Kate Moore by An Improper Widow Page A

and rescuing gentlewomen.”
    “In London?”
    “No, of course not. That is my complaint. Such things are hardly possible in London,” she said.
    “I suppose the age of highwaymen is over,” he agreed. “No Dick Turpins to be hanged at Tyburn any longer.”
    “Hanged!” she said, rising a little out of her chair and shooting a brief glance at Mrs. Bowen. She lowered her voice. “They hang them? Not if . . . no one is hurt or . . . nothing is taken?”
    “I saw a fellow hanged once,” said Sir Miles with a slight shudder. “Didn’t care for it. Wouldn’t go again.”
    One of the Miss Phillipses pressed Sir Miles, in spite of his obvious repugnance, to tell more about the execution, but Miss Lacy continued to stare at Warne. Her blue eyes suggested that the young lady was doing a great deal of rapid thinking.
    “What was the fellow hanged for, Newbury?” asked Eastham as Sir Miles came to the end of his story.
    “Don’t know,” said Sir Miles.
    “They shoot traitors now,” offered Mr. Garrett. “The French even shot Ney!” He shook his head.
    “But Lavalette escaped,” Warne added for Miss Lacy’s benefit. She looked decidedly pale and strained.
    “Disguised himself as an English general, got clean away. Now that’s daring for you, isn’t it, Miss Lacy?” asked Sir Miles.
    “Yes,” she said, brightening. “A disguise. I like that.” She smiled wanly.
    “What would you say to a masked ball, then, Miss Lacy?” asked Eastham. He led the conversation back to the pleasures of the season, and Warne took care not to alarm Miss Lacy again. She made no obvious slips, but in a nature as open as hers there were still signs. She was hiding something, something that had not come out in the story her mother had so carelessly spread.
    When the group around the girl broke up, he turned to Mrs. Bowen. She stood but made no move to speak to her aunt’s guests as they took their leave. Just such distance separated them that he was sure she had heard every word of the conversation, but for him to cross to her, to take any notice of the chaperone, sitting apart, would call attention to her and raise doubts about his intentions. She was safe from his questions, and when her gaze met his, he knew she knew it.
    ***
    Susannah walked early. A cold, dense mist shrouded the park. Her brown pelisse and a mulberry muffler were insufficient warmth for true comfort, but the pleasure of being alone and moving freely was worth numb fingers and a reddened nose. She stuck to a narrow footpath over the coarse dry grass rather than the main tracks. She had no wish to be ridden down by some gentleman out for an early gallop, and she could not expect to be noticed in the fog. The quiet, the chill, the loneliness suited her purpose admirably, for she meant to sort out her thoughts.
    Juliet’s indifference to eligible gentlemen made Susannah uneasy. She had lain awake much of the night imagining the end of the season, when she would not be welcome to return to Uncle John and no cottage would be waiting in Wincanton. She would not apply to her brothers for help, and in any case, Richard would never help her and Henry could not. She would be forced to sell herself into some sort of servitude unless she could bring Juliet around to a sensible match. Still she would not despair.
    She would compose a letter to Uncle John. He would be impatient to hear how Juliet was getting on with the gentlemen he had chosen for her. Susannah would adopt a tone of cautious optimism. She would emphasize the amount of time Juliet had spent in Brentwood’s company at that first ball and note that Lord Atwell had been prompt to call. She would even mention the unexceptional young men who had crowded Lady Lacy’s drawing room the day before and indicate that she thought them worthy of investigation by Drummond and Drummond. It was too soon to point out that Brentwood and Atwell were unlikely to suit, and she would say absolutely nothing about the