The reek of ale and sausage wafted out the door, and as Samuel stepped inside, the additional stench of dampened wool and body odour blended with the mix.
Moore hailed the barkeep with a wave of his hand. “Three mugs, over here.”
Instinctively, the three of them gravitated to a table in the far corner, each of them vying for the choice seat against the wall with a view of the entire room. But where Brentwood excelled at observation and Moore the use of his cunning tongue, Samuel slid fast and silent into the prized chair. A small victory, but one he’d hold on to with both hands.
Doffing his hat, Moore shook the extra droplets from the ends of his hair, not unlike a great Saint Bernard. And like the big dog, everything about him was powerful yet even-tempered. Samuel would never forget the good days he’d spent in Moore’s company.
As if reading his mind, Moore voiced the same sentiment. “As happy as I am in Dover, I have missed you two renegades, though I won’t own up to it in a court of law.” He chuckled as Brentwood snorted. “But I am glad to find you both hearty and hale.”
Accepting a mug from a serving girl, Brentwood took a draw, then swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Emily would kill me were I to take a bullet, so don’t worry on my account. I’m not much on the streets anymore. With my seniority, the more lucrative security jobs are mine for the picking—which is a boon considering I’ve got four extra mouths to feed at home. No, Moore, it’s this one who ought to concern you.” Brentwood’s dark gaze slid to Samuel, and he lowered his voice. “Word is Shankhart Robbins is gunning for you. You’ve been interrupting his business on the heath these past two weeks, and he’s none too happy about it.”
Samuel grunted. Despite his best efforts, the blackguard was still at large.
“I’m a little in the dark here.” Moore slugged back a large swig then set his mug on the table. “Who’s Robbins?”
“A dead man, should I find him.” Samuel shoved his mug away, thirst for justice stronger than his need for a drink.
Moore’s brows shot high. “Must be quite the swine to have you so riled.”
“He’s vile, I hear.” Brentwood leaned forward, an underlying rage deepening his tone. “Sparing no one, not even children. That boy you found a fortnight ago, Thatcher, was a lucky one.”
Lucky? Hardly. With no identification, the lad had ended up in an orphanage, just as he’d expected. Perhaps they’d eventually find the boy’s father, but each day that passed without a lead, the slimmer the chance.
Tipping back his head, Brentwood downed the rest of his ale, then stood. “Well, as much as I’d like to stay and hear of your plans for capturing Robbins”—he turned his face to Moore—“or your innkeeping exploits in Dover, I must be off on an adventure of my own. Guarding an overnight load of munitions down at Wapping, and it pays to do a preliminary survey.”
Moore frowned. “Can’t you get Flannery to take care of that for you?”
“Flannery’s gone. Back to Ireland to tend his ailing mother. I’m on my own now.” He shrugged. “Give my best to Johanna. I suspect next time we meet, you’ll have more than two daughters and a son, hmm?”
Moore winked. “I’ll get right on that. Godspeed.”
“You as well. And Thatcher”—Brentwood paused, his gaze piercing in the dim light of the taproom. “For once, take a care for yourself. Don’t let Robbins be the end of you.”
Samuel said nothing—for there was nothing to say. Of course he wouldn’t go looking for death, but it would come eventually. And he could think of no better way of dying than in the pursuit of justice.
Brentwood’s dark form hardly made it out the door before Moore turned to him, all mirth fleeing from his blue eyes. “Look, Brentwood may be a lifer, but you’re not. Get out while you can, man.”
He rolled the mug between his palms. “I intend to.”
“Flit! Life’s too short for intentions. Brentwood says you’ve got only a few weeks left on your contract. Ride it out here. Don’t go back on the heath, not with this Robbins fellow at large. You’ve served too long to be taken out at the last minute.”
Setting down his mug, he met Moore’s terrible gaze and matched it with one of his own. “You think that frightens me?”
“No. I do not.” Moore leaned back in his chair. “And that’s what frightens me.”
