Mary Brendan - A Kind And Decent Man

He nodded his sparse grey head knowledgeably at her. ‘Well, I reckons, if we keep the Thames to the left and the moon to the right…’

‘You’ll end up back here in about ten minutes,’ David Hardinge remarked drily, nonchalantly leaning his immaculate figure against the battered coach.

Matilda beamed at him then sent her niece such a look of explicit congratulation that Victoria felt mortification and anger heat her face. She glanced at the focus of her aunt’s appreciation, hoping he had not noticed the woman’s tacit approval. A cynical smile told her he had, as did the very blue eyes watching her. And all at once an awful realisation struck her: he had not seemed as surprised as he ought to on learning that she was seeking him!

‘Mr Hardinge was by lucky chance here with some friends.’ Victoria quickly put both of them right, sure he quite believed she had somehow managed to engineer the whole incident to waylay him.

‘How fortunate,’ her aunt said in a tone which only served to endorse this theory.

‘Get in the coach now, Aunt, and you, Beryl. We must leave here immediately.’ Beryl needed no further prompting. She scrambled aboard with Aunt Matilda quickly following.

‘No doubt you’ll want to thank and take your leave of the Viscount.’ Matilda reminded Victoria of his status through the window she had forced open then jammed shut again.

Her aunt was, of course, right. He was most certainly owed her gratitude. She didn’t dare guess what might have befallen her at these scoundrels’ hands. ‘Thank you for your protection, my lord…’ she dutifully said.

‘You’re very welcome to it, Mrs Hart.’

The insinuation in his immediate, husky reply made Victoria blush although she was unsure why such innocuous words should make her feel so uncomfortable. Or why he should look at her in that sleepy yet intent way.

‘If you’re hoping to arrive at your destination some time this evening, Mrs Hart, perhaps I ought to accompany you. Your coachman still seems confused.’ David indicatively raised his eyes to George Prescott, now perched on the driver’s seat but swivelling about on his posterior muttering to himself about left and right and moon and stars.

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