For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

in her. Just the thought of taking her to London with him was planting wicked thoughts in his head. She said she wanted to know, and he couldn’t lie to her. “You should know there’s always a chance we would discover something unpleasant,” he warned her, making one last effort to persuade her to stay.

Her bosom rose and fell as she took a deep breath. “I understand,” she said quietly. “I am prepared. But I want to know what has happened to Papa.”

Alec gave in, telling himself it was totally unrelated to the surge of triumph at the prospect of being alone with her for two entire days. “Very well. I shall call for you in the morning.”

After he left, Cressida went to pack her valise, only realizing then that she would have to explain to Callie. And true to expectations, her sister was alarmed at the prospect.

“Do you really need to go?”

“Yes.” Cressida didn’t mention that the major had said she needn’t. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

“Just the two of you?” Callie nibbled her lip. “Perhaps Mr. Webb should go as well.”

“Tom should stay here. We’ll only be gone overnight, but if something should happen, you might need him.” She placed clean garments in the valise and hesitated. “Besides, I’m old enough no one will care. And it’s not as if Major Hayes will be tempted to ravish me.”

“I don’t know,” Callie murmured. “He did look at you most attentively at the party…”

Cressida snorted, but turned away all the same so no embarrassing blush could betray her pleasure at that thought. “Nonsense.”

“And you are not too old,” Callie persisted. “Granny will care.”

“Callie, you’re only thinking that because of our talk the other night. He’s not going to ravish me, even if I were the most enchanting woman alive, and I most certainly am not.”

“But you look very well next to him.” She turned on her sister in shock, but Callie put up her chin and nodded. “You do, both so tall. You look very ladylike next to him, and I think he admires you.”

“Callie!”

“Admires your spirit, then. And you admitted to Granny he’s a handsome man.”

“Go away,” she growled. Callie just shrugged and left, thankfully. Cressida fussed with the strap on the valise, unable to block her sister’s words out of her mind. Did they look well together? Had he noticed such a thing—or would he even care? “Of course not,” she said under her breath, and went out to pull weeds from the garden to make herself forget everything Callie had said.

They left early the next morning, and made good time to the city. It was only twenty miles, but seemed half that on a fine day in a well-sprung carriage with a good horse. As they drew near to the city, the major began pointing out sights, to her increasing interest. They passed the magnificent St. Paul’s cathedral, and maneuvered through the bustle of Fleet Street. A large, austere building loomed to one side, and when she asked, he told her it was Fleet Prison. That sobered her thoughts considerably, and when they turned into an inn courtyard a short distance away, she couldn’t help glancing back at it.

“Papa couldn’t be in there, could he?”

“He wasn’t when I last checked.” He jumped down from the carriage and handed the reins to the stable hand who came running.

“You checked?” She gathered her skirt and took the hand he held out to help her down. “When?”

“The day after Hastings spoke to me, Miss Turner.” He flipped the boy a coin and offered his arm to her.

“I didn’t know that.”

“He wasn’t there, so I saw no reason to alarm you by mentioning it.”

Cressida took his arm and let him lead her into the inn, silenced by his calm reply. The day he drove her into Marston he had said she needed someone who would ask the terrible questions; apparently he asked them of everyone, not just of her, and she found this strangely comforting.

Inside the inn, he engaged two rooms for the night and arranged for dinner later. Cressida sat in the taproom and had a cup of tea while he saw to the baggage, then they set off on foot for the print shop, just a few streets away. This time she avoided looking toward the prison, and tried not to think what other dreadful possibilities Major Hayes might have already considered and investigated.

The shop was a small one, squeezed between a florist and a hatter along the bustling street. The windows were filled to shoulder height with various prints for sale. They were mostly the satirical prints popular now, many mocking the new King or lauding Queen Caroline, who had become something of a heroine since her return to England. Major Hayes opened the door for her, and she went in, her heart accelerating in anxious hope.

“Can I help you, madam?” An obsequious little clerk smiled up at her, rubbing his hands.

“I would like a word with Mr. Prenner,” Cressida said with a polite smile. The major had stayed a step behind her, as silent as a servant. They had arranged between them that he would act that part while she inquired, since it was her father.

The clerk’s eyes darted up and down her. “Of course, of course. I will let him know you wish to see him.” He hurried off to the rear of the shop and disappeared. Cressida barely had time to exchange a look with Major Hayes before the clerk returned, ushering them into the back room.

It was a tiny room, crowded with a desk shoved under the window and a bookcase groaning with books and papers. An armchair prevented the door from opening fully, but she squeezed through, the major close behind her, and the clerk shut the door.

“Good day, madam.” Willard Prenner was of middle age, with thinning hair and a simpering smile. He wiped his hands on his ink-stained apron and clasped them before him. “You wish to see me?”

“Yes.” She waited