Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online Page A

either, and Martha
had emerged from the inn behind her; at best she would have seen his back, and
that at a distance.
    Fletcher opened the coach door and waved her in.
She climbed up and settled on the seat, in her now usual position. While the
others climbed in, she prayed Fletcher hadn’t realized her ploy, hadn’t realized
Breckenridge was following, and had therefore told her a lie.
    If she lost Breckenridge’s protective presence
. . .
    Even as the thought formed, along with the
realization of how very alone she would feel if she didn’t know he was close,
how very much more afraid and truly panicked she would be, she couldn’t help but
recognize how ironic it was. How strange that her nemesis—he who she habitually
avoided and thoroughly disliked—had somehow transformed into her savior.
    Breckenridge, her
savior.
    She very nearly snorted. Turning her head, she
looked out of the window as the coach lurched, and rumbled out of the yard.
    B reckenridge swept into Newark-on-Trent in the middle of the afternoon.
He’d driven like a demon to get far ahead of the coach carrying Heather, and the
pair of grays were flagging. He turned in at the first large posting inn and
shouted for the ostlers and stableman.
    Despite his unprepossessing attire, they responded
to the voice of authority and came running. Stepping to the ground, he tossed
the reins to the first ostler, spoke to the stableman. “I need the best pair you
have, harnessed and ready to go in . . .” He drew out his fob-watch,
checked the time, then snapped it shut. Tucking it back in his pocket, he met
the stableman’s eyes. “One hour.”
    “Aye, sir. And the grays?”
    He gave the man the direction of the posting house
in High Barnet, then strode out of the inn yard and made for Lombard Street.
    His first stop was the local branch of Child’s
Bank; once he replenished his supply of cash, he followed the bank manager’s
directions to the town’s premier bootmaker, and was lucky enough to find an
excellent pair of riding boots that fit him. His next stop was the best
gentlemen’s outfitters, where he created a small furore by demanding they
assemble for him outfits suitable for a groom and for a north country
laborer.
    The head tailor goggled at him and the assistants
simply stared; holding onto his temper, he brusquely explained that the outfits
were for a country house party where fancy dress was required.
    Then they fell to with appropriate zeal.
    It still took longer than he would have liked. The
tailor fussed with the fitting until Breckenridge declared, “Damn it, man!
There’s no prize for being the most perfectly dressed groom in the north!”
    The tailor jumped. Pins cascaded from between his
lips and scattered on the ground. His assistants rushed in to gather them
up.
    The tailor swallowed. “No, of course not, sir. If
Sir will remain still, I will endeavor to remove the pins . . .
although really, such shoulders . . . well, I would have thought
. . .”
    “Never mind about showing off my damned
shoulders—just make sure I have room to move.” The instant the dapper little
tailor stepped back, Breckenridge swung his arms up, then forward. Neither
jacket nor shirt ripped. “Good—these will do.”
    He nodded at the other outfit and the jacket and
breeches he’d traded his evening coat for back in the Knebworth tavern. “Just
parcel those up. I’ll wear what I have on. I have to get back on the road.”
    The tailor and his assistants scurried to obey.
    Breckenridge paid and tipped them well, grateful
they hadn’t led him to lose his temper, which seemed to be riding on a
distinctly frayed rein.
    The parcel of clothes under one arm, he strode
quickly back to the posting inn. A pair of decent-looking blacks had been
harnessed to the curricle he’d hired in Baldock to replace the too-showy
phaeton. He inspected both horses, then paid the stableman, stowed his parcel
beneath the seat, climbed up, sat, and, after testing the