Page 50 of My Dark Duke

“Shall we turn back?” she suggested. “We can walk toward Constitution Hill and see how the works on the Queen’s Residence are progressing.”

Buckingham House was the London Residence of Queen Charlotte. It was rumoured the Prince Regent intended it to replace St James’ Palace as the site for official ceremonies, and he spent lavish amounts of the Crown’s coffers having it renovated. The work was an object of both curiosity and annoyance for Londoners, and its funding was frequently debated in Parliament.

The two ladies turned around, intent on retracing their steps back to the main walkway. Twigs crunched beneath Lillian’s kidskin boots, sounding out her every step.

Polly was right to feel nervous, she thought, as she drew her cape around her. As the day was dark and overcast, walking beneath the ceiling of branches felt almost like they were walking at dusk. Though it had been many decades since highway men had stalked Green Park, she still cast a nervous eye out for them.

“Nearly there,” she said, with forced cheer.

They had neared the end of the walkway, when a figure emerged from the main path. Beside her, Polly started, but Lillian remained calm.

It was clear the person was a gentleman; even from a distance, she could see he wore a fine beaver hat and carried a cane. There were not many highwaymen who dressed with such aplomb, she guessed.

She linked her arm through Polly’s, urging her on, but as they neared the stranger, her step began to falter.

The figure before her was no gentleman, but the spectre who had haunted her nightmares.

“Miss Hamilton,” Lord Bailey grinned, revealing his pipe-yellowed teeth. “What a coincidence; I did not expect to see you in London.”

Even Polly could tell his tone rang false, and she cast Lillian a worried look. Lord Bailey spotted the glance which passed between the lady's maid and mistress, and gave a forced chortle.

“Have no fear, miss,” he said, addressing Polly now. “Miss Hamilton and I are family - though, she must be chastised for failing to keep herbloodupdated as to her whereabouts.”

Lillian was so paralysed by fear that she was unable to speak. All Lord Bailey need do was call for a constable and she would be hauled straight to Newgate. A hand slipped into hers, soft and warm, and it squeezed it reassuringly.

“If Miss Hamilton does not wish to keep in contact, sir, that is her prerogative,” Polly answered, boldly. “And, as she quite obviously has no wish to engage you in conversation, even now, then I’m afraid we must leave. Good day to you, sir.”

Lord Bailey scowled at her impertinence and stepped forward, his eyes full of menace. Mercifully, they were interrupted, as a group turned onto the path; a group consisting of several tall men, who looked the sort who would step up to assist a lady, if chivalry demanded it.

Polly seized the opportunity their arrival presented, and tugged Lillian away. As she walked past Lord Bailey, he tipped his hat and offered her a sly smile.

“Mr Hope sends his regards,” he called quietly to her.

Her heart froze, but she kept her face impassive. She merely nodded, to acknowledge she had heard him, then hurried along after Polly.

They emerged onto the main walkway, where there were more people out walking. Granted, most were governesses with young charges, but Lord Bailey would not think to assault her so publicly in front of witnesses.

He might follow you home, Lillian worried, before she realised that he had probably followed herfromher home to the park. There was no other explanation for his appearance.

Polly remained silent as they walked towards the main gate, their pace brisk. It was only when they were in sight of Michael, that she stopped and turned to face Lillian.

“Are you all right m’dear?” she whispered, taking Lillian’s hand again. “Thorncastle insisted Michael keep a Flintlock in the house, so you’ll be well protected once we return home.”

“Thank you, Polly,” Lillian answered, truly grateful for her reassurance. It was useless, however, no matter how well intended. She was not frightened that Lord Bailey would try to attack her in her home but, rather, he would arrive with a dozen Bow Street Runners, and drag her off to hang.

“Who was he?” Polly whispered, casting a glance back at Michael, who was waiting on them.

Lillian frowned, wondering how much she should share with the lady’s maid. Her first instinct was to carry on with the ruse, to continue guarding her secret, but she quickly realised it was futile.

She was caught; no matter what she said now to Polly, Thorncastle would still learn she was a murderess.

“A distant cousin,” Lillian said, before continuing in a firm tone, “I wish to leave, Polly. I should not like to run into him again.”

“Of course.” Polly put her arm around her and bustled her toward the gig.

As the gig made its way back toward the city, Polly kept up a steady stream of inane chatter; the price of flour, the thick fog which hung over the city, the vehicles which clogged the roads. Lillian was grateful for her efforts at maintaining a some sense of normality, for inside she felt as though she was falling apart - shattering into a million tiny pieces.

The fragile happiness she had found with Thorncastle was gone, and she was now in a worse position than when she had arrived, with a baby to think of.

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