Page 9 of The Virtues of Christmas
“Can’t argue with that.”
“We’re agreed, then,” MacFergus said, slinging an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “I have a few ideas.”
“You have a full flask as well, or my name’s not Liam Patrick MacPherson Logan.”
“Aye, that I do.” MacFergus passed the flask over. “Mind you attend me, because we’ll have to be subtle.”
Caspar broke wind again as the two coachmen disappeared into the warmth and privacy of the harness room.
* * *
Most of Michael’s travel on the Continent had been aimed at gathering intelligence while appearing to transact business. An Irishman, assumed to be at odds with the British crown, had a margin of safety his English counterparts did not, and Michael had exploited that margin to the last limit.
Missions went awry all the time, and this encounter with Henrietta Whitlow had just gone very awry indeed. The dratted woman had scrambled his wits, with her smile, her ferocious love for her nephews, and her wary regard for all assistance.
“Shall we transfer your trunks to my vehicle?” Michael asked.
Wrong question.Miss Whitlow tossed a wrinkled linen serviette onto the empty table. “I see no need to impose on you to that degree.”
“I have sisters and know that a lady likes her personal effects about her. Even if the next coaching inn is more obliging, you might spend a few days there, depending on the availability of a blacksmith.”
Michael could have reset a damned shoe, provided a forge was available. He’d been hoping his quarry would either spend the night at Murphy’s establishment, where she’d broken her journey before, or bide long enough to allow a thorough search of her effects.
A loose horseshoe was a metaphor for the course of most missions—good luck mixed with bad, depending on perspective and agenda.
“I’ll fetch a small valise of necessities,” Miss Whitlow said. “Give me fifteen minutes to rouse Lucille and assemble our immediate needs.”
Before Michael could hold her chair, she rose and swept from the room. In her absence, the little chamber became cramped instead of cozy, the peat fire smoky rather than fragrant. In future, Michael would have more respect for Mrs. Murphy’s toddies, and for Henrietta Whitlow’s legendary charm.
He paid the shot, summoned his coach, and gave instructions to his grooms to prepare for departure. By the time those arrangements had been made, Miss Whitlow and her maid stood at the bottom of the inn’s stairs, the maid looking no less dour for having stolen a nap.
“I don’t like it,” Miss Whitlow’s coachman was saying. “The weather is turning up dirty, yon baron has no one to vouch for him, and this blighted excuse for a sheep crossing likely hasn’t a spare coach horse at any price.”
“Then I’ll buy one at the next coaching inn and send it back to you, MacFergus,” Miss Whitlow said. “His lordship has offered to tend to the purchase if the next inn is as disobliging as Mr. Murphy tried to be.”
Michael strode into the foyer, Miss Whitlow’s cloak over his arm. “I understand your caution,” he said to the coachman, “but as it happens, Miss Whitlow and I are both journeying to Oxfordshire, and if need be, I can deliver her to her family’s very doorstep. Your concern is misplaced.”
He draped the velvet cloak over Miss Whitlow’s shoulders when she obligingly turned her back. The urge to smooth his hands over feminine contours was eclipsed only by the knowledge that too many other men had assumed that privilege without Miss Whitlow’s permission.
“My concern is not misplaced,” the coachman retorted. “See that my lady’s trust and her effects aren’t either.”
“MacFergus, the baron has no need to steal my fripperies,” Miss Whitlow said, patting her coachman’s arm. “Enjoy a respite from the elements, and don’t worry about me. Lucille is the equal of any highwayman, and his lordship has been all that is gentlemanly.”
Lucille smirked at the coachman, who stomped off toward the door.
“I’ll be having a look at the baron’s conveyance,” he said. “And making sure his coachman knows in what direction Oxford lies.”
“Don’t worry,” Michael said to the ladies as the door closed on a gust of frigid air. “My coachman is Scottish as well. He tells me two Scotsmen on English soil are under a blood oath not to kill each other by any means except excessive drink. The Irish try to observe the same courtesy with each other, with limited success.”
“It’s the same with those of my profession in London,” Miss Whitlow said. “My former profession. We never disparage each other, never judge one another in public. Why bother, when polite society delights endlessly in treating us ill?”
Lucille cleared her throat and stared at a point beyond Miss Whitlow’s left shoulder.
“Shall we be on our way?” Michael offered his arm, and Miss Whitlow took it.
Murphy was not on hand to see his guests off, which in any other hostelry would have been rank neglect. As Michael held the door for the ladies, the serving maid rushed forth from the common with a closed basket.
“From the missus. She says safe journey.”