Chapter Three
Sunshine mottled Abby’s closed lids, and she fluttered her eyes open. For a moment, dust motes mesmerized her while she swam from the depths of a hard-won slumber. All the talk last evening of brigands and highwaymen, coupled with the jabs of Fanny’s elbows and knees—for the woman was a rampaging bed hog—made for a long night. But at least she’d managed a few hours of sleep. Maybe. Reaching for her watch brooch on the small table next to the bed, she glanced at the numbers, and—
Sweet heavens! She flung off the counterpane and shot to her feet, clutching the timepiece. Nine o’clock. They should’ve been on the heath hours ago.
“Fanny, wake up.” She scurried over to a washbasin and splashed water on her face, then darted back to the bed and jostled her maid’s shoulder. “Fanny! We are running late. Please, get moving.”
“Hmm?” Fanny pushed up on her elbows, blinking. “Oh…aye, miss.”
By the time her maid finally shimmied into her own gown, Abby had hers buttoned, hair gathered up into a loose chignon, and hat ribbons securely tied beneath her chin. Snatching up her reticule, she strode to the door, then on second thought, turned back to face Fanny. If she didn’t spell out the woman’s instructions, there was no guarantee her maid might not dillydally over a cup of tea.
“Please see our baggage loaded as soon as you leave the room. I shall secure a driver and arrange for an on-the-road breakfast to make up our lost time. I will meet you at the front door.”
“Very well, miss.” Fanny glanced at her as she tucked in a last hairpin. “What about Mr. Harcourt? Did you make a final decision?”
“I have.” How could she not? She’d been weighing the benefits and deficits of the man’s offer ever since he’d proposed it the previous evening. “For our safety, I think it best to employ him, but I had better make haste. Hopefully no one else has hired him. I shall see you outside.”
Urged by her own words, Abby hurried out of the room and dashed down the corridor, slowing only to descend the stairs into the taproom.
Behind the counter stood the same burly fellow of the night before, wearing the same stained apron. Upon closer inspection, his shirt was the same too, albeit more creased. She wrinkled her nose. He smelled a bit riper as well. Had he slept in those garments?
“Good morning, miss.” The innkeeper dipped his head. “I were just about to fetch a maid to see if you ladies be planning on spending another night.”
“No, sir. We are simply getting a late start.” She fished a coin out of her small purse and set it on the scarred wood. “Would you wrap up a few rolls and some hard-cooked eggs or cheese that we may take along?”
“Aye. I’ll have it packed and sent out to your carriage in a trice.” His big fingers scooped up the money, and he turned to open a small strongbox on a shelf behind him.
“Very good. I am also seeking Mr. Harcourt, the tall fellow with side whiskers who took tea yesterday. Have you seen him this morning?”
The man swung back to her. “Mr. Harcourt left with a party earlier, near on two hours ago now. You ladies are the only guests remaining.”
She couldn’t stop the frown that weighted her brow. If Mr. Harcourt was already hired, were there even any drivers left, or would she and Fanny be forced to tarry another day?
“Oh dear,” she breathed out.
“Not to worry, Miss Gilbert. All is not lost. There’s still a driver available if you’re wanting to cross the heath yet today. One of our most experienced, matter of fact. You’ll find Mr. Shambles in the coach house.”
Lifting up a small prayer of thanks, she smiled at the man. “Thank you, sir. You have been most hospit
able.”
The innkeeper tugged his forelock. “Godspeed and safe travels to ye.”
Once outside, Abby couldn’t help but lift her face to the brilliant June sky. She’d learned long ago to openly savor glorious mornings. And this time there’d be no scolding from her stepmother for such careless behaviour. How grand it would be—it will be—when she could greet each morning thus, walking hand in hand with her new husband.
Sighing, she stepped into the cool shadows of the coach house, breathing in horseflesh and leather. Perched on a stool in front of a long workbench was a man-sized grey toad. The fellow’s hoary head dipped to his chest, and small snores issued with each inhale.
Abby pivoted in a circle, searching for the experienced driver the innkeeper had spoken of. Yet no one else was in sight. The only movement was the quiet rustle of straw beneath horses’ hooves.
