CHAPTER SEVEN

MORDECAI HAILED A hackney, told the jarvey to take them to the Earnoch Hotel, and climbed into the carriage after Miss Wrotham. He sat alongside her on the shabby seat. Dictatorial? Tyrannical? The accusations stung. How could she compare him to her father? He wanted to set her free, not cage her.

Frustration stewed in his chest. He forced his muscles to relax. He was used to people saying things that hurt; he’d trained himself to keep an impassive face when the barbs struck home, to not show any reaction except perhaps mild amusement. And yet today he’d shouted. Shouted and raged and waved his hands and generally behaved like a great lummox. A great dictatorial lummox.

He closed his eyes in a wince. It’s tiredness, he told himself. Tiredness was why she’d managed to make him lose his temper—something he hadn’t done in years—and tiredness was why he wasn’t going to continue arguing with her now, even though—God damn it—he wanted to.

He exhaled a long breath, filled his lungs again, and opened his eyes. “If we’re going to travel together, you should choose another name.”

“I appreciate your concern for my reputation, but I truly don’t care if people know I’m in your company.”

“I care,” Mordecai said.

“But—”

“Regardless of what people say about me, I’ve never ruined a woman. I’ve taken great pains not to ruin any women.” And, even though he tried to prevent it, an edge of anger vibrated in his voice.

Miss Wrotham bit her lip. He saw that she wanted to argue, and he saw her decide—as he’d decided—that now wasn’t the time.

“Very well,” she said. “I shall be Miss Smith.”

“Mrs., not Miss. And not Smith. An unusual name would be better. If people notice you, it should be for your name, not your face.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “I doubt they’ll notice my face. It’s quite ordinary.”

Mordecai almost snorted. If you think your face is ordinary, you’ve been looking in the wrong mirrors. But he didn’t tell her that; instead he said, “What name would you like?”

Her brow furrowed thoughtfully.

“Trussell-Quimby?” Mordecai suggested. “Polkinghorn?”

“Ramsbottom.”

“Ramsbottom?”

“My father’s man of business was named Ramsbottom. I always thought it an unfortunate name.”

Mordecai gave a reluctant grunt of laughter. “Very unfortunate. And no, not Ramsbottom.” Then he reviewed his words. He did sound a little dictatorial. He tempered his comment with: “It doesn’t suit you.”

Miss Wrotham eyed him for a moment, and then said, “Trussell-Quimby.”

Mordecai gave a nod. “Do you have mourning clothes with you? If you could be a widow, that would be even better.”

She shook her head. “I left them in Bath. And no—” as he opened his mouth, “please don’t buy me any. I’ve worn black since my father died, and I won’t wear it any longer.”

Mordecai listened to the edge in her voice and noted the stubborn set of her chin. “Very well,” he said. See? Not dictatorial.

They traveled the length of the Strand in silence. When the hackney turned into Haymarket, Mordecai said, “How about a wig and spectacles? Would you wear those if I bought them for you?”

He saw on her face that she thought disguises unnecessary. “Mr. Black—”

“Please,” Mordecai said.

They stared at each other for a long moment, while the carriage lurched and swayed, and then Miss Wrotham colored faintly and looked down at her lap. She studied her gloves, smoothed away a wrinkle in the kid leather, and said, “If you think it necessary.”

MORDECAI LET MISS WROTHAM down from the hackney at the Earnoch Hotel, promised to pick her up at dawn, then directed the jarvey to the nearest perruquier. He inspected the available wigs and selected two made of chestnut horsehair, one done up in a chignon, the other in a braided bun.

“Hairpins?” he asked, and the perruquier sold him two dozen, along with boxes to carry the wigs in.

Next he went to the oculist his father had patronized, bought a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and had the man fit plain glass lenses into the frames.

His purchases made, Mordecai returned to his house in Grosvenor Square, where he issued a series of orders. As a result of those orders he had a cold bath, dressed in clean clothes, drank a glass of chilled white burgundy, and had an interview with his coachman and another with his housekeeper. To the former, he said, “Prepare the traveling chaise, Phelps. I’m going to Exeter tomorrow, fast. No livery; I want to keep a low profile.” To the latter, he said, “I need a footman for several days, perhaps longer. His duties will be to help Phelps and act as my valet. Tell him not to wear livery.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll need a housemaid, too. Someone who’s waited on a lady before—and has a discreet tongue in her head.”

His housekeeper didn’t bat an eyelid. “The new girl has experience as an abigail.”

“New?” Mordecai said. “Another one of Roger’s?”

The housekeeper nodded.

Mordecai sighed, and rubbed his brow with hard fingers. “Damn him.”

The housekeeper said nothing, but Mordecai had a pretty shrewd idea what she was thinking. It was exactly what he was thinking himself: that Roger ought to be castrated. “Is she all right?”

“Yes, sir. He didn’t do her any harm.”

“Good.” He blew out a sharp breath. “Very well, I’ll take her. Send her to me, will you? I’ll be in my study.”

The new housemaid was a thin girl. Not the type to normally catch Roger’s eye, but clearly she had caught it, because here she was in Mordecai’s household, like many housemaids before her.

Mordecai leaned back in his chair and surveyed her across the broad expanse of his desk. “What’s your name?”

“Bessie, sir.”

“I understand you were in my cousin’s employ.”

“Yes, sir.” Her gaze was fixed the desktop, not him. She was almost shaking with nervousness.

Mordecai stood abruptly and strode to the window, increasing the distance between them fourfold. He looked out at the square, then turned to face her. “You’ll find that I run a very different household from my cousin. If you have any of that sort of trouble, you’re to tell my housekeeper immediately.” He might not be able to castrate Roger, but he’d sure as hell castrate any of his employees who attempted to force themselves on a woman.

“Yes, sir.”

“And if she isn’t in the house, you may come directly to me.”

Bessie bit her lip, and cast him a timid glance, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Mordecai leaned back against the windowsill and tried to look as unthreatening as possible. “I’m traveling to Exeter tomorrow with an acquaintance. A lady. I understand that you have some experience as an abigail?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you become ill in a coach?”

“No, sir.”

“The lady will be traveling incognito,” Mordecai said. “But you may call her Mrs. Trussell-Quimby. I’ve purchased two wigs and a pair of spectacles for her.” He nodded at the items on his desk—the wig boxes, the spectacle case. “Please see that she wears them.”

“Yes, sir,” Bessie said.

“We’ll leave at dawn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go.”

Bessie bobbed another curtsy, and gathered up the wigs and spectacles. At the door, she glanced back at him. Her glance was scared and shy and yet at the same time almost worshipful, as if he were half ogre, half hero. The door clicked shut quietly after her.

Mordecai stayed where he was, leaning against the windowsill, while the sky slowly darkened. Then he sighed and rang for a footman. He ate a silent, lonely dinner, went upstairs, and stripped out of the clothes he’d put on only a few hours before. “Your portmanteau and valise are packed, sir,” his valet said.

“Thank you.”

“Are you certain you don’t wish me to accompany you?” Tompkin’s voice was almost—but not quite—neutral.

“You think me cruel to leave you behind? Console yourself, Tompkin; it’s likely to be an uncomfortable journey.”

“I wouldn’t mind, sir,” the valet said earnestly.

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a prince among valets.”

But, prince or not, there’d be no space in the carriage for Tompkin once they found Sophia Wrotham.

Mordecai rubbed eyes that were gritty with weariness and climbed into his high, wide, empty bed. “Wake me at four, please.”