Horrified, Pinkney stared at the robe. “But… why, my lady?”
The second pistol fired with a deafening BOOM! Pinkney jumped and looked wildly out the window.
Dear God, they were out of ammunition. Isabel prayed the footmen were safe—and that they could hold off the rioters without their guns. She was an aristocrat, but just last year a viscount had been dragged from his carriage, beaten, and robbed in St. Giles.
Isabel took a deep breath and felt under the robe until she found the hilt of the Ghost’s sword. She drew it out as Pinkney eyed her askance and put the heavy thing across her lap. If nothing else, she could hit someone over the head with it if need be. “They want him dead because this morning he cut Charming Mickey O’Connor down from the gallows.”
Pinkney actually brightened at this. “Oh, Charming Mickey the pirate! Him I’ve heard of. They say he’s handsome as sin and dresses better than the king himself.”
Of course her lady’s maid had heard of a well-dressed pirate.
“Quite.” Isabel flinched as something hit the window, cracking the glass. “They probably chased him all the way from Tyburn gallows, poor man.”
“Oh.” Pinkney bit her lip. “Pardon me, my lady, but why have we picked him up?”
“Well, it does seem a pity to let anyone be torn apart by a mob,” Isabel drawled, not letting the girl see the fear that made her heart beat hard. “Especially a young, handsome man.”
Pinkney looked timidly at Isabel. “But, my lady, if the mob wants him and he’s in our carriage… ah…”
Isabel drew on all her strength to smile firmly. Her hand tightened on the hilt of the sword across her lap. “That’s why we’re not going to let them know we have the Ghost, are we?”
Pinkney blinked several times as if working through this logic; then she smiled. The child really was quite pretty. “Oh, yes, my lady.”
The lady’s maid sat back as if quite confident that they were all out of danger now that everything had been explained.
Isabel twitched aside the curtains to peer through the cracked glass. She wasn’t nearly as sanguine. Many of the streets in St. Giles were narrow and twisting—the reason that her carriage had been traveling so slowly earlier. A mob could move much faster afoot than they. But as she looked behind them, Isabel saw that the mob was beginning to fall away. John Coachman had found a straight stretch of road and was urging the horses into a trot.
Isabel let the curtain fall with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Thank God.
The carriage drew abruptly to a stop.
Pinkney shrieked.
“Steady on.” Isabel gave her maid a severe look. The last thing she needed was Pinkney having the vapors if they were about to be attacked.
Isabel peeked out the window and then hurriedly shoved the sword back under the carriage blanket.
And only just in time. The carriage door opened to reveal a stern-looking dragoon officer in scarlet uniform.
Isabel smiled sweetly. “Captain Trevillion. How good to see you—after we’ve outrun the mob.”
The captain’s craggy cheekbones darkened, but he still cast a sharp eye about the carriage. For a moment his gaze seemed to linger on the blanket.
Isabel kept her eyes on his face, her smile firmly in place. Casually she lifted her feet and rested them atop the robe.
The dragoon’s gaze snapped back to her. “Ma’am. I’m glad to see you and your party safe and sound. St. Giles isn’t a place to be loitering today.”
“Yes, well, we didn’t know that when we started out this morning.” Isabel raised her eyebrows in polite inquiry. “Have you caught that pirate yet?”
The captain’s thin lips tightened. “It’s only a matter of time. We’ll get him and the Ghost of St. Giles. The mob has them both on the run. Good day to you, my lady.”
She nodded, not daring to breathe until the dragoon had slammed shut the carriage door and given the word to John Coachman to move on.
Pinkney sniffed scornfully. “Soldiers. Their wigs are always terribly out of fashion.”
Isabel slumped back against the squabs and gave her lady’s maid a quick grin.
Half an hour later, the carriage was pulling up before her neat town house.
“Bring him inside,” she ordered Harold when he opened the doors.
He nodded wearily. “Yes, m’lady.”
“And, Harold?” Isabel descended the carriage, still clutching the sword.
“M’lady?”
“Well done. To both you and Will.” Isabel nodded to Will.
A shy grin split Harold’s broad, homely face. “Thank you, m’lady.”
Isabel permitted herself a small smile before she swept into her town house. Edmund, her dear, late husband, had bought Fairmont House for her shortly before he’d died and had gifted it to her on her twenty-eighth birthday. He’d known that the title and estates would go to a distant cousin and had wanted her properly settled with her own property, free of the entail.
Isabel had immediately redecorated on moving in four years ago. Now the entry hall was lined in warm golden oak panels. A parquet wood floor was underfoot, and here and there were items that amused her: a dainty pink-marble-topped table with gilded legs, a laughing boy faun holding a hare in black marble, and a small oval mirror edged in mother-of-pearl. All items she loved more for their form than their worth.
“Thank you, Butterman,” Isabel said as she tucked the sword under her arm and pulled off her gloves and hat, handing them to the butler. “I need a bedroom readied immediately.”
Butterman, like all her servants, was impeccably trained. He didn’t even blink an eye at the abrupt order—or the sword she carelessly held. “Yes, my lady. Will the blue room do?”
“Quite.”
Butterman snapped his fingers and a maid went hurrying up the stairs.
Isabel turned and watched as Harold and Will came in, carrying the Ghost between them. The Ghost’s floppy hat lay on his chest.
Butterman raised his eyebrow a fraction of an inch at the sight of the unconscious man, but merely said, “The blue room, Harold, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” Harold panted.
“If you don’t mind, my lady,” Butterman murmured, “I believe Mrs. Butterman may be of assistance.”
“Yes, thank you, Butterman. Please send Mrs. Butterman up as quickly as possible.” Isabel followed the footmen up the stairs.
The maids were still turning back the sheets on the bed in the blue room when the footmen arrived with their burden, but the fire on the grate was lit.