Page 70 of Counting on a Countess
Tamsyn tried to calm her racing pulse as Nessa helped her into her clothes, including a russet-colored pelisse. Finally, when she was dressed, she grabbed a bonnet, jammed it on her head, and rushed out. Whatever was happening, it was best not to keep Kit waiting for long.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, already wearing his hat and coat. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to descend the steps with some grace, but her equanimity was difficult to hold on to when she could make out nothing in the lake-blue of Kit’s eyes.
“The carriage is outside,” he said when she stood before him.
“We’re going somewhere?”
In response, he offered her his arm.
She planted her feet. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me what the deuce is happening.”
“We’re taking a short trip,” he finally answered, “and that’s all I can tell you.”
She might control the purse strings, but he was her husband. Realizing that she had little choice, Tamsyn took his arm. A footman held the front door open, and they emerged onto a street that was just barely coming awake for the day. One laborer pulled a cart loaded with rags and buckets, and a milkmaid carried her pails hanging from a yoke. Certainly no one from fashionable London was about.
Kit waved her toward the carriage. There wasn’t much to do besides climb in and take a seat, her limbs stiff. Once he had gotten in and knocked on the roof, the vehicle jolted into motion.
“Mrs. Hoskins had the cook pack a hamper,” Kit said. He nodded at a covered basket on the floor. “Rolls and such, to break your fast.”
“Thank you,” Tamsyn answered, but her appetite had deserted her.
Neither spoke as the carriage rolled westward, passing through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Eventually, the buildings came with less and less frequency, with more stretches of green. Kit offered no commentary or guidance. He was unusually silent, save for drumming his fingertips on the edge of the window. Occasionally, he’d glance in her direction, yet she couldn’t tell if his gaze was accusatory. Other than the time before they had gone to finalize the transfer of the fortune, she’d never seen him this preoccupied or distant.
Perhaps she hadn’t lost him in the jewelry district, as she’d hoped. Perhaps he knew everything.
Was he taking her somewhere to confront her about her smuggling? Running her out of town? Or maybe he’d use his knowledge to wrest control of the fortune back to him.
The urge to confess hovered on her tongue. She hated having to keep lying to him, and if she told him everything, maybe he’d be lenient. Perhaps he could forgive her. At the least, maybe he wouldn’t turn her in to the magistrate. He’d shown that he did care for her to some degree. Possibly that would be enough to keep her from prosecution.
Yet the confession remained merely an impulse, and she said nothing.
Finally, the carriage came to a stop. A medium-size town perched on either side of the river. Glancing out the window, she observed another river intersecting the Thames, with barges and other small craft moving up and down the water.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Brentford,” Kit answered. “The other body of water is the River Brent.”
The footman opened the carriage door and waited, his hand extended. She had no alternative other than get out.
As she set foot on the ground, she scanned the area, looking for law enforcement. Perhaps Kit planned on having her arrested, but he didn’t want to do it in the city where everyone could see her brought to justice.
When Kit stepped down from the carriage, she whirled on him.
“I need to know what’s happening,” she demanded.“Now.”
“Turn around,” he replied.
Slowly, she did so, expecting to see someone waiting to clap her in irons.
Instead, she looked at several small boats moored thirty feet away on a dock. They bobbed and swayed on diminutive waves, and their sails were furled. On one of the dinghies, an East Indian man was in the process of preparing the mainsail, making it ready to venture out on the water. As he did this, a fair-haired woman stood on the dock, watching as she held a basket. The man on the boat, dressed in a cap and the traditionally loose clothes of a sailor, caught sight of Kit and Tamsyn and waved.
Her husband nodded in an answering signal.
“Kit,” Tamsyn said, trying to keep her voice level.
“That gentleman over there is Mr. Sanjay Singh,” Kit said. “One of the finest lascars to sail for the East India Company. The lady on the dock is his wife, Alice. I’ve hired Mr. Singh’s services for the day, as well as the use of his ship.”
“Boat,” Tamsyn corrected automatically. “A ship has three or more square-rigged masts.”
