The Rogue Not Taken

SPOTTED IN SPROTBROUGH?

The pub at the Warbling Wren was fuller than one might imagine it would be at the breakfast hour, Sophie discovered as she descended from her rooms abovestairs three mornings later, dressed in the simple grey dress the Marquess of Eversley had procured for her before he’d disappeared.

She hadn’t seen him since the evening that included what she now referred to as “the bath debacle.” If she did not know better, she would have imagined that he’d left her, as she’d suggested he do, and headed north to his father. According to Mary and the doctor, however, who had been to check on his patient at the crack of dawn both ensuing days, the Marquess remained in town despite having no interest in Sophie’s recovery, evidently.

Which suited Sophie perfectly well.

She ignored the small pang of disappointment that threaded through her at the thought. In fact, she denied that it was disappointment at all. She was simply feeling better, and her empty stomach was awakening as it did every morning.

She entered the pub proper to discover him at the far end of the room, breaking his fast by the window. He did not look up at her arrival and she pointedly looked away. They were not friends, after all. They were barely acquaintances.

He saved your life.

Sophie stiffened at the thought. He did not seem to care about such a thing, so why should she?

You wanted him to kiss you.

She shuttered the traitorous thought. That particular desire had been born of exhaustion and gratitude for the bath. She was fully recovered from it now.

She barely noticed him.

She barely noticed his shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow, and the lovely tan of his forearms, all strength and sinew, and the way his dark locks fell across his forehead. The way his green eyes saw everything beyond the window of the pub.

Why, he was practically invisible to her.

She resumed her direction with new purpose. Approaching a portly gentleman manning the pub’s taps, she said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am searching for a messenger to carry a missive to London.”

The barkeep grunted.

She was not swayed. “I am able to pay quite handsomely.”

Mary had returned her purse yesterday, full to the brim with untouched funds. John had snatched it before the coach had been stopped. Thank heavens for the boy’s inappropriate habit, else Sophie would be without all her money.

Not her money. His money.

Guilt flared and she could not stop herself from looking to him across the room. He had opened a newspaper and was reading, as though she weren’t there. As though they’d never met. She quashed the guilt, vowing to reimburse every cent she used.

But desperate times and all that.

She returned to her barely-a-conversation with the barkeep. Lowered her voice. “Sirrah. I shall pay you and the messenger handsomely.”

He did not look at her, but replied. “Two quid.”

She blinked. “That’s an enormous amount of money.”

The barkeep shrugged one shoulder. “That’s what it costs.”

She waited for a moment, and then said, “I want a seat for the mail coach as well. North.”

He grunted. “Of course.”

“Gratis,” she said.

He blinked.

“Free,” she clarified.

He nodded. “Free.”

Well. At least there was that. She placed the coin on the bar, along with the sealed envelope. “And for two pounds, I expect the letter to arrive tomorrow.”

The man looked affronted. “Of course.”

She raised a brow. “I do apologize, sir. I should never have suggested that you might misappropriate my funds, as you seem very reliable and aboveboard.”

He did not hear the sarcasm in her words. “I am that.”

“Of course you are. When is the next coach to arrive?”

“There’s one due tomorrow.”

Excellent. She had no reason not to be on it.

She ignored the twinge in her shoulder, nearly as irritating as the knowledge that the man across the room cared not a bit for her presence. “I shall take a seat on it.”

The man reached beneath the counter and set a ticket on the bar. She pocketed the slip of paper and considered her next course of action.

“I’ve three questions.” The words came low and soft at her ear, sending a thrill through her.

She resisted the urge to lean into him. To look at him. “Oh. Hello, my lord.”

He raised a brow. “Hello.”

“You’ve decided to acknowledge my presence.”

“My lady, I assure you, were I not aware of you, I would most definitely not be lingering in Sprotbrough.”

Her lips flattened into a straight line. She was nothing more than a difficulty for him. Obviously. “What are your questions?”

“Why are you exchanging funds with the barkeep?”

She pushed past him to fetch a hard biscuit and a cup of tea from the sideboard, grateful that he wasn’t asking more questions about Robbie, who had somehow become her betrothed in the days since her being shot.

She should have told King the truth about Robbie. But damned if she didn’t want him to think her spoken for. To think her purposeful.

