possession of the pistol.”
“As if that signifies! And don’t interrupt, if you please. The miscreant bounded into the saddle of a waiting mount with the grace and artistry of a performer at Astley’s Circus—although I believe I am cleaning up the language used by my informant more than a little. Shame on you, Simon. Were you foxed? Anything less than being falling-down drunk cannot be seen as an excuse for allowing a mere footpad to get the best of you.”
“She kicked a clog at my head,” Simon muttered angrily, then instantly wished back his words as his mother dragged him to a halt halfway down the length of the black-and-white tile foyer and spun around to face him.
“ She ?” His mother’s eyes, a startling blue that had not yet begun to fade with the years, were opened wide, her expression a ludicrous mix of incredulity and downright horror. “What sort of new playmate is this, Simon? Female brigands? My God—I wish I’d thought of it in my day. What a lark!”
“You probably would have thought of it eventually, Mother, had m’father not tamed you, then carried you off to the altar at the tender age of twelve. You see, I do remember that coming on to fifty remark. But it’s not to worry. The chit was after someone else entirely, as it fell out, and apologized quite prettily for the inconvenience before she tried to brain me with her clog. She won’t be bothering me again, as she’s some country miss, fairly gently bred, if her speech is to be considered. She’s probably halfway home by now, thanking her lucky stars she wasn’t caught, and regretting the entire incident.”
“After someone else entirely? Then this was not a random fit of violence, of robbery? Are you telling me that this girl—this desperate creature—was on some sort of mission last night?”
Simon began walking once more, which meant that his mother had to move as well, as he guided her closer to the stairs, and his freedom to get on with his plans for the afternoon. “It would appear so. And she impressed me as a young woman possessed of more than her share of determination. Rather like you, Mother, actually. Outrageous, a trifle profane, and yet oddly appealing if one was of a mind to enjoy being made a target of her rather volatile temper. And don’t look at me that way. I already know I’m only teasing myself if I believe she’s on her way back to Sussex or wherever, her mission not accomplished.”
“You’re going to chase after her, aren’t you? Hunt her down? Save her from herself?” his mother asked as she ascended the first step, then turned to look down on her son, the goddess Juno in a too-ornate dressing gown.
Simon sighed. “Now, Mother—”
“Don’t you ‘Now, Mother’ me. You’re going to go after her—aren’t you?”
“With a vengeance, sweet lady,” he told her emphatically as the butler handed him his hat and cane. “Thank you, Emery,” he said, tapping the hat down onto his head and giving his cane a quick twirl before tucking it beneath his ann. “I’m going to hunt her down with a vengeance, ma’am,” he repeated from between his clenched-teeth smile, “that amazes even me. There. Are you happy now?”
“I’m not sure. And when you locate her?” Imogene pressed him, her expression now quite entirely serious, as if she had just seen something in her son that she’d always suspected and secretly feared. “What then, Simon?”
“Why, truth to tell, I haven’t the foggiest notion,” Simon told her in all honesty.
“I do,” the viscountess murmured quietly, so quietly her son couldn’t quite catch her words. “She’s young, she’s interesting, she talks well enough. Exasperated as he tries to be, his eyes smile even as he condemns and dismisses her. She’s probably of an at least half-decently acceptable family. Damn that bun, that ham. I’m going to have to starve myself the remainder of the day, the remainder of the week. I’m running out of time now, and
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley