“How are Rand and Felicia getting on—have you heard from them since you arrived?”
He shook his head. “Rand isn’t a great letter-writer, but then, neither am I.”
She chuckled. “However bad you and Rand are, I can assure you Felicia is worse. Once, I hadn’t heard from her for so long, I felt moved to visit—simply to reassure myself that she was still alive.”
He grinned—a flash of white teeth in the dimness. “In that case, I’ll have to rely on Mary—she believes in keeping abreast of all developments in the family and letting everyone know. The counterside to that is that woe betide you if you do not respond to one of her chatty and informative letters with information of your own.”
From the affectionate amusement that colored his tone, she could tell he was fond of his senior sister-in-law. Looking out at the streetscapes, she mentally arched her brows. That Mary, Marchioness of Raventhorne, corresponded with Kit—ergo, approved of him—told a tale of its own. Sylvia had met Mary only once, but it had been obvious the marchioness was no one’s fool.
Indeed, given Mary dealt with Kit’s half brother, Ryder, on a daily basis, that she was as shrewd as she could hold together went without saying.
And she approved of Kit.
Before Sylvia could dwell further on that, or on the fact that she, too, approved of Kit—this Kit, the man she’d recently come to know—the carriage slowed to a plod, then drew up directly before the steps leading up to the Council House doors.
She blinked in surprise, then the carriage door swung open. Kit descended, turned, and offered her his hand.
She took it, aware of his firm clasp and how safe his touch made her feel. Nonsensical, really; if there was any threat to her here, it lay with him.
Then she was on the pavement. After smoothing down her skirts, she looked around—and saw, as she’d expected, a long line of carriages waiting to disgorge their occupants before the steps.
Eyes widening, she looked at Kit. “How...?”
His rakish grin flashed. “Livery is still good for something.”
She glanced at the groom holding her door—and was stunned again. “Ollie?”
Manfully restraining his usual big smile, Ollie executed a neat bow. “Miss.”
He looked utterly different in perfect livery; now she’d looked, she recognized the Raventhorne colors. She glanced briefly at the coachman on the box—also resplendent in livery—then felt Kit take her arm. All she could think to say to Ollie was “Don’t get cold.”
At that, his grin broke through. “I won’t, miss. We’ve blankets and a flask of cocoa and seed cake.”
Everything a boy would need. Surrendering to Kit’s gentle insistence, she allowed him to lead her up the steps. On reaching the top, she glanced back and saw the carriage rumble off into the night—no doubt to draw up and wait on one of the less-crowded side streets.
“Don’t worry.” Kit’s breath brushed the curls floating about her ear, sending a delicious shiver slithering down her spine. “Smiggs will keep a close eye on Ollie. He’s made quite a hit with my staff.”
Turning to the doors, she murmured, “I thought Ollie was training to be a footman.”
“He is. Tonight is part of that training.”
“Oh.” Of course. Not a groom, a footman.
Kit steered Sylvia through the main doors and into the wide foyer. As they halted under the glare of the chandeliers high above, he felt her stiffen beside him.
Then an attendant was bowing before them. “Might I take madam’s cloak?”
Kit stepped behind Sylvia and lifted the heavy silk-lined velvet from her. He sensed her hesitation—almost as if she wanted to clutch the cloak to her, whirl, and flee—but her head rose, and she waited, outwardly serenely patient, as he handed the cloak to the attendant and received a ticket in return.
This, Kit thought, might be more difficult than he’d foreseen. Sylvia’s guardedness reached him—but what she was guarding against, he didn’t know. She’d weathered a London Season, so it couldn’t be the event or the crowd that was unnerving her. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t regretting agreeing to this evening with him—agreeing to be seen in public by his side.
Sylvia waited to see what Kit would do—what tack he would take. Whether he intended to request her assistance in navigating the cream of Bristol society’s upper crust that was steadily streaming into the foyer. The crowd rapidly filled the space with a fabulous palette of colorful gowns that contrasted with the gentlemen’s evening black. Conversations swirled, and the cacophony built, voices rising to the ornate ceiling high above along with a miasma of heady perfumes.
However, other than taking her gloved hand and tucking it firmly in the crook of his elbow, Kit merely waited, his large frame protecting her from the buffeting flow of other patrons. After a moment, he dipped his head and asked, “Do you know how long before the doors open, and we can escape to our box?”
Escape?
She searched his eyes, confirming he was serious. “Usually, the doors don’t open until the hour stipulated.”