To think her desired.

To desire her himself.

She resisted the thought the moment it came. Good Lord. She did not wish him to desire her. She was not mad. She did not even enjoy his company. And he certainly did not enjoy hers.

She collected her plate and cup and turned to find him there, ready to guide her by the elbow to the table he had claimed, appointed with his own breakfast and what she had to imagine was a weeks-old newspaper. “Well?” he prompted when she sat. “The barkeep’s money?”

“Why do you care to know?”

“Husbandly curiosity.”

She sipped her tea. “Luckily for both of us, you have no claim on my business dealings, my lord.”

“No?” he asked casually, leaning back in his own chair. “With what money did you pay him?”

Sophie’s cheeks warmed. “Is that your second question?”

“Yes, but let’s call it rhetorical. I assume our pickpocketing young hero returned your purse and my funds?”

The already dry biscuit was like sand in her mouth. She swallowed and placed the purse on the table between them. “There are a few pounds missing,” she whispered, “I shall repay you.”

He did not touch the bag. “With what funds? My money is all you have.”

She leaned forward. “Not for long. The barkeep is sending a letter home to my father, apprising him of my situation and asking for funds.”

He leaned forward himself. “You think your father does not already seek you?”

“I cannot imagine why he would.”

Dark brows rose. “You cannot.”

She shook her head. “I’m not my sisters.”

“What does that mean?” If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was irritated.

“Only that they’re much more interesting than I. They’ll all marry well and make beautiful, wealthy children who will climb aristocratic trellises like wisteria.” She looked out the window. A team of oxen hauled a massive cart past, revealing a pair of dusty men hitching their horses on the opposite side of the street. “I am not a climber.” He watched her for a long moment, silent, until she felt she needed to add, “You see? I told you I wasn’t angling to marry you.”

“If I remember correctly, you told me you wouldn’t marry me if I were the last man in Christendom.”

“Harsh, but true, I’m afraid.”

“I’d ask why, but I’m afraid your honesty might wound me.” He sat back. “Care for a wager?”

“What kind of wager?”

“I wager your father seeks you already.”

She smiled. “I’m certain it’s not true. Matthew saw me into your carriage. My father knows I am well.”

King raised a brow. “At best, your father thinks I’ve ruined you.”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. He’s a reasonable man who will understand everything when I explain it. You shan’t be saddled with a wife.”

“Oh, I don’t worry about being saddled with a wife.”

She considered the words. “I suppose you wouldn’t be. You’ve avoided marriage after ruination before.”

“It’s less avoiding than eschewing. I shall never marry. Angry fathers be damned.”

“Why not?” She couldn’t resist the question, but when his face darkened in reply, she instantly regretted it. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

After a pause, he said. “Your father seeks you already, my lady. That’s the wager.”

Triumph flared. Even if her father was looking for her, he would receive her missive tomorrow, and call off any search. She could not lose. She smiled, allowing herself to enjoy the moment. “I assure you, he does not. What do you forfeit when I win?”

“What would you like?”

“My bookshop. On the Mossband High Street.”

“Done. And when I win, I get a forfeit of my choosing.”

Her brows snapped together. “That seems a high price.”

“Higher than the cost of a bookshop?”

She tilted her head to one side. “I suppose not. All right. I agree.”

He smirked and reached over to steal a bit of her biscuit. “I will simply say, you’re a fool if you think your father hasn’t hired two dozen men to comb the English countryside and get you home.”

“I am going home,” she said.

“Home to London.”

“That’s just it. London isn’t my home.”

“And Mossband is?”

“Yes.” It must be. It was her only chance.

“You don’t remember it.”

“I remember it perfectly,” she insisted. “I remember the town square and the baker and the haberdasher and the livery. I remember the Maypole, festooned with ribbons, and the way that the summer days lingered as the sun set over the hills and the river. I remember that it was more beautiful and more interesting and more . . .” She searched for the word. “. . . honest than anything in London.”

“How romantic. Do you speak of the town? Or your betrothed?”

She narrowed her gaze, hating the way he mocked her and made her defensive, as though she didn’t know what she was doing or why.

As though she were being terribly rash.

As though she had a choice.

