Do come in.”

Prudence stepped inside. Roan reluctantly followed, removing his hat as he stepped inside the foyer.

The Finnegan fellow looked him up and down, which Roan thought was a bold thing for a butler to do, and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Easton will no doubt be overjoyed that you’ve not met yet with your demise, Miss Prudence.”

“Are they at supper? Shall we wait?” she asked.

“They’ve finished their evening meal and have put their children to bed. They are now at repose in the green salon. Follow me.” Finnegan’s gaze flicked over Roan once more before he turned and walked up the stairs, holding the candle aloft to lead the way.