Of all the arrogance! Abby gaped. Fanny had been the closest thing to a sister she’d ever had…and now even she would turn on her? Would this horrid day never end?
Across the room, a dark shape stepped out of the shadows. Captain Thatcher’s burning gaze met hers, and her breath hitched, for he looked into her very soul. The man couldn’t possibly have heard all that was said between her and Fanny, but all the same, she got the distinct impression that he knew—which both frightened and strengthened her in an odd kind of way. God had provided the captain at just the right time today. Surely He would continue to provide tomorrow.
Abby drove back her chair and rose. If Fanny wanted to return home, then so be it. As for her, she would travel on to the next inn and hire a guardian there. Whatever the cost.
Hopefully it wouldn’t be more than she could afford.
Chapter Six
Morning fog muffled everything. The jingle of tack. The nickers of the horses. Even the loading of Fanny’s baggage onto the coach was nothing more than a muted scrape followed by a subdued thud. Abby stood silent, watching the action with an equally dull gaze. It seemed like a death, this parting. How fitting that the mists of dawn distorted the world into the unnatural.
Turning to her, Fanny laid a hand on her sleeve. “Are you certain I can’t persuade you to join me?”
A sad smile flitted across her lips. As much as she hated to see her maid go, there was no turning back. Not to a stepmother who despised her and half sisters that scorned. The scars of the past were still too raw and fresh, and she had a sinking feeling they would always be so.
Facing Fanny, she forced a measure of courage into her voice that she didn’t feel. “I will not return home. Ever.”
“Very well then, miss. May God bless you.” Fanny’s fingers squeezed her arm—and then she let go. “Goodbye.”
The woman turned and fled up into the hulking coach before Abby could respond. Her throat tightened against a sob. It was a strange, wonderful, terrifying thing to lose this last connection to her past. So many conflicting emotions squeezed her heart that she could barely breathe. Of course she was doing the right thing. Wasn’t she?
Am I, God?
Unwilling to witness the fog swallow her last glimpse of the coach, she whirled—then startled. A pace away from her stood Captain Thatcher, sporting a grim-set jaw and a gaze that penetrated even through the mist.
His eyes flicked from her to the retreating coach, then back. “Why are you still here?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. How was it that this man could instantly make her feel as naught but an impish schoolgirl?
Stifling the urge to retreat a step, she smoothed her hands along the damp fabric of her skirt. “I will not be here for long.”
His head lowered, and his dark eyes studied her from beneath the brim of his hat. “You should be on that coach.”
His tone of authority rankled, as irritating as the cold moistness seeping in near her collar. Or was it the way he looked at her, as if his gaze alone could cut through any façade?
Despite the wrinkles she’d create, her fingers bunched handfuls of her gown. “Thank you for your concern, but I have rented a perfectly good traveling chaise, Captain.”
He shook his head. “Lady—”
“I have a name, sir. It is Miss Gilbert, not lady.” The words flew out before she could stop them. La! After all the years she’d spent mastering her tongue in front of her stepmother, why could she not tether her speech with this man?
One of his eyebrows raised. Barely. Had she angered him? Amused him? Given him reason to slap shackles on her wrists and haul her in? Hard to discern by the way his lips tightened into a straight line.
“Don’t tell me you intend to journey on by yourself, Miss Gilbert.”
Ignoring the way he pushed her name through his teeth, she lifted her chin. “I do not see how that is any of your business, for as I recall, you refused my employment.”
He blew out a long, low breath. Were the man not already employed by Bow Street, he’d make a daunting head schoolmaster.
“Everyone who travels the roads hereabouts is my business. I cannot allow you to—”
“Thatcher! Thank God.” The words boomed, nearly drowning out the muted thud of horse hooves and clinking of tack. A grey-cloaked man emerged from the fog astride a strawberry roan with a blaze on its nose. He slid from the saddle and clapped the captain on the back.
Abby used the distraction to whirl and scurry back to the inn. While the captain may be a man of integrity—though she wasn’t quite sure of that yet—he certainly had a way of making her feel jittery.
Inside, behind the counter, the mousey barkeep glanced up at her entrance, his dark little eyes widening. “What, you still here miss? I thought ye and yer companion were off this morn.”