“In comparison to you and London, both.”

It wasn’t rashness that had her heading home. She had no choice. London would never have her. It never wanted her to begin with. She had to hope that Mossband would.

He finished his tea. “You know, considering you are whiling away your days in comfort abovestairs thanks to my largesse, Lady Sophie, one would think that you would be significantly better behaved in my presence.”

She faked a smile. “Sadly, my lord, I am not like the women with whom you typically consort.”

He reached for his newspaper. “You shan’t have an argument from me on that.”

He was odious. She huffed her irritation. “What’s the third?”

He looked up. “The third?”

“You said you had three questions.”

“Ah,” he said, looking back to the paper. “I do.”

“Well?”

“What the hell did you do to the Duke of Haven?”

Oh, dear. “How did you—” she began before realizing that the question acknowledged her actions. She changed tack. “I told you.”

He shook his head. “No. You told me you insulted him in front of the entire assembly.”

“I did,” she said.

He tossed the newspaper on top of her unpleasant biscuit. “What did you do before that, Sophie?”

She looked down at the paper, her gaze falling to a line of large, bold type. DANGEROUS DAUGHTER DUNKS DUKE!

It was not, as she had expected, an old newspaper. “That newspaper was printed and delivered with uncanny expediency to Sprotbrough.”

“Who would have imagined it was such a metropolis?” he replied.

“The exclamation point seems unnecessary,” she said quietly.

“You should write a letter of complaint to the editor. What did you do?”

She lifted the newspaper and offered it back to him. “I’m certain you can read all about it.”

“It says you nearly drowned him. There’s speculation that you wished to kill him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He was backside first in two feet of fishpond.”

He laughed at that. A warm, rolling laugh that surprised her with its honesty. It made her wish he laughed more. It made her forget what they were discussing, until he recovered his words and asked, incredulous, “At your doing?”

“He deserved it, if that’s worth anything,” she grumbled.

“I have no doubt he did, the pompous ass,” Eversley said. “What did he do to you?”

“It wasn’t me,” she said. “I wouldn’t have done it if it were me.”

He watched her carefully. “For whom, then?”

“He was hidden away in the greenhouse. With a woman.”

“And?”

He was going to make her elaborate. “The woman was not my sister.”

“Ah,” he said.

And that was it. There was no judgment in the word. And at the same time, there was no understanding. “You don’t think he deserved it, after all.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not not say it, either.” When he did not reply, irritation flared. “I suppose you’re all in some secret club, anyway.”

“We all?” he asked.

She narrowed her gaze on his. “Lotharios who don’t mind ruining marriages.”

“I told you, I don’t dally with married ladies.”

“Only soon-to-be-married ones.”

“There’s a difference.”

Every time she thought he was fairly decent, he reminded her of the truth. She tossed the paper at him. “No. There isn’t.” She paused, then added, “Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Marquess of Twillery.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“She should. You ruined her planned marriage to the Earl of Exeter.”

“Ah. Yes. It’s coming back to me,” he said, relaxing into his chair.

“She married her father’s stable master.”

“Happily, if I recall.”

“She didn’t have a choice after you ended her engagement.”

“Love conquered. Isn’t that what is important?” He remained unruffled.

“Of course you can be flip about it,” she said. “You’re a man.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Your reputation is only enhanced by your actions. Poor Lady Elizabeth is ruined forever.”

“Lady Elizabeth might disagree with that assessment of the situation.” He returned his attention to the article in the paper about her altercation with Haven. “You are rather ruined yourself, it appears.”

“Those assembled were not amused.”

He smirked. “I don’t imagine they were. So, now we know.”

She looked to him in confusion. “What do we know?”

“What you’re running from.”

“I’m not running,” she insisted. “Either way, you needn’t trouble yourself with it; I have purchased a ticket on the mail coach tomorrow. I look forward to being rid of you, and I’m sure you feel the same.”

“You’re not going anywhere on a mail coach,” he said simply, as though she were asking his permission.

She shot him a look. “You’re acting like your name gives you some sort of special power over me. Again. I do not care for it.”

The words were punctuated by the door to the street opening behind her, Eversley’s gaze flickering over her shoulder to consider the newcomers as he turned the newspaper over. He tracked their movement for so long that she had to resist the desire to turn and look.

