Ned grinned. “Word of a gentleman. Now, since you're here, how about a game of cards?'
Charles frowned absently. He had the inexplicable feeling that he should go. The questions that had been raised in his mind had only served to increase his restlessness.
“No, thanks. Not tonight. I'm heading out to see my mother.'
“All the more reason to tarry, my boy.'
He shook his head, giving a brief smile. “No, thank you, Ned. Some other time.'
He left Ned staring after him and grinning, and on the way out had to put up with other warm wishes.
Handing Charles into his carriage, Timothy said, “Where to now, my lord? On to Wroxton Hall?'
“No.'
Charles hesitated, and then gave in to an impulse. “Drive round to Half-Moon Street.'
Alone inside the carriage, he wondered at himself. But a feeling was growing stronger and stronger within him that this unaccountable malaise could only be cured by a bewitching redhead.
The word “need” continued to trouble him. Louisa had used it, Ned had used it, even he and the general had used it. No, there was no need, but was there no wish?
They arrived in Half-Moon Street in a trice. Charles leapt down and found that Timothy had pulled up in front of Louisa's house without being told to.
The man's perception gave Charles pause. But he chose to ignore the implication and avoided his servant's eyes.
The general's house was dark and shuttered. Only when Charles saw its drawn curtains and snuffed-out lights did he realize the lateness of the hour. Midnight was fast approaching. Soon bells would be pealing and ships’ horns blowing in the New Year.
He could not very well present himself at this hour for a casual call, nor could he leave a message about his journey, yet he did not want to leave Town without first seeing Louisa.
The cold was bitter, but he could not bring himself to re-enter the carriage. He told Timothy to wait, and started on a walk.
The general's house stood on the corner. As Charles started to pass it, he heard singing, coming from somewhere down the alley. Male voices were raised in a cheerful ditty:
“Here we come a-whistling, through the fields so green;
Here we come a-singing, so fair to be seen.
God send you happy, God send you happy,
Pray God send you a happy New Year!'
Charles rounded the corner and spied a few men in tatters, gathered about a large bonfire. He stopped and stared at them, drawing heat from the flames that lit up their faces. He had forgotten the custom the watch used to have of playing music outside houses on New Year's Eve, but now it came back to him on a wave of nostalgia.
He found himself moving nearer and nearer to the flame. Its bright colours, red and gold and orange, called to mind Louisa's hair, no less warm, no less vibrant, no less tempting than the heat from the fire. He realized how desperately he wished to see her.
He thought of the wish he had failed to make over Mrs. Spadger's pudding on Christmas and saw clearly now what it ought to have been. Would Louisa have accepted him if he had known his own heart better then?
He thought of the things he'd said, and only now accepted. With a smile, Charles thought how she would stir up the Tories, and either charm them or send them running for cover. But if they ran, let them, he decided. With her at his side, prodding him, arguing with him, what justice might he not accomplish? And he indulged himself finally in an even more satisfying picture: Louisa in his home… in his bed and in his arms.
The cold bit into his hands. Charles thrust them into his pockets and encountered the rustle of paper and the smooth feel of ribbon. Remembering, he drew Louisa's Christmas piece from his pocket.
His heart pounding, he untied the ribbon and unrolled it, to read by the firelight. How could he have forgotten it? But in all his efforts not to give in to temptation, he had done his best to overlook her.
His fingers were numb, and he fumbled with the scroll. But at last he had it opened.
At first, the page appeared blank. Then he saw that two words had been started at the top.
“Dear Charles-'
That was all. Dear Charles. For a moment, he felt bitter disappointment, and then he read them again with a different emphasis-
“Pssst! Charles!'
It was a moment before he responded, thinking in his bemusement that he was imagining the voice. Then it came again, “Pssst! Charles!'
As he looked up, his heart leapt. Above him, her face and shoulders hanging out the open window, was Louisa.
“What are you doing here?” she called in a whisper.
Charles smiled up at her. “Listening to the singers. I think someone ought to take down their words and save them before the custom dies out, don't you?'
He could see her dimple in response. She stared back at him, and then said, “You'll catch your death of cold!'
“I haven't been here long. But should you be leaning out that window?'
“I saw you. At least, I thought it was you, and I had to see.” She sighed. “I thought I might be hallucinating. Bread and water will do that to one.'
Charles drew his brows together. “Has the general mistreated you?'
“Oh, no.” He knew she was telling the truth from the sound of her voice. “But it pleases him to send me up before supper with a meal fit only for the nursery. But what about you, Charles? What
“Getting ready for a journey.'
She paused, and his pulse raced as he heard the sadness in her voice. “Where are you going?'
Charles started to speak, and then had to clear his throat. Talking with his head thrown back was becoming difficult.
“To Gretna Green.” He paused, his heart hammering. “Will you come with me?'
There came a long silence. Even the singers’ voices had stopped.
Charles stood there, counting the seconds, and felt himself draining of colour.
“Are you sure?” Louisa finally asked.
He cleared his throat again and answered, “Quite, quite sure.'
“But Charles, your reputation-'
“Hang my reputation! I love you!'
“I'll be down in a trice!'
Charles called up, fighting a smile so big that it hampered his speech, “You might bring some clothes with you this time.'
“Get ready to catch them.'
He waited impatiently. Then, as he watched, a gown and a petticoat appeared overhead. They floated down to him, and he caught them before they touched the ground.
“Louisa! Don't you have some sort of box?'
A portmanteau hit the dirt at his feet. Charles scooped it up and stuffed the garments in it, along with the toothbrush, hairbrush, hats and gloves that followed.
“That's enough! That's enough!'
He was quite impatient now. The men who had been singing were watching him with interest. They had gathered round, and now he shooed them off.
“Are you ready?” Louisa's voice called down from above.
“Yes, but please be careful!'
A slippered foot eased over the window-sill, followed by another. Charles caught a gratifying glimpse of bare
