The Lord and the Wayward Lady Read Online Free PDF

Marcus thought with a flash of compassion, wondering how early she had arrived at the shop and how it must be to sit bent over fine work all day. As the carriage pulled out into the traffic, he saw her pause on the corner of Charlotte Row to let a coal heaver’s cart past. She put her hand to the small of her back and stretched, then set her shoulders as though bracing herself. After the cart passed, she darted across, zigzagging to avoid the worst of the waste and the puddles. With a glance at her drab skirts, the crossing boy turned away and began to sweep assiduously for a waiting lawyer, bands fluttering, wig box in hand, a likely prospect for a tip.
    Yes, she was certainly a working woman. That much at least had been true. Marcus quenched the glimmer of sympathy with the memory of his father’s face that morning, grey and strained, although he had protested he had slept well and had managed a smile for Lady Narborough.
    But Marcus had not been able to rouse his father’senthusiasm to give a personal message to Hal, and the earl had waved away an attempt to interest him in plans to plant new coppices at Stanegate Hall. He was sinking into one of his melancholy fits and, in the absence of the mysterious dark man, Marcus had only one person to blame for that.
    She was hurrying up Threadneedle Street now, deeper into the City. John was doing well, keeping the horses to a slow walk, ignoring the jibes and shouts aimed at him for holding up the traffic. In the evening crush there seemed little chance she would notice them. Then she turned north into Bishopsgate Street, walking with her head down, hands clasped together in front of her, maintaining the steady pace of someone who is tired, but is pushing on to a destination despite that.
    Just when Marcus was beginning to think she was going to walk all the way to Shoreditch, she turned right into a lane. It took John a moment or two to get across the traffic. Widegate Street, Marcus read as the carriage lurched over the kerb into the narrow entrance. Named by someone with a sense of humour. He dropped the window right down and leaned out. The street was almost deserted. Ahead, Miss Smith was still keeping the same pace, not looking back. Then one of the pair shied at a banging shutter, John swore, and she glanced back over her shoulder. Marcus caught a glimpse of the pale oval of her face below her dark hat brim. He saw her stiffen, then walk on.
    ‘Steady, man,’ he ordered softly as the coachman cursed again, under his breath this time. Ahead, the lane was narrowing into an alley, too tight for the carriage that was already glaringly out of place in the maze of back streets.‘Stop.’ He got out as he spoke, pulling up his collar against the raw air. ‘Can you turn? Wait for me here.’
    ‘Aye, my lord.’
    Marcus glanced up as he entered the narrow way. Smock Alley. He tried to get his bearings. They were heading for Spitalfields Church, he thought, his eyes fixed on the figure ahead, keeping in the shadows as much as possible as he padded in her wake.
    His heel struck a bottle in the gutter and it spun away and shattered. She turned, stared back into the shadows, then took to her heels. Marcus abandoned stealth and ran too, his long legs gaining easily on the fleeing figure with its hampering skirts. Then his ankle twisted as he trod on a greasy cobble; he slid and came up hard against the wall, splitting the leather of his glove as he threw out a hand to save himself. When he reached the spot where he had last seen her, she was gone.
    Marcus looked around. He could see the dark entrances to at least five streets and alleys from where he stood. Impossible to search them all. He walked slowly back to the carriage, cursing softly.
     
    Nell flattened herself against the wall of the stinking privy in Dolphin Court, her ears straining as the sharp footsteps grew fainter. Finally, when the stench became too much, she crept out and studied what she could see beyond the