Instead, she leaned forward. “Don’t tell me it’s the real King?”

He cut her a look. “I suppose you think it’s amusing to mock my name?”

She smirked. “I do, rather.”

“You should not bite the hand that feeds you,” he said.

“Are you calling me a dog?”

“No,” he replied, “Hounds are more docile and obedient than you could ever be.”

She was about to tell him precisely which of them was houndlike when he reached for her hand across the tabletop as though it were the most normal thing in the world, looked deep into her eyes, and smiled.

Sophie’s breath caught. Good Lord, he was a beautiful man, all strength and power and that smile—it was no wonder that he was known for being a proper rake. It was almost enough to have Sophie forgetting that she disliked him and instead allowing him all sorts of liberties. Like holding her hand, for example. Her pulse quickened at the feeling of his warm skin against hers, and she at once regretted and rejoiced in the lack of gloves between them. She instantly attempted to remove her hand from his, keenly aware that even if they were married, the touch was inappropriate.

He held her like steel the moment she tried to move, and he spoke, the words loud enough for half the pub to hear. “I win, darling.”

Her brow furrowed. He won what? Darling? She leaned in. “Are you addled, sir?”

He smiled again, the expression full of privacy and promise, as though the two of them not only liked each other, but shared a lifetime of secrets. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles in succession. Sophie opened her mouth, then closed it, heart pounding, attention riveted to the place where his kisses rained.

What was happening?

“Apologies for the interruption.”

For a moment, she did not even hear the words, too focused on the strange, seductive man across the table. But Eversley heard enough for both of them, replying without moving his gaze from hers. “What is it?”

“We are looking for a missing girl.”

They were there for her.

Eversley’s grasp did not shift, and it was that firm, steady grip that kept her from gasping her surprise. She watched his eyes, read the question in them. Knew that he was leaving her the opportunity to reveal herself. She looked up at them, discovering the pair of dusty riders she’d noticed earlier. “A missing girl,” she said, clutching Eversley’s hand as though it were a port in the storm. “How terrible.”

Perhaps it wasn’t she.

The thought had barely formed before the man said, “Lady Sophie Talbot.”

She was found.

Her plans were thwarted. Eversley was right—her father had sent men to find her. They would ferret her back to London, to the bosom of her family, where she would be primped and preened and sent into Society at her great, mortal embarrassment.

She would have to become Sophie, the unfun Dangerous Daughter.

Days ago, that might have been fine . . . but now she knew there was another possibility. There was freedom. There was Mossband. There was even the possibility of Robbie, who might make good on his promise once he discovered that she was there, and marriageable. Perhaps he had been waiting for her all these years. Perhaps he had despaired for want of her.

Perhaps not.

There was Eversley.

Her gaze flickered to his and dropped away. With whom would she spar if these men took her into custody? Would she ever see him again?

Would she mind?

The answer whispered through her, and she hated even the thought of giving it voice. But there was no turning back. She’d had her chance for proper escape. For a simple, happy life, far from London and the future for which she’d never asked.

And it had been ruined.

Know when you’ve been bested, her father had schooled her again and again. Cut your losses. Shake hands. And return to destroy them another day.

The thought echoing through her, Sophie was quiet, gathering her courage. Ignoring the constant litany of Do not make me return that echoed in her head as the newcomer added, “She is believed to be traveling with the Marquess of Eversley.”

She paused at that. How could they know?

Matthew.

The footman would have arrived at the Talbot house and produced a letter from Sophie—and her father would have immediately had the poor boy questioned. She resisted the urge to ask if Matthew was well.

“Oh?” Eversley asked calmly, as though he had no concern whatsoever. “Are they eloping?”

“Not if we have anything to do with it.” The man leaned down and said, “What are your names? If you don’t mind my asking?”

Eversley’s grip tightened as her gaze flew to his face, where he watched the other man. Willed him to lie. To protect her, even as she knew he was in no way beholden to her. She was not his problem. How many times had he told her that?

It did not matter that she rather wished she was his problem.

And then he replied. “Matthew,” he said, with utter calm. “Mr. and Mrs.” He turned his glittering smile on their visitor. “Newlyweds.”

