number of things that could go wrong, particularly when one traveled such a long stretch of road in such a hurry, and when one was involved in such risky undertakings as breaking open the house of a wealthy and influential lady, and doing so with a notorious rake.
Lucy collected all she might need for charms she might be forced to make or spells she might have to cast. Most of these she put in a small travel bag, but some she secured in a secret pouch she had sewn in the gown she would wear. She meant to keep emergency provisions in that, and perhaps use it to secure from the world what she did not want the world to see.
Mrs. Emmett declared that she would stay behind to cover Lucy’s absence. The good woman wept at the prospect of being apart from Lucy for two days, but she also insisted that she could not go, though she would not say why. Lucy wanted her there as a buffer against Byron, but Mrs. Emmett would not be persuaded.
Byron collected her in the predawn hours, somehow looking perfectly rested and impeccably dressed, despite the early hour. Lucy had been full of apprehension, afraid that he would attempt something inappropriate the moment she entered the coach, but though he smiled at her and snuck glances at her in the dim light, his behavior was entirely unobjectionable. After the first hour, Lucy began to relax and feel as at ease as she would if they were in the presence of a chaperone.
After they rode in silence for some time, Lucy explained her time limitations, and Byron merely smiled and told her that he would certainly have her back by the hour she desired. And perhaps he meant it, but it also occurred to Lucy that he would not be particularly troubled if he did not. Perhaps he would determine it to be in his best interest that she did not return in time. Once revealed as the sort of woman who would run off with a rogue for two days, she would have nothing to lose by accepting his scandalous proposals. Lucy would be on her guard.
Their conversation at first centered around trivial things, as though they were but two unremarkable people upon an exceedingly unremarkable journey. They talked of the gathering at Almack’s, of some of the people Lucy had met since arriving in town, the sights she had seen, and the plays she hoped yet to see. Byron talked of his forthcoming volume,
“I cannot thank you enough for helping me in this regard,” said Lucy.
“I am happy to offer my help,” he said. “If only because I willingly sold a book to Lady Harriett that I would have been so much happier to give to you as a gift. And yet you seem reluctant to tell me what book it is and why it is so important.”
Lucy sighed. “The affair is complicated, and so unbelievable. Even having seen what you have seen, you would think me mad if I told you the truth. I would think myself mad. I have spoken it aloud only to Mr. Morrison, and it nearly broke my heart to do so.”
“You would tell him what you would not tell me?” He sounded more arch than angry.
“Only out of necessity.”
“Then I shan’t force you,” he said. “But you need not fear for my belief. I have also seen many things. The ghost of my dog, Boatswain, haunts my estate at Newstead, and people think me mad when I speak of it, but that makes it no less true. I would add that I am bound to accept anything that comes from your lips as the absolute truth.”
It was this ease that prompted her. “I had an older sister whom I loved very much, and she died very young. My other sister, Martha, named her first child for her. I cannot tell you what that child means to me, and now she is gone, replaced with a vile thing, a changeling. I know how it sounds, but I have seen it, even if no one else has. The book I seek will give me the knowledge I need to banish the changeling and return Emily to her mother.”
Byron said nothing for several long minutes. “I am sorry that such a book was in my power and that I let it go. I only wish I had known.”
“I did not know until recently. Have you ties to Lady Harriett?”
“Her family is old and established,” said Byron, “and because of my title, I am often in the company of such people.”
“Do you think she would give you what we seek as a favor?”
Byron shook his head. “Lady Harriett does not do favors, and I recall she was curiously eager to buy my collection, which is a poor one. I think she must have known what I had. If she truly wants this book for herself, she will never give it over. Do you have a plan that does not require asking politely?”
“Yes,” said Lucy. “It involves breaking open the house and stealing the book.”
“Oh,” said Byron. “I hope it works better than it did at my home.”
Lucy smiled at him. “That effort was planned by Mr. Morrison. I shall plan this one, and I assure you, it will go far better.”
They dined that evening at an inn, and who was to know that they were not husband and wife? It was, for Lucy, a wonderful feeling: powerful and anonymous. The eyes of all the ladies in the room were upon Byron in admiration and upon her in envy, and it seemed to her that she knew, if only in the smallest way, what it would feel like to be Lady Byron.
They remained at the inn until past midnight, and Byron drank more wine than Lucy would have thought wise, but she did not believe it her place to advise him on such matters. As he drank, he talked more about his forthcoming volume, which he both praised as brilliant and dismissed as having been effortlessly tossed off in odd moments. He felt sure that the book would secure him eternal fame, just as he felt sure it would make the world despise him.
When the time was right, they drove on, and Lucy watched the dark countryside pass before her. They were not far—less than sixteen miles—from Harrington, where she had grown up, and she knew the road well enough for it to make her melancholy. She was determined not to feel sorry for herself, however. Mr. Buckles had deceived her, and rather than pitying herself for the life she had lost, Lucy was determined to steel herself for revenge. She was not accepting her fate, but striking back, taking control of those who would order the world around her. Lucy liked how this sense of command felt.
They arrived in the vicinity of Mossings, Lady Harriett’s estate, but it was not yet late enough to attempt a forced entry, and so they sat in the coach until another hour had passed. Byron assured Lucy that the lady had a reputation for being a woman who went to bed early, and by one in the morning they could be certain that she, her staff, and any guests she might have would be long in their beds. It was only a matter of reaching the library and identifying the book or missing pages, and escaping before they attracted attention. Unfortunately, Byron did not believe he would be of much use in identifying books from his own collection. It seemed to Lucy a rather odd thing for a poet to so little know his own books, but Byron appeared to take a certain pride in his indifference to works that were not his own.
“I’ve brought a few tools that should help me to find it,” said Lucy, “and if I don’t know where it is, I will certainly know it when I see it.”
“It may be risky to take the time to search the library. The longer we are there, the greater the chance someone will notice that there are lights or will hear the noise we make.”
“No one will notice us,” said Lucy as she grabbed her bag. “Let us go.”
The estate was large, and Lucy felt exposed and conspicuous as they crossed the expansive lawns, thankfully not populated by dogs. They passed fountains and gardens and shrubbery, until at last they reached the main house, massive and stately, built in the unadorned style that preceded the reign of Oliver Cromwell. All was quiet upon the grounds, and in the dark, the house looked like a lonely mountain, or perhaps a sleeping giant, passive and still, but coiled tightly with danger.
They walked around to the servants’ entrance, moving slowly, cautious of dogs or any other unwelcome surprises. None came, and they at last reached the door, which was bolted shut. Lucy reached into her bag and removed something dark. Next she withdrew a tinderbox and made a light, which she applied to several candles attached to the object.
“Are you certain you wish to make such a light?” asked Byron.
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, who affected far more confidence than she felt. Here she was, breaking open the house of a dangerous and powerful woman, attempting to commit a crime that could lead to her going to jail, to standing trial, to humiliation beyond anything she could imagine. She swallowed her fear because she had no choice.
