It was obvious he didn’t believe her.
Even though she was polite, impoverished spinster Meg Swift with the gentle manners, no one ever bothered to question her. How contrary she was that she liked him all the better for it. “It began as a lark,” she added. “When we were children. Just to pass the time.” That was technically true. “I just happened to be a fair hand at it.”
“Ah.”
He seemed to know that wasn’t the full story, but he didn’t press. She had the ridiculous urge to tell him everything. She took another giant bite of the jumble instead. His mouth quirked, as though he was fighting a smile.
And then his face hardened, his head snapping to the right.
Something was wrong.
Something was definitelywrong.
It had been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with the inscrutable Splendid Miss Swift, sharing sweets and secrets. Well, not secrets exactly. She was clearly carrying more than her fair share. But it didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t good enough for Meg, despite the pull between them. It wasn’t just heat, but also curiosity, enjoyment. She made him smile. She even made him forget how uncomfortable he was.
But she was miles above him, no matter his new rank. He was still a street boy from Manchester, born of an unknown sailor and a drunk mother. Only Old George had kept him and his siblings alive and relatively out of trouble.
George was the reason Dougal had only flirted with crime instead of falling headlong into it. He’d shared his one room and his meager food with three strangers’ children. They’d eaten porridge or a single potato for most meals for months on end until Dougal had managed to find work. Grueling, dangerous work but he’d have washed the Devil’s own arse if it meant making sure his little sister was never desperate enough to join a bawdy house. And if it meant he could repay George his kindness as his little brother grew, his stomach becoming a bottomless pit never to be filled.
And now George slept on a feather mattress, Charlie was learning how to embroider (badly) and Colin had an opinion on his cravat.
The world had changed.
But not so much that he could imagine someone like Meg accepting the suit of someone like him. Even with the Prince of Wales’s seal of approval. He was starting to see that the aristocracy might bow to him but they didn’t have nice things to say about the prince, outside his pursuit of fine architecture. They mocked his manners and his drinking, which was the height of hypocrisy, in Dougal’s opinion.
But who was he to say anything? He was wearing boots that cost more than a year’s wages and flirting with a viscount’s daughter.
It was surprisingly pleasant.
Until, that faint sound, barely noticeable. If he hadn’t been listening to machinery for the last few years, ears constantly trained for a warning of malfunction, he doubt he would have heard it. And even now, it was probably just overzealousness on his part. Vestiges of a time, not so long ago, where one faulty piece of a loom could have injured several, severing fingers and limbs or even taking lives.
But this was a duke’s lavish and over-decorated carriage filled with painted doves and gilded woodwork.
Still.
He rapped sharply on the roof. “Stop. Now.”
It took a moment for the coachman to halt the horses. The carriage rolled to a bumpy stop, teetering slightly. Meg didn’t look alarmed. Dougal, having not much experience with carriages or horses, took it to mean a little teetering was to be expected.
Even so, something wasn’t sitting right.
“What is it?” Meg asked. “Are you ill?”
“No.”
One of the outriders had already leapt down to open the door for them. Dougal got out, turning to offer his hand to help Meg down. She followed, glancing about curiously, when she felt the urgency of his touch. He wanted her safely out of there until he figured out what was happening.
It was a fine autumn day, full of sunshine and wind pulling at the long grasses on either side of the road. The road was muddy but passable. No highwayman lurked in the bushes. The horses were calm to the point of being bored. “All right, Your Grace?” The outrider asked. His cheeks were red from being buffeted by the wind as he clung to the back of the carriage.
Dougal nodded absently and turned for a closer inspection of the carriage. It sat, looking as much like a cupcake as it always did. Everything was painted and gilded and carved with birds and oak leaves.
Something creaked.
Dougal bent to look at the wheel. One of the spokes had a hairline fracture, like a break in the ice of an otherwise placid pond.
And just as dangerous.
The next creak of wood had a different tone.