“I am, or more like I shall be.” She loosened the strings of the reticule secured to her wrist. “I should like to hire a postilion and inquire about a possible manservant as well. Someone well acquainted with the roads and able to use a gun.”
“Well, miss…” The innkeeper paused to scratch a spot behind his ear, loosing a powdering of dandruff onto his shoulder—thank heavens it wasn’t lice. “We’re a small operation, ye see. Not a regular coaching inn. Still, I suppose I could part with my boy Wicket to ride ye to the Gable Inn, near abouts ten mile off or so, long as he’s back afore dark. Can’t rightly help ye with a manservant, though.”
“I can.” A deep voice rumbled at her back.
She clenched her jaw. Why had Captain Thatcher made it his duty to badger her into doing what he thought best? The man was more determined than her stepmother to have his way. She turned, prepared to confront him.
But cold, green eyes—lizard-like and unflinching—stared at her from beneath a shaggy set of brown eyebrows. A wiry man dipped his head toward her, not much taller than herself. He was all sinew and tendons. The type of fellow that could spring up the trunk of a tree before you knew he’d even thought to do so. She remembered him from the evening before as one of the men who’d slipped glances at her from his stool at the bar.
He touched the brim of his hat and gave a slight nod. “Ezra Thick at your service, miss. I heard you be needing a man to hire as guardian. I’m available, if you like.”
Though this was what she’d wanted, every muscle in her tensed. He seemed polite enough, his speech respectful, but was it wise to hire a man to guard her when she didn’t know if she ought to be guarded against him?
She glanced back at the innkeeper, hoping to find either acceptance or alarm at Mr. Thick’s offer. But the mousey man had disappeared through a back door, apparently done with the both of them. She frowned. Surely if Mr. Thick were a rogue, the innkeeper would’ve warned her…wouldn’t he?
She turned back to Mr. Thick. “You heard correctly, sir. I do need a manservant, but only until we reach the Gable Inn.” Where hopefully she’d find a more respectable fellow. Her shoulders sagged. What if she didn’t? Oh, why hadn’t she hired Mr. Harcourt when she’d had the chance?
“Then I’m your man, miss. I know these roads like none other.” He shuffled his feet, then lowered his voice. “I’ll take my pay up front, though. No disrespect intended, but I’ve been cribbed a time or two.”
Her reticule weighed heavy in her hands. If she gave him the full amount, what was to prevent him from simply running off? She fished around for only two coins and held them out. “I shall pay you half now and the rest when you see me safely to the Gable. Take it or leave it.”
“Business woman, eh? I like that. I like it a lot.” An oily smile slid across his face, and he snatched the gold from her palm. “I’ll ready my horse and meet you outside. In the back.”
Her heart sank as he bypassed her and vanished out the door. Had she made the right decision?
Samuel gritted his teeth as Officer Bexley’s cuff on the back rippled through him from spine to ribs. The man didn’t realize his strength—or his insubordination. Samuel let
it slide, though. Despite Bexley’s poor judgment, the fellow meant as much harm as an overgrown bear cub.
“It were a devil of a ride to track you down, Captain. Had me fret-tin’ like a fishwife when you didn’t check in last night.” Bexley elbowed him, his blue eyes twinkling brilliant through the mist. “The boys were placing bets that ol’ Shankhart had got to you.”
“Waste of good money. Hold on.” He pivoted to launch a final admonition for Miss Gilbert to reconsider taking the next public coach—only to find the patch of muddy ground empty.
He bit back an oath. Foolish, strong-headed woman! While she hadn’t actually admitted she’d be traveling on alone, neither had she denied it. And if she did venture out unaccompanied, a comely young woman such as herself wouldn’t stand a chance against any hot-blooded man crossing her path, cutpurse or not.
“What kept you, Captain?”
Despite his unease over Miss Gilbert, Bexley’s voice turned him back to his duty. He’d have to see to the woman later.
“Two of Shankhart’s gang accosted a carriage.” Fog droplets collected into one big splash dripping from his hat down to his cheek. He flicked it away with the back of his hand, annoyed at the damp and the memory of the postilion’s body lying dead on the heath. “One of the blackguards didn’t make it. The other wasn’t ready to travel—till now.”
