“Really? How peculiar.”
He turned away to stare out at the crowd, and I tried to place what I’d seen in his expression that had not quite fit. But before I could do so, I heard Lady Strathblane call my name. She and her husband had been pulled along with the tide of bodies moving toward the doors and I would need to hurry to catch up with them. I excused myself from Mr. Stuart’s side and wound my way through the crowd to where the Strathblanes stood waiting to collect their outer garments.
Once we were bundled up against the cold, Lord Strathblane guided us both outside. We found their carriage immediately, and the viscount saw his wife safely inside before we went in search of Philip’s coach. We located it finally, at the very edge of the crush of carriages parked in front of the theater on Princes Street, almost in the alley running between two buildings. I suspected the coachman had been waiting some time and tried to pull out of the way of the traffic.
Philip’s footman hopped down from the back of the carriage to open the door. I thanked Lord Strathblane for his escort, who accepted my gratitude with a smile and nod and turned to go as I took hold of the footman’s hand to allow him to help me up inside the coach. It was dark inside, and I wondered if the light from the lantern had bothered Alana on their ride back to Charlotte Square, so Philip had blown it out.
I’d perched on the edge of the seat and barely had time to register that something was wrong when the door was slammed shut and the carriage took off like a shot, tipping me back against the squabs. I heard shouts from outside, complaining about the speed of the carriage. Righting myself, I reached up to rap on the roof to signal the coachman when a rough voice spoke out of the darkness.
“Oh, I wouldna do that if I were you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I slowly lowered my arm, trying to peer into the blackness I faced across the carriage. The curtains had been drawn, allowing no chance of a stray beam of light to pierce the coach’s interior. I could just make out the shape of a human seated in the corner of the bench across from me. From the sound of his voice, he was male, and not so much menacing as confident his implied threat would be followed, and willing to back it up if it wasn’t.
I heard my pulse pounding in my ears and I realized I was holding my breath. Determined not to let fear overcome my good sense, I forced myself to exhale as the carriage rocked unsteadily around another corner.
“Who are you?” I demanded, pleased to hear that my voice didn’t quake. “And what are you doing in my carriage?”
“My apologies,” he replied almost ironically. He leaned forward and I shrank farther back against my cushions, sliding my hand toward my reticule on the seat beside me.
When a match flared to life, I took advantage of our shared momentary blindness to slip my hand into my bag and extract my pistol, hiding it in the folds of my skirt. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that the man across from me was lighting the lantern, which he had most likely blown out, not Philip. He was not overly tall, but broad in the shoulders and trim about the waist. He wore no greatcoat, despite the freezing cold temperatures outside, only a rather plain frockcoat over a white linen shirt. His hair was much longer than fashionable, and tumbled to his shoulders, sweeping against his collarbones. I had initially thought it to be dark, but as my eyes became more accustomed to the light, I realized it was tawny, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were streaks of red visible through it in the sunlight.
Closing the lantern door with a click, he sank back against the squabs and turned to look at me. His eyes traveled over my features, before trailing down my form. I did my best to hide my anxiety, trying to go to that place of numbed emotion inside myself I’d so often visited while married to Sir Anthony. But I found I couldn’t return there and retain my willingness to fight. So I tightened my grip around my pistol instead and stoked the anger I felt begin to burn in my gut.
Just when I thought he wasn’t going to speak, only sit there staring at me with his smug smile, he finally replied.
“Word is you’ve been lookin’ for me,” he drawled. “I mun say, I’m flattered. So I thought I’d save ye the trouble and introduce myself.” His eyes twinkled roguishly. “Bonnie Brock Kincaid at your service.”
I was not as shocked as perhaps I should have been, for given the circumstances, the possibility had already dawned on me. The man certainly was bonnie, though I still felt Gage, with his golden good looks, far outmatched him.