Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes (5 page)

In which the girl gets away.

11:07 in the morning

A
listair did not believe in luck. Anything that looked like luck in his life—like, say, being the son of a second son and yet finding himself heir to a title—came at too high a price to be called luck.

But finding that American girl had been lucky.

Finding that American girl and taking her home had been damned lucky. Leaving her alone in his flat and then returning to still find her there was even luckier still. He arrived, gasping for breath from sprinting, just as she was about to leave.

How. Damned. Lucky.

Especially after being ordered to marry her.

There was never any question that he was going to do his utmost to honor the baron’s request. The baron was a stuffy, proud man obsessed with prestige, privilege, and his lineage. He cared more about the circumstances of a man’s birth than a man’s character. He had barely tolerated his nephew, the product of a union between an Englishman and an Indian woman. He certainly ceased trying after that horrible accident with Elliot.

The sad fact was that Alistair would do anything for his approval. He felt he owed the baron a debt he could never repay because he took Alistair in, and raised him as a gentleman. He owed the man a debt he could never repay because Alistair was the reason the baron’s beloved son and heir died.

And so, if all the baron asked was that Alistair attend a ball and court a pretty girl, there was no question of saying no
.

But there was also never any question that it would be easy to land one of these girls, even if they wore feathered headpieces, eschewed shoes at ton functions, and accessorized with riding crops.

He was just another impoverished, untitled fortune hunter who would be jockeying for attention with all the other impoverished, untitled fortune hunters, some of who stood to inherit loftier titles that his. At any given ball, there
would be hundreds at least. He would have, at most, thirty seconds to make an impression during an evening that would probably consist of an endless stream of introductions.

He could not bet his redemption that a woman would look twice at him. He would not wager that he would come up with the perfect line to woo her and win her in the course of a polite introductory conversation. There was too much at stake to count on sparks flying.

So yes, finding that American girl last night had been lucky. Not that he’d realized what a treasure had stumbled into his arms—her words were so slurred it was impossible to understand what she was saying, let alone the accent with which she said it.

But this morning . . .

He came home to his sparsely furnished rented flat and there was a pretty girl there. Waiting for him.

That was when he realized that the moment of being welcomed home was everything he’d ever wanted. That was that indefinable feeling that had propelled him across continents, the fuel for his wandering. It was, simply, the feeling of having someone to come home to.

And then she opened her mouth to speak and there was no denying that she was American. Between the cartoon in the paper and the words she spoke, he was utterly, absolutely certain.

She. Was. The. One.

His heart had started to pound so hard it was a wonder she hadn’t heard it and asked about the noise. Given that he’d found her in Mayfair, not far from Durham’s place, meant that odds were high that she was one of
those
American girls. She could have been a servant brought over with them, but last he checked, servants in any country weren’t in the habit of referencing the
Odys
sey
.

She was the one.

And she had just walked out the door.

She had just walked down the corridor, descended the stairs, and out the door onto the street. And just like that, she was gone.

11:13 in the morning

A
melia ought to be in a rush. She ought to launch herself at the first hack she saw and direct the driver to take her to Durham House. She ought to do her best to sneak in via the servants’ entrance and pretend that she’d slept late after the exhausting events of last night. She ought to be praying, fervently, that no one had noticed her absence. But the sun was too high in the sky for that.

She was out, at large, missing.

Her family would know.

What difference did one more hour make?

The more she remembered of the previous evening, the less she wanted to go home. The dreadful scene she had caused. The heartbreaking fight with her family.

The gossip columns would be endlessly discussing last night’s scandal. She knew enough of London society and the London press to know what they would say. “One of those upstart Americans” had been discovered shoeless at a ball “in a positively heathenish manner” and clumsily faking a faint when any English rose would know how to do so with grace and elegance.

It would anger her family all over again.

No, Amelia was not in a hurry to go home.

And then, as she looked around the bustling streets on a rare blue-sky day, Amelia realized the following:

She had no idea where she was.

She had no idea
how
to return home.

This was a part of London that she was unfamiliar with—the houses weren’t as grand, the people weren’t dressed as fancily. They didn’t stroll by idly on display; they rushed about with a purpose. This was the London she wasn’t allowed to explore, and especially not on her own.

And this was everything she ever wanted.

This, she realized as she strolled down the streets, was a chance to explore. A chance to just
be
without the duchess reminding her to stand tall or wear a bonnet. Not that she had a bonnet. Or even a hairpin. Her hair was a vexing, tangled mess falling around her shoulders and falling into her eyes.

Perhaps she wouldn’t go home just yet, she thought, weaving her way through the throngs of pedestrians. She’d take an hour, just one hour, to explore. After all, what difference could one hour make at this point? Perhaps she could find her way to the British Museum or the Tower of London. As long as there was no damask wallpaper or disapproving old dowagers, she would consider herself happy.

It was then that she spied a sign for a wigmaker. Amelia grabbed a fistful of her hair—thick curls that plagued her to no end and that foolish women with straight hair always claimed to envy—and didn’t think twice about what to do next.

She slipped into the shop and spied a stout older woman at work. Her face was deeply lined. Her gray hair sprung from her head in a frizzy mess.

“Good morning,” Amelia said. “Will you cut my hair?”

“Cut your hair?” she looked up, perplexed. Then she looked at Amelia’s hair. The gleaming dark curls, cascading down to the middle of her back. “No.”

It was a no that suggested Amelia was insane to consider such a thing, and this woman was doing her a favor by refusing the request.

“Yes,” Amelia said firmly.

“No.”

“Please.”

“Perhaps the lady would like a wig instead,” she said, gesturing to the ones available for purchase.

