I roll from bed after at least a half of an hour and scrub water from the basin in the corner across my face. I’m light-headed and wobbly when I raise my head to the glass, and I stagger sideways, stepping directly onto my balled-up coat from the night previous. A sharp stab of pain goes through my foot and I sit down hard with a yelp.
I’ve stepped upon the box I picked up in the duke’s apartments; it’s still in the pocket of my coat, with its edges snagged in the stitchery. It’s stranger in the daylight and away from the delirious shine of the party. I spin the dials round, spelling out the first few letters of my name. In the wake of my grand exit, I forgot I took it, though now the same sort of savage pleasure I got the night before at pocketing it comes back, which is the only good thing about the morning thus far. I tuck the box into my coat pocket, a reminder that I am somewhat clever and not everything is terrible.
When I finally drag myself from my room, I find that we are packing. The servants have trunks open and spread out across the sitting room. A few are being hauled below stairs. Felicity is at the breakfast table, staring at her novel with too much determination to be natural, and Lockwood is beside her, a damask banyan over his suit and his eyes fixed upon my bedroom door—waiting for me. The news of my display has most certainly reached him. Nothing travels quite so swiftly as gossip.
Mr. Lockwood stands up and fastens his banyan as furiously as I’ve ever seen anyone fasten anything. “I see I have been too lax in my discipline.”
“Discipline?” I repeat. All the banging luggage has got a headache throbbing against my eyes. “We’re on our Tour. We’re meant to be having a good time.”
“A good time, yes, but this, my lord, is unacceptable. You shamed your hosts, who were kind enough to bring you to a social event you should have been grateful to attend. You debased your father’s good name before his friends. Each one of your foolish actions reflects as much upon him as it does upon you. You,” he says, his voice pinched up as tight as his forehead, “are an embarrassment.”
Several hours from now, I will certainly think of a retort to this, a perfect combination of wit and defiance that would leave him stumbling. But in that moment, I can’t think of a damn thing, so I stand there, struck dumb, and let him scold me like a child.
“I did warn you,” Lockwood says, “as did your father, that inappropriate behavior would not be tolerated. So you and I will be returning to England forthwith.”
I swear the floor drops out from beneath me at the thought of seeing my father again so much quicker than I anticipated and under such grim circumstances.
“However,” Mr. Lockwood continues, “as I’m responsible for seeing your sister to school, we’ll be departing for Marseilles this morning to deliver her before we return.”
At the table, Felicity winces a little, but Lockwood takes no notice. “Once Miss Montague has been installed, Mr. Newton will go north to Holland and you and I will leave for England, where you will take responsibility before your father for your actions.”
Don’t come back at all. I can still hear him say it.
“I don’t want to go home,” I say, and my feeble attempt to varnish over my panic turns the words far more petulant than I intend. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“My lord, your behavior was disgraceful. Doubly so since you deny the impropriety. You are a shame to yourself, and to your family name.” He’s brandy-faced and reckless now, and even as he speaks again I can see that he doesn’t mean to say it, but it doesn’t matter, because he does. “No wonder your father doesn’t want you around.”
I want to knock his nose flat for saying that. Instead I throw up on his slippers, which is only slightly less satisfying.
Our journey to Marseilles is uncomfortable, in both the literal and the more abstract senses of the word. Lockwood clearly chose to flee the burning remains of my reputation in Paris before anyone had time to properly smell the smoke, so arrangements for our flight are cobbled together. Sinclair is sent ahead for lodging in Marseilles, but inns along the way are scarce, and we often find ourselves scrambling for housing. It would be easier, but we’ve got Felicity, and most places don’t take ladies—or Negroes either, and Percy’s just dark enough that we’re sometimes barred because of him.
Our progress is slow. The roads are rougher than those from Calais to Paris, and we break an axletree outside of Lyon, which delays us almost half a day. We left our Parisian staff and a good deal of luggage to follow us later—we travel with only a valet and a coachman—so I’m doing far more of my own upkeep than I’m accustomed to. We wake each morning to a blistering sun, and I’m soaked in sweat before noonday.
None of us are speaking to each other. Felicity keeps her nose tucked into her novel, finishes it by the end of the first day, then immediately begins it again. Lockwood makes a study of Lassels’s The Voyage of Italy, which seems like simply a means of reminding me of the places we won’t see because of the damage I’ve wrought. Percy looks everywhere but at me, and when we stop to lodge on the first night, he asks Lockwood to get us separate rooms, which is the most openly spiteful gesture I’ve ever received from him.
On the fifth day of the most uncomfortable breed of silence I’ve ever endured, we shift from pastured countryside into woodlands, crackled trees with bare, slim trunks sheltering the rutted road from the summer heat. Their branches scrape against the carriage roof like fingers as we pass beneath them.
We’ve seen few other travelers in the forest, so the sounds of horses, then men’s voices, startle us all. Felicity even looks up from her book. Lockwood twitches back the drapes for a view of the road.
Our carriage flails to a halt, so abrupt that Lockwood nearly pitches out the window. I catch myself on Felicity, who shoulders me off.
“Why’ve we stopped?” Percy asks.
The voices get louder—angry and persistent French I can’t understand. The carriage dips as our coachman climbs down.
“Out!” a voice barks. “Tell your passengers to disembark or they will be made to.” The carriage bounces again, then there’s a crack. A moment later, one of our trunks drops past the window and smashes against the ground.
“What’s going on?” Felicity says quietly.
“Out, now!” someone shouts.
Lockwood peers through the gap in the drapes, then snaps back into his seat. His face is white. “Highwaymen,” he says under his breath.
“Highwaymen?” I cry, loud as he was soft. “Are we actually being robbed by honest-to-God highwaymen?”
“Don’t panic,” Lockwood instructs, though he looks panicked. “I’ve read what to do.”
“You’ve read?” I repeat. I half expect Felicity to leap to the defense of reading, but she’s got her mouth clamped shut. Her knuckles are white around the spine of her book.