She turned back to the old fellow, hating to disturb his rest, but there was nothing to be done for it. “Excuse me, sir. I loathe to bother you, but—”
A great snore ripped out of him, cutting her off and waking him up. With a jerk, he snapped up his head, and she stifled a gasp. Indeed, he was a toad, for a plentiful crop of wartlike growths dappled his face. Bulging black eyes—set wide and somewhat milky—stared back at her.
“Eh? What’s that you say?”
Lowering her gaze, Abby focused on the man’s faded blue neckerchief instead of his face. “I beg your pardon for disrupting you, but I am wondering if you could direct me to a Mr. Shambles?”
The old fellow chuckled, the movement hunching his back all the more. “Why, that be me, miss.”
This was Mr. Shambles? She pressed her lips tight, stopping a moan.
“You be needin’ a driver, miss?”
“Y–yes.” She stumbled over the word, her admission indicting her for having slept so late. Had she not been such a layabout, she’d have had a better pick of postilions.
“I’m yer man.” Mr. Shambles edged off the stool, he and the tall seat tottering a bit. “I’ll bring a carriage ‘round to the front.”
Swallowing her dismay, she forced a smile. “Thank you.”
She left the coach house behind, pretending all would be well. And likely it would. It wasn’t as if she’d be stuck with Mr. Shambles for the rest of the journey to Penrith. Only across the heath and to the next inn.
Leaving the stable yard, she spied Fanny waiting by the front door—chewing on an apple, her munching and crunching competing with the chek-chek of a warbler. A lad loitered nearby, ready to heft her trunk and their traveling bags into the carriage.
Fanny eyed her as she drew near. “Where’s Mr. Harcourt?”
“He was not available.”
“Hmm.” Fanny took another great bite, and after a few lip-smacking seconds, she swallowed the mouthful. “Shouldn’t we wait until he is?”
Abby feigned a confident smile. “That could be days from now. We need to move on. I cannot be late for my own wedding.”
Tossing aside the apple core, her maid turned to her, worry creasing her brow. “But do you think it’s safe?”
Abby pressed her lips flat. Her opinion of the matter didn’t make the journey any more safe or dangerous. Still, if she didn’t quell Fanny’s fears, the silly girl would conjure all sorts of ghastly stories of highwaymen—not the sort of traveling conversation she’d like to hear for the next several hours.
“It is a bright morning.” She schooled her voice to a cheerful tone. “We shall cross in plenty of time before dark. And I have been assured that we have hired the most experienced driver the inn has to offer.”
Just then, their carriage rolled up. Mr. Shambles sat upon the lead horse. Barely. The hunchbacked man canted a bit sideways, his leather gloves clinging desperately to the reins.
“Pah!” Fanny spit out. “Experienced? Is the old fellow up to the task?”
The question buzzed like a hornet, stinging Abby’s good sense. Still, what choice did they have?
“There is one way to find out.” She lifted her chin and strode to where the lad had lowered the steps, then gripped his hand as she ascended.
Outside, Fanny hesitated near the door, but eventually she acquiesced—right after the lad hefted up a cloth-covered basket of food.
The coach rolled off, and after stopping at the tollgate to pay the crossing fare, they rumbled into the wilds of the heath.
Fanny heaved a satisfied sigh between bites of cheese and cold meat. “Well, this doesn’t seem so bad. Hounslow isn’t nearly as frightening as I imagined.”
While the maid tucked the basket into a corner on the floor, Abby glanced out at the passing landscape. Scrubby shrubs dotted the expanse. Here and there, rangy trees bold enough to withstand the ever-present wind bowed in deference. Sunshine gilded the grassy plain, and yellow gorse flowers added to the golden effect. Fanny was right. It truly wasn’t a frightening scene.
“It is quite beautiful,” Abby murmured. “In a primal sort of way.”
“It surely is different from Southampton. I wonder what our new home in the north will be like.”
She turned back to her maid and studied the woman’s brown eyes. “Are you nervous?”