“Perhaps you can see that the lady has absolutely no need of a wig and would like you to cut her hair instead,” Amelia said, as sweetly as she could manage.

“You are mad.”

“Perhaps. Then you wouldn’t wish to cross me, now would you?”

“Sit down,” the old woman barked.

Amelia sat.

A fierce debate regarding how much hair to cut ensued. The wigmaker was aghast. Amelia was determined. She wanted it all gone—all of it!—and the old witch tried to persuade her to lop off just a few inches. Amelia insisted the scissors go higher and higher. The old woman muttered “madness” all the while.

To Amelia, it felt more like liberation. With each snip of the scissors, with each lock that fell, she felt as if she were letting go of her past—think of all the things she had seen and done with those curls falling in her eyes, or tumbling
down her back. Now they were an ever-growing pile in some shop in London, and who knew where they would end up next?

“You must be an actress,” the old woman said as she reluctantly chopped off most of Amelia’s long curls.

“Perhaps.”

“You are cutting all your hair off the better to wear wigs for your performances. That is the only logical conclusion as to why you would do such a hideous thing as cut off all this beautiful hair.”

“It’s possible,” Amelia murmured.

“One of my wigs is used at Covent Garden for
the production of
The Return of the Rogue.
You
must go see it. Everyone is raving about the leading actress.”

This was true; it had been mentioned in the gossip columns and in conversations at soirees. It wasn’t clear which was more scandalous—the story or the lead actress. Amelia wished to see it but the duchess had forbidden it.

But the duchess wasn’t here now, was she? Amelia bit her lip, smiling. What if this was her chance to see the play and this amazing actress?

Opportunities like these . . .
Isn’t that what she
and her siblings said about the journey to En
gland? It was. This seemed like yet one more op
portunity she would be foolish to pass up.

When she reemerged from the shop a short
while later, she felt the sun on her neck and a weight lifted from her. Her head felt lighter. Her very being felt lighter. She felt renewed.

Her long hair would now be made into fashionable wigs, perhaps worn by actresses or even members of the haute ton who snubbed her, while she had a daring, scandalously short haircut that would give the ton something to talk about other than her shoes. Or lack thereof.

11:42 in the morning

A
listair followed a safe distance behind, newspaper in hand, as she wandered blithely through the busy street. He watched her peer in shop windows and examine the wares of street vendors. She moved at a slow pace at odds with everyone else’s frantic bustling.

He saw her duck into the wigmaker’s shop. What did she fancy, a disguise? It wasn’t the worst idea.

He stood outside, pretending to read the newspaper, waiting for her. He learned that the ton had been beside themselves when it was discovered that Durham’s heir was a horse breeder in the colonies. The haute ton’s worst fears were realized when the family arrived and showed very little inclination to assimilate. According to this gossip rag, it sounded like they didn’t even try.

As someone who spent a decent portion of his existence trying to make everyone in the haute ton forget (or at least overlook) his origins, let alone desperately hoping for their approval, this struck Alistair as foolish and arrogant. Or perhaps it was brave.

Either way, it was not something he was going to consider presently. He peered in the window of the wigmaker’s shop and felt relieved when he saw that she was still there. He hadn’t lost her, yet.

Now she was taking a seat.

What?

Now the proprietress was lifting a heavy pair of scissors. She couldn’t possibly mean to—?

She did.

No.

Big chunks of dark brown curls were lopped off and fell to the floor.

What the
hell
was she doing?

Her hair, her glorious curly hair, had been chopped off haphazardly and she had just a little bob of curls around her head.

It was not fashionable. It was not
done.

But there was no denying how fetching she looked.

He watched as the shopkeeper gave her a bonnet and helped secure the ribbons.

If he hadn’t been staring intently at the doorway, if he hadn’t watched the whole damn thing
through the window, he would have missed her when she stepped out a short while later. She looked like a regular lady—except for that daring haircut and genuine smile.

The newspaper had deemed her wild, unpredictable, rebellious. And now he understood. Alistair continued to watch as she did at least six scandalous things at once—and spent his money, and
not
on a hired hack to take her back to respectability. There was only one thing to do: continue to follow her.

11:44 in the morning

S
o this was London. The streets were pulsing with the movements of people. So many people pulsing and pushing around her. The air was thick with the dull roar of people talking, of horses and carriages clattering through, of life just happening at a fast speed and a high volume. Then there were the cries of vendors, seeking buyers for their wares.

“Violets!”

“Oranges!”

“Fresh fish!”

Amelia had no need for fresh fish. She had no need for a posy of violets, either. But there was a girl selling them and she simply seemed far too young to be out alone on the streets, earning her
keep by selling something as frivolous and delicate as violets.

Amelia hovered close to her, wondering. Where did she go at night? Did she have family, friends, or a suitor? For that matter, where did one find fresh flowers in London to sell? And what did she do when the violets were not in bloom?

“Violets would look so nice with your hair, miss.”

Amelia smiled, because the girl knew to give her exactly the compliment she needed to hear at that moment. And she bought violets—possibly the last thing she
needed
at the moment, because she wanted to support this girl. And oh, she had a hundred questions to ask her, but as soon as she paid, the girl was on to the next customer, doling out compliments and extoling the virtues of violets.

Amelia moved on, knowing that the girl probably didn’t have a place to return to, and certainly nothing so lavish or even comfortable as Durham House. She felt a little something—a pang, perhaps—at running away from such a comfortable residence and existence so she could muck about on the streets. But the thought, or pang, or whatever it was, retreated as quickly as it came, as Amelia’s attentions were captured by the next new thing.

A similar scene was repeated with a woman
selling oranges. A similar scene was almost repeated with one of the mercury women selling gossip sheets—until Amelia saw a cartoon of herself on the cover.