“Humph.” Bexley pushed out his lower lip as he digested the information. “Then we’ll haul him in together, eh?”
“Maybe.” He wheeled about and stalked toward the inn, heels digging deep into the softened ground. He didn’t need Bexley to hold his hand while bringing in a prisoner—and in truth, it might endanger his fellow officer’s life. Word about Pounce Robbins’s death could have already reached Shankhart’s ears.
Bexley fell into step beside him, his horse clomping along at their backs. “What aren’t you telling me?”
For the love of women and song! After serving so closely for the past eight years, Bexley knew him well. Too well. He upped his pace.
So did Bex. “You know I won’t be put off so easily, Captain.”
Just before the door of the Laughing Dog, he stepped aside, folded his arms, and faced the man. Better to hash this out here than in the taproom, on the off chance that what’d happened to Pounce hadn’t been spread far and wide yet.
“Well?” Bexley’s blue eyes searched his.
He looked away, to the eerie mist hovering over the land. It didn’t bode well, this chill settling deep in his bones. “It’s best if you turn around now. You shouldn’t be seen with me on the heath.”
But Bexley wouldn’t give. Not an inch. The man merely widened his stance. “Why’s that?”
It was more a grumble than a question. The tone he’d use himself had he ridden hell-bent across the heath with naught but leftover moonlight shrouded in a rising haze.
He swiped the brim of his hat, warding off any future drips. “It wasn’t just any man I took down out there.” He met Bexley’s gaze. “It was Pounce.”
Bexley spit out a curse, loud enough that his horse tossed its head and stamped a hoof. “As if Robbins didn’t have enough reasons to kill you, you had to go and give him one more?”
Samuel stared him down, saying nothing.
“What a mess of rotten kippers.” Bex blew out a long breath, his cheeks puffing. “Yet there’s naught to be done for it now, I suppose. Tell you what, I’ll take your brigand in myself. You stay put. Or better yet, move on a bit farther. Go north. Hie yourself up to St. Albans. Stay at the Gable Inn for a while. Give ol’ Shankhart plenty of time and space to cool off.”
His brows lifted. “Robbins, cool off?”
Another curse cut through the air. “Well, what then? Anything short of you crossing that stretch of land without an armed guard is suicide.”
“I won’t hide.” He shrugged. “Nor will I endanger others.”
For a moment, Bexley’s jaw worked, then he turned aside and spit. Slowly, he ran his hand across his mouth. “Not surprised. And neither should you be when I say I’m going with you. You know Shankhart’s penchant for cat-and-mouse torture. He’ll toy with you if you’re on your own. Play his wicked games. Drag it out before he strikes. The man ain’t right in the head.”
Bex folded his arms, leaving no room for argument. A bold move, considering Samuel outranked the man in seniority and position. Bexley was a brave one, he’d give him that. Occasionally foolhardy, yet one of the best on the squad. And he was right on all accounts about Shankhart.
Samuel gave him a sharp nod. “Suit yourself.”
A smile slid across Bexley’s face, and he looped his horse’s lead around a nearby picket. “Come on, then. Let’s have us a drink and be on our way.”
Samuel squinted into the fog. The first half circle of a sun barely cut through the gloom. Hardly morning, and Bexley wanted to drink? Samuel shoved open the door to the Dog and held it for his friend. Still, he wouldn’t think less of the fellow if Bex felt the need for a mug or two before they left. It would take a stout amount of courage for Bex to be seen with him when any manner of killers could be lurking in the mists, all mad-dog possessed to bring Samuel’s head in to Shankhart.
Chapter Seven
Skirting the side of the inn, Abby clutched her small travel bag in one hand and, with the other, held the brim of her hat against a gust off the heath. Between the wind and the hazy outline of a half-circle sun now climbing on the horizon, the fog would be gone in no time. The first smile of the morning lifted her lips. Good. Clear skies would make for safer travel—for her and for Fanny. Wherever she was. Oh Fanny…Godspeed to you. As cantankerous as her former maid could be, Abby already missed the woman’s banter. It would be strange to ride silent in the chaise.
