Page 28 of The Courtship Trap
As the two carriages wound their way through the quieter streets of Mayfair, the streetlamps hissed softly as they flickered to life, casting a pale glow over the refined streets of the prestigious neighborhood. The early twilight of winter draped the district in a silvery veil, the grand townhouses standing in elegant rows, their symmetrical facades framed by wrought-iron balconies and tall sash windows. The faint scent of coal smoke from drawing-room fires mingled with the sharper tang of the winter air. From behind silk curtains, the muted notes of a harpsichord drifted into the street—preparations for an evening soirée in full swing.
Sebastian’s carriage followed Harriet’s unmarked vehicle at a cautious distance, the steady clatter of hooves on cobbles echoing between quiet streets. Gas lamps glowed before exclusive clubs and well-tended gardens, casting long shadows where liveried footmen waited at imposing doorways. Thiswas Mayfair—respectable, dignified, a bastion of wealth and decorum.
But as the carriages turned onto narrower lanes, the atmosphere shifted. The houses grew less grand, their facades touched by soot. St. James’s Market loomed ahead, where gambling hells, taverns, and houses of ill repute thrived. Sebastian leaned forward, unease tightening his chest.
What in the deuce is Harriet doing here?
As they passed St. James’s Square and edged closer to St. James’s Market, Sebastian felt his frown deepen. This neighborhood was not where a respectable viscountess would be expected. The area had a reputation— the realm of degenerate gamblers, fortune-seekers, and those with secrets best kept in shadows.
The black carriage ahead slowed, preparing to turn, but just at that moment, a cluster of vehicles clogged the narrow street. Sebastian’s coachman exclaimed as a delivery cart overturned some barrels. Sebastian thrust open the carriage door and leaned out.
“Can you get us through?” he demanded.
“I will try, m’lord,” the coachman replied, tugging the reins.
But it was too late.
By the time Sebastian’s carriage cleared the congestion, Harriet’s vehicle was gone.
He stepped down from the carriage, scanning the street intently. The black coach had vanished, swallowed by the warren of streets near the market.
“Damn it,” Sebastian muttered, glancing up and down the road.
The area was alive with noise now—hawkers calling out, the raucous laughter from nearby establishments, and the clatter of passing carts. But Harriet was nowhere to be seen.
Sebastian raked a hand through his hair again, frustration prickling at his skin. He had come so close. He turned in a slow circle, considering the possible destinations.
Why here? Was she meeting someone? An old lover, perhaps? The thought sent a sharp pang through him, though he immediately cursed his own foolishness for caring.
He had to be careful. He had heard too many stories over the years—rumors of Lady Slight’s indiscretions, of her ability to ensnare hearts, only to discard them when they ceased to amuse her. His own heart had paid the price once. He would not be a fool a second time.
And yet …
She had seemed so different at the museum. For a fleeting moment, she had appeared like the Harriet he had once known. But what was truth? What was performance?
Sebastian exhaled slowly, forcing his racing thoughts to settle. He would discover what she was about. He had not returned from Florence to be ensnared by the same troubles that had driven him away years ago. No, this time he would be careful.
But even as he climbed back into his carriage, instructing the coachman to head for home, Sebastian could not shake the unease gnawing at him.
What in the bloody hell was Harriet Slight doing near St. James’s Market?
And why did he care so damned much?
Harriet pausedbefore the narrow entrance of a weathered building—Belinda Cooper’s address above a shop in St. James’s Market. The streets here bore little resemblance to the refinedlanes of Mayfair. Stalls crowded the thoroughfare, peddling everything from silk scraps to tarnished silver spoons, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the less savory odors of the market. The raucous voices of merchants hawking wares filled the air. This was no place for a viscountess.
Glancing back at her coachman, he and her grooms being the only men remaining in her employ, she was relieved to see he had stepped down and taken up the position of a sentry, his stout figure looming beside the carriage with an air of quiet authority.
Jonas Fletcher had been with Harriet’s household for several years—long enough to have seen her at both the pinnacle of her social triumphs and through her most recent trials. A man of perhaps five and forty, he bore the rugged features of someone who had spent his life exposed to the elements. His weathered skin hinted at years on the box, driving through both the misty mornings of the countryside and the crowded streets of London. His dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was tied neatly at the nape of his neck in the fashion of an earlier era, a quiet rebellion against more modern styles. A faint scar curved along his left cheekbone, though he never spoke of how he came by it. His blue eyes were sharp—ever watchful—and Harriet took comfort in the steady gaze that missed nothing.
Fletcher wore his livery with easy confidence; the deep navy coat, though a few years old, was immaculately kept, brass buttons gleaming in the fading light. The faint scent of leather and horses clung to him, along with a quiet competence that set him apart.
Like many coachmen of his age, Fletcher had grown stout from long hours on the box, but he had yet an air of discipline. He carried himself with the posture of a soldier, which some whispered he might have once been. Harriet had never pressed him on the matter. His loyalty had been proved when most of her household had scattered, and that was all that mattered.
For all his quiet reserve, her retainer had a way of putting the grooms in their place with a single look, and the horses responded to his steady hands like obedient children. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, his voice was low and steady, with the faintest trace of a rural accent—Devonshire, perhaps.
Now, he stood watch, arms folded behind his back, scanning the street with a narrowed focus. No gambler, hawker, or street urchin would dare approach the carriage under his watchful gaze. Fletcher might not speak much, but his presence said everything:I am here. I am watching. And I will protect what is mine.
And knowing Fletcher kept a pistol in the box beneath the seat certainly eased her worries. St. James’s Market could be a dangerous place, and despite the early hour, darkness had fallen to usher in a chilly evening.
