Page 11 of To Heal a Broken Earl
“Emma knows her mind. She’s not made of fluff, as so many Society girls are today. She does not shirk hard work,” Lady Beadle explained. “Besides, with all that’s happened, the girl needs to stay busy. And…I want to make sure she stays well. This is an arsonist, for God’s sake.”
“We’ll take every precaution, Aunt Millie,” Armstrong assured her. “We’ll use unmarked carriages along with some sleight of hand, such as entering the front of an inn, only to walk out the back and get into a different carriage, changing clothing, and using rural back roads and a light rig. If someone is tailing us, we’ll make damn sure they lose the trail and be unable to guess our destination.”
Michael had smiled then, recalling the gleam in the dowager’s eyes. For a moment, he could’ve sworn she was plotting to join them herself.
He was glad that Hastings, Stanhope, and Mrs. McDonald had planned to follow later in the day—leaving just a skeleton staff at the townhouse, he had informed Lady Beadle. “If we’ve forgotten anything,” he’d told her, “Send it along with them. They’ll be taking the direct route and should arrive well ahead of us.”
The carriage lurched as one of the wheels struck a rut in the road, jarring Michael from his thoughts. The plan, the secrecy, the familiar rhythm of covert strategy—all of it faded as the present reasserted itself.
He glanced at his pocket watch. They would reach The Rooster’s Inn in a couple of hours, he estimated, leaning back against the leather squabs…
He took some comfort in knowing Armstrong was nearby, accompanied by several outriders positioned to watch the road behind them. If the arsonist had followed, Michael felt confident they’d spot him.
Still, he kept his eyes sharp, scanning the terrain through the window, alert to anything unusual.
The last time he and Armstrong pulled off this sort of operation had been years ago, while smuggling a French marquis through England to a safe house in Cornwall. The man had turned informant, offering intelligence on an imminent insurrection in exchange for sanctuary. Thanks to his information, they’d been able to prevent what would have become a bloody and widespread protest.
This mission was different. But the stakes were no less personal.
The main objective today was to avoid the major coaching roads, particularly the turnpike, which would have tollgates and far more people who might be able to recall seeing them, should someone ask. Instead, they would cut across Kent into Sussex, keeping to rural back roads through the countryside and passing through small villages. At least, that was what this carriage would be doing. If things worked out the way Michael and Armstrong planned, he, Emma, Katie, and Doris would be on a more direct route, using the Thames as much as possible.
His manor, Wilton Hall, was in the South Downs region, an area known for its rolling chalk hills, wooded valleys, and sweeping vistas of open grassland. There was sea access nearby and a comforting sense of seclusion. It was far enough from London to provide peace, yet close enough when duty—or Society—called.
He had visited the estate twice since inheriting the title. Structurally, it was sound. But the interior would need considerable work—fresh paint, new furnishings, and improvements to the overgrown grounds. A slow, steady project.
Michael’s gaze drifted across the carriage once more. Lady Emma slept quietly beside her niece, her expression softened in slumber. He wondered if she’d be content with the role of housekeeper—especially when the bulk of the work ahead would involve overseeing the refurbishment of a neglected estate.
She didn’t strike him as a woman who feared a challenge.
At one time, Wilton Hall had been known for its horse breeding. Since learning of his inheritance, Michael had been considering it as a possible future pursuit for himself—something tangible, methodical. The stables offered plenty of space, though they’d require substantial repair before any horses could be properly housed. Still, it was a project he found himself looking forward to. The stable had plenty of space, but it would need a lot of repairs before the stable could be used—and this was a project that he looked forward to undertaking.
A soft murmur drew his attention. Emma shifted against the squabs in her sleep, and the sight of her—peaceful, unaware—stirred something unexpected in him.
Her hair, rich with copper tones, shimmered in the shifting morning light, and it irritated him more than he cared to admit that he found it beautiful. That he foundherbeautiful. And those eyes—lavender with curious flecks of gold—had a way of meeting his with a startling frankness. As if she saw far more than he intended to reveal.
But he would keep his distance. He had to.
With young Katie in her care and the responsibilities awaiting her at the estate, Emma would be kept busy. And so would he. Michael would be able to keep his distance. There wasno way he would allow himself to become involved, no matter how attractive she was. He was too damaged for any woman.
~*~
He stood silently in the shadows across from Curzon Street. His broad-brimmed black hat was pulled low to obscure his face, and his long coat shrouded him in darkness. Lights flickered intermittently in the upper windows of the townhouse, but it was the steady glow in the center of the house that held his attention. That was where she was—her, the woman who had intrigued him and lured him into this desolation.
The house had buzzed with activity for hours. And as dawn crept closer, he became increasingly certain this was where she’d gone. He had intended to set her home alight, watch it burn until nothing remained. He’d thought it would bring peace. That elusive peace.
It hadn’t.
Now, he understood.
He didn’t want peace.
He wantedher.
A distant sound broke into his thoughts. A carriage rolled in from the mews behind the house, slowed, and turned onto the cobbled street, pushing him deeper into the shadows. Its black-lacquered sides glinted briefly before it disappeared around the corner.
Moments later, another carriage emerged—but turned in the opposite direction.
Too dark to make out the lettering on either side. But he knew—shewas in one of them.
