Carola Dunn Read Free Page B

she wanted him to know her precise direction. Worse, what might he not attempt in the privacy of his coach, with none but a loyal servant to hear her cries? “I can very well walk.”
    “So far out of my way is far enough to walk, burdened,” he said mockingly, as if he guessed her thoughts, “and the streets around Covent Garden are far from safe for a lone female at this hour of the night. By the new bridge, Lambeth is no great distance to drive. Besides, I am curious to meet your brothers. Come.” He held out his hand.
    Short of engaging in an undignified and undoubtedly unsuccessful struggle for the basket, Lissa had no choice but to abandon it or obey. He handed her into the carriage. Following, he set the basket beside her and sat down opposite, thus relieving her immediate apprehensions.
    She was very tired. As the horses trotted along the Strand, she drifted into a half-doze, from which Lord Ashe roused her only when, at the far end of Waterloo Bridge, the coachman needed further directions.
    Much of Lambeth was still laid out to market gardens, but the streets of mean tenements were gradually encroaching. Here street lamps were few and far between. For a few minutes Lissa was too busy directing the driver to worry about what to do when they arrived at her lodgings. Then the carriage pulled up before the dark doorway and it was too late to prepare a speech.
    “You do not really want to come in?” she pleaded, trying to make out Lord Ashe’s expression by the light of the carriage lamps as she stepped down.
    “I do,” he said firmly. “Wait here, Burr.”
    She unlocked the door and led the way up the dilapidated stairs. The lingering smell of boiled cabbage seemed worse than usual tonight, perhaps because she had for once eaten her fill. On the first landing she picked up the tallow candle left burning for her by a kindly landlady, adding its fumes to the fetid atmosphere. Lissa knew there were worse odours she might yet have to endure if she had to remove to cheaper rooms to save a few pennies on the weekly rent.
    Behind her, Lord Ashe made a choking noise, hastily smothered. His firm tread followed her up the second pair of stairs, up and up, till they reached the door to the garret under the roof.
    The door creaked open. By the light of her candle, Lissa saw Peter in his nightshirt slumped at the battered deal table, his fair head pillowed on his arms, fast asleep.
    Swiftly she turned, finger to her lips--too late.
    “You live here?” said Lord Ashe, his voice harsh.
    She nodded. “You would come,” she whispered.
    “Lissa?” Peter mumbled drowsily. “It was getting dreadfully late. I was worried. I couldn’t sleep.”
    “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
    He sat up, blinking at her. “Here, we saved you a bit of currant bun. Michael found a penny in the street and bought a bun, though I told him bread is better value. There’s not much left, I’m afraid. He was dreadfully hungry so I let him....” Catching sight of the figure in the shadows behind Lissa, he stopped and stared, then jumped to his feet. “Who’s that?”
    “Lord Ashe. He...he brought me home from the theatre.” She prayed the boy would not guess her escort’s original intentions. At eleven, Peter was as fiercely protective of her as of his younger brother, and a few weeks in London had taught him far too much about the ways of the world.
    She cast a rapid glance around the narrow, chilly attic room. It was as tidy as it could be with her pallet bed in one corner and their few books neatly piled in another, as clean as borrowed broom and scrubbing brush could make it. Moving aside, she let Lord Ashe step in.
    “Good evening, my lord,” Peter said, executing his best bow.
    A faint smile lightened his lordship’s grim expression. “Good evening, Master Findlay,” he responded.
    Peter started, glanced at Lissa, and said quickly, “Thank you for bringing my sister home, sir.”
    “Lissa?” Rubbing his eyes, nightcap awry