And all of London simply accepted it. They called him by the ridiculous moniker. Or the other one—the Royal Rogue—as though it were a compliment and not complete blasphemy.
And she’d been exiled for telling the truth about a duke.
Anger flared, threaded with something else—something she did not enjoy and which she would not name.
Sophie scowled at the carriage, as though it were the manifestation of the man inside. Of the world that created him, empty and aristocratic, imperious and infuriating.
As though nothing ever defied him.
Until now. Until her.
“He’s not in there.”
She looked up to the coachman. “What did you say?”
He was exasperated—that much was clear—becoming less and less forgiving of her perceived madness. “The marquess isn’t inside and the ride has addled you. Get up on the block. We’re miles from anywhere, and you’re wasting the daylight, you mad git.”
She looked to the door, refusing to believe the words. “What do you mean, he isn’t inside?”
The coachman stared down at her, unamused. “He. Ain’t. Inside. Which part of it is confusing?”
“I saw him get in!”
The driver spoke as though she was a child. “We’re to meet him there.”
She blinked. “Where?”
Exasperation won the day, and the driver turned back to the road with a sigh. “I told them not to saddle me with a boy I didn’t know. Suit yourself. I haven’t the time to wait for your senses to return from wherever they’ve run off.”
With a flick of his wrists, the horses were moving, along with the carriage.
Leaving her stranded on the road.
Alone.
To be set upon by whomever happened by.
Bollocks.
She cried out, “No! Wait!”
The carriage stopped, barely long enough for her to scramble up onto the driver’s block before it moved again.
For a moment, she considered telling the coachman everything. Revealing herself. Throwing herself at his mercy and hoping that he would take her home.
Home. A vision flashed, lush green land that ran for miles, hills and dales and wild northern sunsets. Not London. Certainly not Mayfair, where the only thing lush were the silk skirts she was forced to wear every day, in case someone came for tea.
And her father had enough money that someone always came for tea.
London wasn’t home. It never had been—not for a decade. Not in all the time that she’d lived in that perfect Mayfair town house that her mother and sisters adored, as though they didn’t miss the past. As though they’d hated the life they’d lived all those years ago. As though they would forget it if they needed to. As though they had forgotten it.
Tears came, surprising and unbidden, and she blinked them away, blaming the summer wind and the speed of the carriage.
She was alone on the driving block of a carriage, dressed as a footman, headed God knew where.
And somehow, it was the thought of returning to London that made her sad.
So she stayed quiet, knowing it was mad, willing the coachman not to notice her, listening to the sound of the wheels and the horses’ hooves as the coach moved north.
Hours later, when the sun had set, it had become clear that Sophie was out of her element. She’d thought that wearing a footman’s livery, masquerading as a boy, and riding on the outside of a coach would be the most difficult parts of the charade, only to realize that those bits were, in fact, nothing in comparison to the arrival at the posting inn.
She watched from the driver’s block as the coachman climbed down to arrange space in the stables for the horses and, ostensibly, for storage of the carriage itself.
The thought gave her pause. Where did carriages go when they weren’t in use? It was a question she’d never had cause to consider.
“Are you going to sit up there like a lord? Or are you planning to come down and do some work?”
The words startled her from her thoughts, and she looked down to find the coachman staring up at her, his earlier exasperation edging into something else entirely. Suspicion.
Well. She couldn’t have that. Not now, at least, before she’d decided the next steps of her plan.
Plan was something of a misnomer for this outrageous situation. Disaster was a better descriptor.
“Where are we?” she asked, deliberately lowering the tenor of her voice—she couldn’t have him realizing that she was a woman now—and scurrying down from the carriage, willing to wager that, while she did not know what a footman did at this exact moment, descending to earth was an excellent first step. Once on the ground, she bowed her head and just barely caught herself before she sank into a curtsy. Footmen did not curtsy. That part, she knew.
“All that matters is that we are here before the marquess.”
“Where is he?” The question was out before she could stop it. She did not require the cold, critical gaze of the coachman to know that she had overstepped her bounds, but he provided it nonetheless.
“I don’t know what is wrong with you, boy,” he said, “but you had better set yourself straight. Servants don’t question their masters’ whereabouts, nor do they ask questions to which they don’t need answers. Servants serve.”
That was just the problem, of course. Sophie had no idea how to begin doing such a thing. “Yes, sir. I shall do just that.”
He nodded and turned away, tossing over his shoulder, “See that you do.”
She had no choice but to call after him, “That said . . . what . . . what shall I do?”
He stilled, then turned around slowly. Blinked at her. Then spoke as though she was a child. “Begin with your job.”
That wasn’t helpful.
She took a deep breath as he turned back to the horses, considering all the things she’d witnessed footmen doing in the past.
Her gaze flickered to the great black coach, empty. Except, it would not be empty. Eversley wouldn’t have traveled such a distance without having prepared for it. There would be bags. Luggage.
And footmen collected luggage.
With renewed purpose, she opened the door and climbed into the carriage, prepared to collect whatever items the marquess had left for his servants to shuttle into his rooms, before she stilled in the darkness, the sounds of the bustling inn from outside muffled as she considered the inside of the massive coach. Massive, indeed. It was one of the largest private coaches she’d ever seen—bordering on conspicuously enormous—one that might boast three rows of seats without effort. But it didn’t. There was a single row of seats at the back of the conveyance, leaving a great, yawning chasm of space inside, large enough for a man to lie flat. For several men to lie flat.
There were no men in the space, however. Instead, it was filled with great wooden wheels. There were ten of them, perhaps twelve. She couldn’t take an exact count in the dark space, but she paused nonetheless, considering the cargo. Why was the Marquess of Eversley shuttling carriage wheels? Did they lack wheelwrights north of London?
Indeed, the only evidence of the Marquess of Eversley was a pile of formalwear—clothing that she’d watched float down from up on high when he escaped his pursuing earl.
Where had he gone?
“Boy!”
Sophie let out an exasperated sigh. The coachman was quickly becoming an unwelcome companion. Through gritted teeth she called back, “Yes, sir?”