The man watched them for a long moment before Sophie settled her free hand on their entwined ones and smiled her warmest smile.

She did not know why, but he was saving her. Again.

And worse, she was beginning to like him.

She had a beautiful smile.

It was the wrong time to notice it, but the entire morning he’d been noticing her—from the moment she’d walked into the pub in what had to be a years-old dress procured from the pub owner’s wife. There was nothing attractive about the frock, and still he could not keep his attention from her.

Then she’d argued with him—no surprise, as arguing seemed to be what they did together. And it was more exciting than anything he’d done with a woman in a very long time.

When the men had arrived, he’d known, without question, that they were looking for her. And he’d been about to turn her over—to explain that Lady Sophie Talbot was nothing more than a nuisance, and be rid of the woman and her troublesome life, when he’d made the mistake of looking at her.

She’d looked crushed, her blue eyes full of sadness and resignation. And the smallest, most devastating sliver of hope.

Hope that he might help her out of this mess.

So he had. Like a fool, perpetuating the myth of their marriage, locking them together for more time, until the bounty hunters left. It was idiocy, of course, considering the fact that she’d just sent a messenger to her father, apprising him, no doubt, of the entire situation. Of her plans, which the Earl of Wight would never allow, no matter how much his youngest daughter believed herself plain or boring or irrelevant.

She thought too little of herself, and King had suddenly wished very much to change her mind. As insane as that sounded.

He blamed her beautiful smile.

Which he’d noticed at the exact wrong time, of course.

Dammit.

He came to his feet the moment the man left their table and sat at the bar, knowing that they hadn’t entirely convinced him that they were simple newlyweds smitten with each other. Knowing that he was about to pay the barkeep for information on them. Knowing that Sophie had just paid for an urgent delivery to London. He swore under his breath and, refusing to release Sophie’s hand, pulled her from her chair to her feet, leaning down to whisper at her ear, “They are not certain of us. Feign love.”

She turned to look at him, blinking. “How do I feign something like that?”

She was so damn innocent. It slayed him. He leaned back in, pressing his lips to her ear, enjoying the way she curled into the touch. “Pretend I’m your Robbie.”

Confusion washed through her eyes, and he knew the truth, a thread of relief twisting through him. She did not love Robbie.

Not that he cared one way or another.

He pulled her from the room, instead, using his strength to keep her closer than was proper. Once they were through the back entrance of the pub, he drew her into the dark hallway just beyond the door, hesitating at the foot of the stairway that led to the rooms above.

He imagined they didn’t have much time, so he was not gentle when he set her against the wall. “How is your shoulder?” he asked, realizing he hadn’t asked her before. Though he’d spoken to Mary and to the mad doctor every day, he hadn’t seen Sophie in three days. And he should have asked after her wound.

He should have asked after her, period.

She was confused by the question, but answered nonetheless. “It is fine, thank you. Stiff, but it remains uninfected.”

He nodded. “Excellent.”

“You knew they were here.” She hissed. “That’s why you wagered.”

He hadn’t, but he did not correct her. “You shouldn’t have agreed to bet me.”

“Because you’re a scoundrel?”

“Because I do not lose.” A stool scraped against wood in the pub. The man approached. King pressed closer to her, his hands encircling her waist. She squeaked her surprise as he leaned in. There was no time to prepare her. No time to change his plan. No time for anything but a quick, low “Time for my forfeit. Make it look real, Mrs. Matthew.” And he set his lips to hers.

For a moment, she froze beneath him, her lips pressed together in a flat line, her hands up at his shoulders, pushing at him, a little sound of protest caught in her throat. He lifted one hand to her neck, his thumb brushing along the line of her jaw, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of her neck, massaging there until she relaxed, sighing her pleasure at the sensation.

He didn’t intend to like kissing Sophie Talbot.

He didn’t intend for anything more than the most perfunctory of caresses—long enough to convince her pursuers, and mechanical enough to get the job done.

But the sigh did him in. He caught it with his lips, readjusting the angle, pulling her tighter against him and pouring all his expertise into the touch—instinctively knowing that if she’d ever kissed another, it had been nothing like this. For, if there was anything in the world King enjoyed, it was kissing. He adored the privacy of it. The magnificent way it tested and teased and tempted and ultimately told, foreshadowing a greater, more intense act.

