Ruthless by Anne Stuart Page A

going to cast up my accounts all over your expensive carriage!” she said in a harsh, muffled voice.
    â€œThat would be a great deal too bad, but carriages can be cleaned. I have servants for that.”
    She looked up at him, her hand still clamped over her mouth. “Do you want to ride back to your château in a closed carriage filled with the results?”
    â€œAn excellent point.” He rapped on the carriage wall behind him, and the conveyance came to an abrupt stop, hurtling her forward.
    She caught herself in time, just before she ended in his arms. He’d unfastened the pelisse at her neck at some point during the wicked play he’d forced on her, and she thrust it off her shoulders, scrambling for the door just as the footman let down the steps.
    With one hand clamped to her mouth and another against her stomach, she let the footman help her out of the carriage as she groaned piteously. A light snowwas falling, making the wretched area look almost pretty. She felt the ground beneath her feet, and for a moment she began to sink to her knees in order to relieve herself of her last meal. She leaned toward the footman, making a gagging noise, and he drew back instinctively, releasing her.
    It was all she needed. In a moment she was gone, disappearing into the throngs that crowded the main thoroughfare of that miserable part of the city.
    She could bless the new boots, and thank Mrs. Clarke most heartily for them, she thought as she raced through the streets, turning corners, making her way deeper and deeper into the seedy underbelly of Rue du Pélican. He would be no match for her, she could outrun anybody when she so desired, thanks to her long legs and determination, and besides, she knew this area well. The footman would be at a loss.
    No, Monsieur le Comte would have no choice but to return to his den of iniquity, and Lydia would be safe.
    Elinor slowed down to a brisk trot, pulling her shawl more tightly about her. He would have had to get out and walk—that, or have his coachman find a sedan chair in order to reach the back alley that held their wretched little house, and even then he’d have a hard time finding it. Granted, one of his coachmen knew of the place, since Jacobs had been forced to direct him there in order to return her mother, but by the time Francis Rohan got home he would have lost interest in a plain woman with a secret.
    The alleyway that held her small house lookedeven more dismal than usual, and as she scrambled up the two steps to the entry she felt the cold begin to reach into her bones. That pelisse had been lovely, and would have looked beautiful on Lydia. But safety was a far greater treasure.
    She pushed open the door and froze, momentarily afraid that somehow Lord Rohan had managed to defy the laws of nature and arrive there before her. A tall man was standing over her sister, and even in the shadowy light she could see her sister’s vivid smile, and she let out a groan, a real one this time.
    The man turned, and it wasn’t Rohan. Of course it wasn’t; it was the scarred man from the night before, the one who had had a half-clad demimondaine on his arm. A man who was talking to her sister, looking at her. A man who was no better than Rohan himself.
    Lydia jumped up, her smile wider than ever. “Nell, I was so worried about you!” she cried. “Mr. Reading told me there was nothing to be concerned about, but you were gone all night, and ever since that time you went away to Italy I’ve been…”
    â€œI’m fine, darling!” Elinor said swiftly, forestalling Lydia’s artless comments. Even if Lydia hadn’t been able to put two and two together, a more jaded member of society would have no trouble jumping to conclusions, and she couldn’t afford to let that happen.
    â€œThis is Mr. Reading, Nell. He was kind enough to escort Mummy home.”
    Only Lydia called Lady Caroline by the cozy “mummy.”