“What’s this story?” she asked. Wiry had an air of quiet competence about him; he didn’t seem the sort to make foolish declarations.
Just her luck to be abducted by kidnappers who could think.
As if to confirm her suspicion, Wiry smiled. His satisfaction resonated in his voice. “It’s a simple enough tale. We’ve been sent by your guardian to fetch you back to him. Ran away to wicked London, you did, escaped from his strict household. So he’s sent us to find you and take you back, and”-pausing dramatically, Wiry drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it-“this is his authority for us to do whatever we need to do to hold you and transport you back to him.”
She frowned at the paper. “My father’s my guardian and he gave you no such permission.”
“Ah, but you’re not Miss Cynster, are you? You’re Miss Wallace, and your guardian, Sir Humphrey, is most anxious to get you back home where you belong.”
“Where’s my home?” She hoped he might say where they were taking her, but Wiry only smiled.
“You know it well, of course-no need for us to tell you.”
She fell silent, mentally reviewing their plan, seeking any possible way she might scupper it, but she carried nothing that would prove who she was. Her only hope-one she wasn’t about to voice-was a chance meeting with someone who knew her by sight. Unfortunately, the likelihood of that happening in the country in late March, with the Season just starting in London, wasn’t all that high.