Behind the Laughing Dog, the ground churned up in a sea of mucky gouges and rises. Several chickens strutted about, pecking earthworms too slow to take cover. Near the stable, the yellow carriage she’d rented stood at the ready. At the front of it, a lad bent, checking buckles on the horses.
Abby’s smile slipped off as she approached him. The boy could be no more than ten, if that. Surely he wasn’t the driver the innkeeper had assigned. Hopefully not, at any rate. “Excuse me, but could you tell me where to find Mr. Wicket?”
The boy straightened, a chip-toothed grin running pell-mell across his face. “Ha! That’s a good one. Why, I’m Wicket, m’um. Ain’t no mister about me. Not yet, anyways.”
“Very well, Wicket.” She forced a pleasant tone to her voice—quite the feat when the urge to rail against the universe welled up. Must everything about this journey be ill-fated? “I understand you are to drive me to the Gable Inn. Could you tell me how long of a ride I should expect?”
“Well…” His face screwed up, little wrinkles bunching his nose nearly into a bow. “Looks like this fog’ll burn off. Roads might be a bit o’ a slog yet, though. I reckon…” Apparently deep in thought, he angled his head, his lips quirking one way, then the other.
Abby couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s serious expression.
“I reckon,” he continued, “near about two hours. Three tops. Which is good, since my pap expects me back by dinner. We’ll be ready to go in a trice. Might wanna heft yerself up to yer seat.”
“Thank you.” Swiveling her head, she glanced about for the wiry Mr. Thick, but her hired manservant was nowhere to be seen. She turned back to the boy. “Excuse me, Wicket, but have you seen the gentleman, Mr. Thick? He is to accompany us.”
“Oh! Aye.” The boy smacked the heel of his hand against his brow. “Near forgot. He asked you to meet him in the stable.”
She frowned at the odd request. “Whatever for?”
The boy shrugged, the movement dipping his flat cap down over one eye. “Somethin’ about needin’ to purchase more oats for his horse.” He shoved the hat back into place. “Says ye must front him the coin afore we can leave.”
Wicket pivoted back to the lead horse.
And a good thing too,
for that way he’d be spared the glower that dug deep into Abby’s brow. The nerve of the man! Asking for more money before they’d even left the Gable. Hefting her skirts, she stomped over to the chaise and hoisted in her bag, then whirled. She’d have to nip off Mr. Thick’s beggarly ways here and now or suffer his continual petitioning until they parted ways.
Rounding the back of the chaise, she followed the edge of the stable. It was a long building, as windblown and leaning askew as the inn. She stopped just inside, breathing in horseflesh, leather, and the pungent odour of manure. “Mr. Thick?”
A stack of hay lining one wall muffled her query. To her right, the workbench sat unattended, assorted currycombs littering the top of it. She strode in farther and peered down the shadowy corridor of stalls, irritated that the man wasted her time by thinking to pinch more pennies off her. “Mr. Thick, are you in here?”
Far down in the dark recesses, something shuffled in the straw, followed by a low moan. A man’s moan…Mr. Thick’s. Abby huffed, feeling like moaning herself. Some guard she’d hired. How was he to protect her from ruffians if he couldn’t keep himself from getting kicked or stamped on by a horse?
“Oof! My bleedin’ foot.”
Oh bother. Abby ducked back outside, intent on collaring Wicket to help her aid the man, but the boy was gone. The yard was empty, save for her carriage and the two horses.
Behind her, another moan leached out from the stable.
She blew out a sigh. There was nothing for it, then. She hurried back inside and darted down into the row of stalls. “Mr. Thick, are you—?”
A hand clamped over her mouth from behind. An arm wrapped around her stomach, pulling her backward, into an empty stall. Hot breath hit her ear. “One scream and I cut your throat, aye?”
Tears burned her eyes. Fear. Anger. Stupid! Why had she been so daft as to wander in here alone?
She managed a nod, barely.
“Good.”
The hands dropped, and she spun. Mr. Thick’s green gaze speared her in place, the whites of his eyes stark against the stable’s gloom. He shoved out his palm, and she flinched.
The Noble Guardian Page 6