Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Read Online Free PDF Page B

arms, she frowned at him. After a moment, she inquired, “Does that mean you intend to follow me onward?”
    “Yes.” He spoke—whispered—through clenched teeth. “Naturally. I could hardly let you be taken God knows where.”
    “Hmm.” Her gaze on him, she seemed to ponder, then offered, “All right. Here’s what I’m planning to do. I’ll interrogate and extract everything I can about their employer, his orders, and his motives from Fletcher, Cobbins, and Martha, enough at least to determine what the threat to my sisters and cousins might be. Then I’ll escape. If you’re still close, you can help me.”
    She paused, her eyes on his, clearly waiting for his response.
    He knew what he felt like saying, but . . . she had to come with him willingly, and Stubborn was her middle name. “Very well.” The words were an effort. He considered, then said, “I’ll send word back to London, then follow the coach onward, staying close.” He met her gaze, his own ungiving. “I’ll need to meet with you every night.” He glanced toward the maid, still snoring in her bed. “Clearly that shouldn’t be too difficult, even if we have to meet like this. Once you’ve learned what you feel you need to—immediately you do—you’ll leave with me and I’ll escort you back to London. When the time comes, I’ll hire a maid, so it’ll all be above board.”
    She considered for a moment, then allowed, “That sounds an excellent plan.”
    He bit back a sarcastic retort; she never reacted well to such rejoinders from him. He nodded. “Close the window and go back to bed—I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    She stepped forward and slid the sash carefully down. She remained behind the pane for a moment, then turned and glided away.
    He looked down—manfully resisting the temptation to peek when she doffed the coverlet and climbed between the sheets—and started on his journey back to the ground.
    Although more or less disgusted, certainly disgruntled with how matters had played out, as he backed down the wall, hand below hand, foot by foot, he had to admit to a lurking but very real respect for her stance.
    Family mattered.
    Few appreciated that better than he. He who had no true blood kin. His biological father had been the late Camden Sutcliffe, diplomat extraordinaire—womanizer extraordinaire, as well. His mother had been the Countess of Brunswick, who had borne her husband two daughters, but no son. Brunswick had from the first claimed Breckenridge as his own—initially out of relief arising from his desperate need of an heir, but later from true affection.
    It was Brunswick who had taught Breckenridge about family. Breckenridge rarely used his given name, Timothy; he’d been Breckenridge from birth and thought of himself by that name, the name carried by the Earl of Brunswick’s eldest son. Because that’s who he’d always truly been—Brunswick’s son.
    So he fully comprehended Heather’s need to learn what was behind the strange abduction, given that it had been targeted not specifically at her but at her sisters, and possibly her cousins, as well.
    He himself had two older sisters, Lady Constance Rafferty and Lady Cordelia Marchmain. He frequently referred to them as his evil ugly sisters, yet he’d slay dragons for either, and despite their frequent lecturing and hounding, they loved him, too. Presumably that was why they lectured and hounded. God knew it wasn’t for the results.
    Nearing the ground, he swung his legs back from the wall, released the pipe, and dropped to the gravel at the side of the inn. He’d bribed the innkeeper to tell him which room he’d put the pretty lady in; still clad in his evening clothes, it hadn’t been hard to assume the persona of a dangerous rake.
    Straightening, he stood for a moment in the chill night air, mentally canvassing all he needed to do. He would have to swap the phaeton for something less noticeable, but he’d keep the grays, at least for now. Glancing down