A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal by Meredith Duran

herself.
    Her head fell back against the bench. In case
what
? Did she really mean to humor this lunatic?
    I took you
, Mum had said.
    Mum had refused to speak of Rushden after that night. Soon, she’d not been lucid enough to speak at all. But—
I took you
, she’d whispered.
I thought it for the best
.
    Mum had always been a touch mad. But what would it make her to have stolen someone else’s baby?
    To have stolen
me.
    Nell swallowed. Too strange, almost sickening, to think that that girl in the photograph might be more than her half sister. If St. Maur was right, they’d shared a womb.
    But Nell had known a pair of twins, the Millergirls down the road. Inseparable, those two. Finished each other’s sentences. Cared for each other before even their husbands. Such a bond as that—could a girl forget it? She’d looked into Katherine Aubyn’s photograph and seen nothing that spoke to her heart—only to the blackest parts of her, envy and bitterness and anger.
    But even if St. Maur’s story wasn’t true … She cast a look around the interior. This little space was finer than any she’d ever called her own. Ha! Finer than any she’d ever seen before last night. Cut-glass lamps fixed in brass, panels of polished wood, tapestry rugs rolled up at her feet—a girl could live in this coach.
    Marry me
, he’d said.
    She reached into her pocket and felt past the handkerchief for the ten-pound note he’d given her to show his promises were good. She’d handled a bill, once or twice, but this one felt different, maybe because it was so clean. Crisp and crackling, like it had just come from the bank.
    Did it matter who she was? St. Maur said people would believe it, regardless. And why not? She
did
look just like that girl.
    She closed her eyes and took a breath through a throat that felt as dry as bone. If he came back with Hannah, maybe … Maybe she’d decide to give him a bit of trust. Just a
bit
, mind. She’d see where this led, at least.
    Minutes passed. The vehicle trembled as others trundled by. Footsteps cracked toward the vehicle; three hard strikes made the door rattle. Now came an angry voice, demanding that the door be opened, the coach be moved; bloody cheek, blocking the entrance! Just as quick, two strident voices tumbled over eachother to demand an apology. Lord Rushden’s carriage; special business; respect your betters.
    And in reply, a flustered apology. Humbly begging his lordship’s forgiveness, etcetera.
    She sat frozen as the footsteps moved off. So it really
did
work like that. She’d never witnessed such craven groveling, but then, nobody in Bethnal Green got the opportunity for it, did they? Not many lords would see a cause to visit Peacock Alley.
    More footsteps approached. A muttered exchange between the erstwhile defenders of his lordship’s right to park himself where he pleased. Her heart fluttering in her throat, she sat up. The door shuddered, then swung open.
    Hannah’s tearful face peered up at her. “Oh, Nell!” she cried, and then burst into tears.
    “So he wants me to come back and marry him,” Nell concluded. She spoke in low tones, aware of St. Maur waiting outside. His coach was set to take Hannah home, but by the terms of their agreement, she’d stay here in Mayfair with him. He obviously meant to hold her to the fine details, too: he’d not even gone inside his house, but was lingering on the front step. “Can you
believe
this tale?”
    Hannah licked her lips. “No.”
    “It’s a bit much, ain’t it?” Nell reached out to take her hand. “Poor duck. You look exhausted.”
    Hannah nodded, looking down to her lap, to the fist in which she held the crumpled blue handkerchief Nell had lent her when she’d started to weep on the way to Grosvenor Square. St. Maur had noted the new ownership with a lift of his brow and a slight but pointed smile.
    Now I know
, that smile had said.
    Yes, now he knew. She was a thief as well as a would-be murderess.
    She didn’t