Page 16 of A Widow for the Earl
She knew it led out into a yard and, from there, she could escape through another door. She would be halfway back to Wycliffe Manor before Vincent even realized she was gone.
No… I must keep him sweet for a while, or my plan will not work. I need to lull him into a false sense of confidence first, to uproot him later.
“May I use that door for a moment? I will be back soon,” she said, gesturing to the would-be escape.
The postmaster smiled. “Of course, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
Glancing back, Beatrice snuck through the rear door and out into the fresh air, slipping out of the yard door to the outside world. She tiptoed along behind the row of shops and houses, until she rejoined the main street. Making sure she had not been seen by her ‘secret’ escort, she ducked into the bakery, inhaling the delicious aromas of freshly baked bread and sugary fruit tarts.
Ten minutes later, holding a small box of delicacies, she snuck back into the post office and passed a gift across to the postmaster.
“For your kindness and your hard work,” she said with a wink.
The postmaster stared, open-mouthed, at the glistening raspberry tart. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, sounding genuinely shocked. “Raspberry is my favorite.”
“I had a feeling it might be.” Grinning, she headed back out, a bell tinkling above the door to mark her exit.
Up ahead, just around the corner of the post office, she noticed the sliver of a riding jacket sleeve. Vincent had gotten lazy in his hiding, perhaps bored by the wait, or wondering where on earth she had disappeared to.
On tiptoe, she approached, leaping forward at the last minute. “Name yourself, thief!”
Vincent jumped, his eyes flashing as he saw who it was. “Miss Johnson!” he barked. “Some decorum, please.”
“Alas, I have none.” She opened up the bakery box and took out a strawberry tart, holding it out to him. “I thought you might be hungry after your lengthy walk. They are exceptionally good. I was going to give you the blackberry one, as it is my least favorite, but I am feeling generous.”
His brow furrowed as he stared at the tart, no doubt fearing it was poisoned or something. “How did you get a tart in the post office?”
“Why would I get a tart from the post office? I got it from the bakery.”
His frown deepened. “But I was outside. You did not leave the post office.”
“How about you stop trying to figure out the mysteries of me and just enjoy your tart,” she said with a smirk, putting the treat into his hand. “Now, shall we return to Wycliffe the same way, with you trying to follow me without my notice? Or shall we be civil and walk together?”
He did not answer, still staring warily at the vivid red tart, bursting with juicy strawberries and syrupy sugar, the pastry rich and buttery.
“It will not kill you,” she said, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “For that, you would have to marry me.”
Stifling a chuckle at the horrified look upon his face—for if she did not force levity into her situation, it would destroy her—she began walking, leaving it up to him to decide if he would join her at her side or some thirty paces behind her.
CHAPTER NINE
“My goodness, Bea,” Teresa chirped, clapping her hands together. “I have said it once and I shall say it a thousand times: you have a gift for parties.”
Beatrice wafted a hand, blushing. “It is nothing. Just a simple celebration of the end of summer.”
In truth, it had taken her three days to organize, after sending her invitations.
She had draped the main drawing room with gauzy fabric in jeweled tones, strung with paper lanterns that looked as if they were suspended in mid-air. Lemon trees had been brought in from the greenhouse, while vast bouquets of sunflowers added warmth to the room, and a quartet played soft music to accompany the late afternoon ambiance.
Outside, the same performers from the other night had returned to entertain the children with puppets, and would performtheir shadow puppets again once evening fell. At least, that was the plan, though the weather was threatening to ruin the entertainments.
“Heavens!” a voice cried. “Did I lose my way in the hall and journey to the Mediterranean?”
Beatrice whipped around, shrieking with delight as she set eyes upon one of her dearest friends. Once upon a time, he had been her only friend, until she had begun to widen her net.
“Freddie!” she cheered, running to him.