Her mouth was open, her full lips on his, and he took what she likely didn’t even know she’d offered, worrying her beautiful bottom lip with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue and stroking deep, tasting her, the tang of bergamot from her tea and something sweeter, more delicious than he would have imagined.

She sighed again, and he pulled her closer, loving the way she gasped at the movement before giving in to it, wrapping her hands around his neck and threading her fingers in his hair. Christ. It felt good.

She felt good.

Even better when her tongue met his.

She was an excellent student.

And this kiss was getting out of control.

He broke it off, lifting his lips from hers, ready to stop the moment before it ran away with them both. But her eyes remained closed and her hands remained fisted in his hair, and he found that releasing her was not in the cards. Instead, he returned his lips to her skin, tracing her cheekbone, her jaw, running his teeth down the column of her neck to linger in the space where it met her shoulder. He kissed her there, licking delicately before he sucked just enough to elicit a lovely little cry.

A cry punctuated with his own growl.

Her grasp tightened, and she whispered his name. Not his title—the name she’d mocked again and again. “King.”

The word gave him great pleasure, and he smiled against her skin. “What did you call me?”

She opened her eyes then—liquid blue and filled with desire. It took a moment for her to understand the question. The teasing in it. “Don’t get ideas.”

“Too late for that.” His ideas were legion. And he liked every single one of them. He slid one hand down her back, over the swell of her behind, to grab her thigh and lift it, pulling her tighter to him.

She gasped at the movement, but did not pull away. Indeed, she arched into him with a low, humming moan. Sophie Talbot more than made up for her lack of experience with her glorious excitement. King could happily sequester them both in a room upstairs and spend a week exploring all the things that made her gasp and arch and sigh and moan.

But there was a man mere feet away who was searching for her. And this was neither the place nor the time for King to be intrigued by the lady. A point that was validated by the appearance of the man who’d questioned them, who stepped into the dimly lit space and did not hesitate in taking a long look at them.

King turned to keep her from view, suddenly caring very much that her current state be for his view alone. “You ask for trouble,” he growled at the newcomer, who did not move for a long moment—too long for King’s liking.

He turned around to face the man. “Did you misunderstand me?”

“Not at all,” said the other man. “It’s only that your wife has the look of Lady Sophie.”

“My wife is Mrs. Louis Matthew. I made that clear. And your attention is irritating me more than I think you’d care for me to be irritated.”

The man’s gaze lingered on Sophie, who, for the first time in her life, stayed where she was put. Thankfully. He then tipped his hat. “Mrs. Matthew, I do apologize for the interruption.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said quietly.

The man looked at King. “You might choose a less public place. Newlywed or not.”

King had never in his life wanted to hit a man more. He should receive a special prize for not doing so. “I appreciate your advice,” King said, his tone indicating anything but appreciation.

Once the man returned to the pub, King grabbed Sophie by the hand and pulled her up the stairs and into her chamber, wanting her away from the scoundrel.

She pressed herself against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “He knows.”

King ran a hand over his face. “I imagine he does, yes.”

She looked up at him. “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”

“That we are merely traveling companions who don’t much care for one another?” She paused at that, and he felt like an ass for having said it with the taste of her on his lips. “Sophie—”

“No,” she said, waving his words away. “It’s true. And he wouldn’t believe it.”

It wasn’t true, but he didn’t push her. “No, he wouldn’t.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I shall only presume for another day. Until the mail coach arrives.”

He looked to the ceiling. “You’re not taking the mail coach, dammit. Especially not now.”

“Why not? They shan’t be looking for me there.”

It was likely the truth, but he’d had enough of this woman and the carelessness with which she lived her life. “Because you have a habit of getting shot on mail coaches.”

“It wasn’t on the coach.”

“Now who is arguing semantics?” She closed her mouth. “I shall see you to Mossband.” He couldn’t help the rest of the words now that he knew, almost certainly, that she’d been lying to him from the start. “Right into your baker’s doughy arms.”

“Aren’t you clever.”

“I am, rather.”

He would wager his entire fortune that there was no baker. Which meant she was running, and he was the only person who could help her. Just as he’d been for another girl an eternity ago.

