“Where will you stay?”
“That depends upon who’s in town. But I’ll make sure everyone knows we’re not sharing the town house.” Distancing himself from her already, he moved back to the opposite bench.
The implication was obvious. He wouldn’t risk anyone finding out they’d kissed, as a relationship with the likes of her could only be an embarrassment to him. It couldn’t be that he was protecting her reputation—she was leaving the country, anyway.
Colin stretched his legs and crossed them, then retreated behind his book. Miserable, Amy withdrew into one protective corner of the carriage. There was no point in continuing the discussion. He had made his position clear, and he hadn’t asked for her opinion.
He was so unfair!
She’d never asked to stay with him, or even hinted at it—she knew plain Amy Goldsmith didn’t belong with the Earl of Greystone. She had her own life and obligations to fulfill. All she wanted was a few more days with him, a few more days of happiness, a few more days when she could pretend she wasn’t alone in the world.
Even now, aloof as he was, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, to lose herself in his arms.
As hard as he was trying to be cold and demanding, he’d melted when her tears threatened. She should take solace from that, she told herself. The real Colin was in there somewhere, obviously just as confused as she was—if not more.
She opened her book and held it in front of her face, staring blindly at a page while she composed herself. If she had any hope of changing his mind, she wouldn’t accomplish it by weeping and begging.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the words, until she was caught up in the exciting end of Clélie’s long tale. Three hours of silence later, just as they crossed London Bridge, she finished and, with a sigh of satisfaction, laid the book on the seat beside her.
Gazing out the carriage window, she marveled at the changes the fire had wrought in her hometown. Blocks and blocks were naught but charred vacant lots. The odd chimney or blackened stone oven stood like gravestones among the debris. Except for the clip-clop of horses and the creaking and crunching of wheels passing through, the city was hauntingly quiet. As Amy moved closer to the window, a small sound of distress escaped her lips.
Colin looked up from his book. “It won’t be like this forever,” he said gently.
She listened carefully. Here and there came rare, banging sounds of construction. “Some are rebuilding,” she observed.
“Yes, but it’s forbidden until owners clear the rubble and establish their claims to the land. It will take time.”
Driving along Fleet Street toward Chancery Lane, they passed into the unburned area at last. Amy breathed a deep sigh of relief as the familiar smells of London hit her. Odors of tar, smoke from incessant coal fires, and the stench of tanneries were overlaid with a pervasive reek from the open sewer that the Fleet River, commonly called the Ditch, had become over the centuries. Though rank and foul, the stench was a comforting memory of another life.
And the traffic! Carriages, hackney coaches, carts, mounted riders, sedan chairs, pedestrians, and animals jostled one another in the noisy, crowded streets. After months in the quiet countryside, Amy’s ears seemed assaulted with the cacophony of hawkers peddling their wares in pushcarts, wheelbarrows, and simple baskets, crying out in singsong rhyme of the superiority of their goods.
One man called out, “Rats or mice to kill!” and Amy smiled.
“The rats,” she mused. “How could I have forgotten the rats?”
Colin smiled in return.
Thieves, pickpockets, and beggars were everywhere, but so were street singers ballading for pence. Amy caught sight of a familiar face and turned excitedly. “Oh, it’s Richardson the fire-eater! May we stop and watch?”
Colin shrugged and knocked on the roof for Benchley to halt. Amy hung out the window, wide-eyed, as Richardson chewed and swallowed hot coals, then melted glass and, as a finale, put a hot coal on his tongue, heated it with bellows until it flamed, cooked an oyster on it, and swallowed the lot.
The audience burst into wild applause, and Colin dug in his pouch and handed Amy a coin to toss out the window before they moved on.
They finally reached Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a fashionable neighborhood bordering a large, grassy square. It was a quieter area, but only in comparison to other parts of London: Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre was here, known for spectacular moving scenery, and the square was often the scene of fights and robberies, as well as a place for public executions.
The carriage stopped in front of the Chases’ town house, a four-story brick building on the west side of the square. Amy climbed out and gazed up at the distinguished facade. Giant Ionic columns held up a boldly projecting cornice and balcony. Triangular decorations crowned tall, rectangular windows.
Colin came out after her and stretched, yawning.
“It’s Palladian,” Amy breathed in an awed tone. “Was it designed by Inigo Jones?”
“Yes.” He took off toward the front door.
Following him, Amy frowned, her exhilaration at being back in the City dampened by his attitude. Where were his usual chatty explanations? Colin loved showing his family’s homes and recounting their histories.
Was he that unhappy with her, then?
The interior was every bit as impressive as the outside. The few aristocratic residences Amy had seen were paneled in dark, traditional Jacobean wood. Not this home; the comparison was like coal to diamonds. Her gaze swept up a wide, graceful curving staircase. Light, cheerfully painted walls were ornamented with classical motifs and festooned with a riot of carving: flowers, fruit, ribbons, palms, and masks.
She couldn’t wait to get a tour of this magnificent house.
Colin prodded her forward, toward where the servants waited in a neat row.
“This is Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith,” he said, pleasantly enough. “She’ll be staying here for a few days. Ida?”
A slight, blue-eyed