“Not really.” Fanny shrugged. “Truth is, with your Sir Jonathan Aberley being a baronet and all, I expect life will be better than ever.”
Abby nodded absently. Yes, it would be far better to live with someone who wanted her around. Someone who’d listen to her, really listen. Someone who didn’t expect her to blend into the background but would cherish her for herself and would love her for who she was, just as her real mother had, God rest her.
With a sigh, Abby turned to thoughts of living in a manor home with a handsome husband. Of candlelit dinners and walking hand in hand. Sharing whispers in the dark. A brazen smile twitched her lips. How long would it be before children came laughing and crying into their world? Would they have her brown eyes or—
Gunshot cracked the air, shattering her daydream. Fanny screamed. So did the horses.
Abby’s breath stuck in her throat as she stared out at the nightmare through the window. Mr. Shambles fell sideways, and for one horrifying moment, his boot snagged on the cinch strap. The top half of his body dragged along the ground, bumping and scraping his torso over rocks.
Abby slapped a hand to her mouth, stopping a shriek.
The old fellow’s body broke free then, rolling like a thrown sack of potatoes. Abby jerked her face to the side window as they passed him. His eyes were open. So was his mouth. Mud covered half his face. Blood the other.
And then he was gone.
But there was no time to mourn. The horses bolted, and the chaise careened to one side. Abby flailed for a grip as she slid sideways and crashed into Fanny. Without a driver, the carriage bounced wild, the wheels gaining momentum as the horses broke into a run.
Abby clawed her way upright, but only for a moment. Her head hit the glass, her face mashed against the window. Pain smacked her hard.
And the horses picked up speed, smearing the outside world into a blur.
Samuel slid off Pilgrim and looped the horse’s lead over a picket, then turned and strode into the Golden Cross on silent feet. Not that he needed to be stealthy this brilliant June morn. No brigand in his right mind would be kicking back with a brew and kidney pie this time of day. Moving as a spectre was simply his way, a habit so engrained, he could no more stop doing it than he could quit breathing.
He slipped into the shadowy confines of the taproom and angled toward the bar. Behind it, innkeeper Willy Gruber worked a rag around the inside of a tankard.
“Mornin’, Gruber.”
Willy spun, and the mug flew from his hands. The earthenware hit the counter with a crack, then plummeted to the floor, splintering into shards against the greasy oak planks.
“Thatcher!” Willy spat out his name like a curse. “Why the flippity-flam can you not warn me when you come through the door? That’s the fifth mug in the past fortnight
you’ve ruined. I oughtta start chargin’ ye. Aye, I’ll keep a regular tally, I will, chock-full o’ numbers. Send it right down to Bow Street and have ’em dock yer pay, that’s what.”
Samuel held his tongue. Giving in to Willy’s drama only frothed it up all the more.
“Bah!” Willy flicked his hand in the air, swatting him away. “Off with ye. Yer men been here and gone already.”
He grunted. He hadn’t really expected his squad of officers to still be here, though it would’ve made for an easier ride. “How long ago?”
“Near on an hour and a half now, I figure. Maybe more.” Willy tucked his rag into the apron tied around his big belly, then cocked a brow at him. “I were surprised to see you weren’t with them.”
“Cinch strap broke.”
“Well, no doubt the poor sot what fixed it worked at breakneck speed beneath your devilish stare.”
His mouth twisted. Willy was right. The devilish stare he’d perfected had served him well while facing Mahratta chieftains back in ’03.
“Which route did they take?” he asked.
“Din’t say, but I’m guessing the Exeter Road. That were the direction most o’ last night’s guests were headed, leastwise all those what had set out right before yer men arrived. Knowing that horse o’ yours, ye’ll catch up to ’em in no time.”
No doubt, for off the top of his head he could think of at least three different shortcuts to make up for lost time—or more, if he cared to put his mind to it. Which he didn’t.
Giving Gruber a sharp nod, he turned to go, but something dragged his steps. Something not quite right. Like the unsettling creak of a floorboard when sitting alone in an empty house.
The Noble Guardian Page 3