And he’d be damned if he was going to let this one down, too.

A short rap sounded on the door to the room and he opened it to find Mary, John, and Bess. They stepped inside without being invited. Mary spoke quickly. “There’s a man downstairs asking questions about a missing girl.”

“Yes, we met him,” King said.

Mary looked to Sophie. “He says her name is Sophie. And she’s a nob.”

Sophie watched her carefully, but did not say anything.

Mary looked to King. “They say she’s with another nob.”

He did not reply.

John added, “We think it’s you.”

King spoke then. “Did you tell the man your suspicions?”

“No,” John said. “We’s loyal to our friends’ secrets.”

Sophie nodded. “Thank you.”

“Wot’d you do to deserve a man hunting you?”

Sophie smiled, small and somewhat sad, and King resisted the urge to go to her and gather her in his arms. “I ran from a life I did not want.”

“We cannot pretend we don’t understand that,” Mary said, putting her hand on Bess’s shoulder and pulling the girl close.

Christ. He was going to have to take care of these three. He couldn’t leave them here to their own devices. Mary was young and the other two were children.

Smart, savvy, thieving children, but children nonetheless.

“You must go,” Mary said. “And quickly.”

He reached into his pocket and extracted his purse, extending a handful of coins to Mary. “You’ll follow. In my coach.”

Her brows rose. “Why?”

He knew pride when he saw it in the young girl’s eyes. Knew she would not accept charity in any sense. He’d had to badger her into accepting the room Sophie had insisted he pay for. “Because we’re going to hire another carriage. And those men shall think that you three are us. In my coach. Hieing north to Scotland.”

“To elope!” Bess spoke for the first time.

Sophie looked to the young girl. “What do you know of eloping?”

“I don’t,” Bess said, honestly. “But I know people do it in Scotland.”

“As a matter of fact,” King said to the little girl. “I think they just might believe we are eloping.”

“Are you?” Mary asked.

“No!” Sophie said without hesitation.

He turned to her. “Another man would take offense at how quickly you discount my eligibility.”

She raised her brows at him. “Another man might be less of a cad than you are, my lord.”

He thought of the events in the public hallway downstairs and refrained from argument.

“Where will you go?” Mary asked.

“North. And quickly.”

Mary worried her lip, considering them both. “I don’t know that it’s proper for you to leave without chaperone, my lady.”

King was certain he hadn’t heard the girl correctly.

Sophie shook her head. “I preferred Mrs. Matthew.”

“But you’re not Mrs. Matthew. You’re an earl’s daughter. You should have a companion.”

“I have the marquess.”

Mary cut him a look. “I’m no highborn lady, but even I know he’s not an acceptable chaperone.”

If the girl only knew half of it.

“He’ll do fine,” Sophie said. “The marquess doesn’t even care for me.”

Mary looked from Sophie to King, and he had the distinct impression that she did not believe the words. “My lord, you understand that we feel quite possessive of the lady. What with her saving our lives.”

He nodded once. “I do.”

“Then you understand, also, that if you hurt her, I shall have to gut you.”

He blinked, grateful that the girl didn’t know half of it. Because she clearly meant the threat, and King wasn’t certain she did not have the guts and skill to do it. “I do.”

Satisfied, Mary nodded. “What shall we do?”

“Stay here. Try to throw them off our scent for a few hours to let us get away. Stay a few days, if you like.” He gave her a handful of coin from his purse. “That will keep you weeks if you need it. When you’re ready, my coachman will bring you and my luggage to my country seat.”

Mary was uncertain. “We were headed to Yorkshire. There’s a place there. I hear we’ll be safe.”

King shook his head. “There’s a place for you in Cumbria, as well. Or Wales. Or any number of other places. For John and Bess, as well. You shall all be under the protection of the Duke of Lyne.”

“Cor!” John said.

“A duke!” Mary said.

Someday soon. And he’d try his damnedest to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Perhaps, finally, he could do it.

Sophie looked to King. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when we’re off,” he said, pushing her toward his nearby chest. “You must dress. You’re leaving the pub the same way you came in.”

“Shot and passed out?” John asked.

King lifted the stained-but-clean livery that sat atop the luggage and handed it to Sophie. “As a footman.”