A small smile tilted her lips, forming a track for the salty tears, and she wiped them away idly with her wrist while she pulled the curtain to the side and looked down at the town she was coming to know.
Mrs. Cotter was walking down the street with her mouth set in the determined line she always got when she was planning on haggling Mr. Abbott about paying less for bread. She always visited the baker just after midday in the hopes that he’d be worried about selling everything that day. It never worked, but she kept trying.
Margaretta blinked. Could it possibly be noon already? Had she slept that long? If so, she’d missed her talk with Nash for the first time. What had he thought? What excuse had Mrs. Lancaster given him? The idea that Nash might think her the type of slothful person who would laze a day away just because she felt like it made Margaretta sad. He knew her better than that by now, didn’t he?
A loud shout drew her attention to the right and the large three-peaked inn she took care to avoid. Its location in the middle of High Street meant that people from London were frequently coming and going from the center of town on their way to or from the popular city of Bath.
The stage pulling up in front of the inn now was nicer than the one Margaretta had traveled on, though still loaded down with as many people as it could carry. It wasn’t a mail coach, so there was more room for people and luggage, and passengers scrambled down from every nook on the roof and sides. Finally, a footman stepped up to open the door to allow the interior passengers to disembark.
A man with thick, graying hair stepped out before settling his tall hat back upon his head. Even from this distance, she could see his hawklike nose and the sun glinting off the silver embroidery of his waistcoat.
Her gasp seemed to pull all the air from the room while squeezing all of the breath from her chest. She’d thought she had more time—that her story would hold for at least another few weeks—but there was no denying that her father was in Marlborough. She hadn’t wanted to worry him, hadn’t wanted him to blame himself for the fact that the man he’d married her to had a crazy brother who would do anything to move up from third to first in line for the title of Viscount of Stildon.
If Samuel Albany found out she was expecting his older brother’s child, he’d either beat it out of her or find a way for it to meet an early demise once it was born. He’d all but told her as much when he paid his condolences after the death of his brother, John.
If there hadn’t been so many witnesses to John’s accident on the gangplank of the HMS Malabar, Margaretta would wonder whether Samuel had had a hand in it as well. But no, that had simply been an unfortunate incident, though the move from third heir to potential spare seemed only to whet Samuel’s appetite for the title.
If her father was here, did that mean he knew she was no longer in Margate? Did Samuel know she was no longer in Margate? That she’d stayed there for a mere three days before the sight of Samuel’s manservant sent her scurrying across the country on a circuitous route of mail coaches?
The ifs piled up until she began to feel sick again, but then the bottom fell out of her stomach entirely as another man emerged from the coach. A shorter man with a rounded hat already on his head. He stepped to the side and pulled spectacles off his face before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning the road dust from the lenses.
Margaretta tried to swallow, but her throat was dry.
Samuel was here. And her father was with him.
Nash was working, trying his best not to worry about Margaretta, whom Mrs. Lancaster had said was feeling poorly this morning. Was she very sick? Did she need a doctor? Would she even be willing to see one? Until now, she’d been very particular about where she would go outside of Mrs. Lancaster’s shop. If she wasn’t trying to find her friend, Nash doubted she’d have gone anywhere other than church and that only because Mrs. Lancaster all but dragged her there.
The opening of his door was a welcome distraction, especially since he didn’t know the two gentlemen who walked in. Strangers would consume his whole attention and force him to stop thinking about a particular dark-eyed, dark-haired fugitive.
Nash cleared his throat and set his quill aside on a stack of last week’s newspapers before rising to his feet. “May I help you, gentlemen?”
The two men looked around Nash’s admittedly messy office. Nearly half of his clients communicated with him via messengers, and most of the others were locals who were just as likely to have him over for tea as to meet in his office. Over time, he’d allowed the room to become a bit cluttered, though he still considered it quite professional. Would it look as such to two obviously well-to-do men from London?
Whether they decided it was professional or not, it must have passed muster because the younger man gave a stiff nod, and the two men came to stand by Nash’s desk.
The older of the two men cleared his throat and glanced sideways at his companion. Tension ran underneath that gaze, and Nash couldn’t help but remember the last tense, secretive person who’d walked into his life unexpectedly.
So much for the visitors distracting him from thoughts of Margaretta.
“As a man of the law, I assume you are man of discretion?”
Nash’s eyebrows flew upward. How long had it been since someone questioned his character like that? When everyone knew everyone in a town, your reputation tended to precede you. “Of course,” Nash stated. Was there really any other acceptable answer? “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
They all made themselves comfortable in Nash’s chairs, though the younger man’s eyes never seemed to settle on anything for more than a moment.
The older man nodded and swallowed before clearing his throat again. “We need you to facilitate a meeting with the local providers of transportation. We need to inquire about moving about the country with a bit of, er, discretion.”
A more vague and ridiculous request Nash had never heard. There was definitely something else going on here. He’d simply have to go along with their ridiculous wording until he learned what it was. “Of course. My name is Mr. Banfield.”
The younger man sneered. “We assumed as much, Mr. Banfield. Your name is on the sign after all.”
“Yes,” Nash said slowly. “But as you did not come equipped with the same type of signage, I assumed we wanted to introduce ourselves like gentlemen.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the older man said quickly. “This is Mr. Samuel Albany, third son—”
“Second son!” snarled the younger man.
The older man’s eyes hardened and his shoulders stiffened. “Third son,” he repeated with deliberate enunciation, “of the Viscount of Stildon. His elder brother, John, is recently deceased, however.”
Mr. Albany’s snarl deepened as he locked eyes with the older man. Their gazes didn’t hold for long, though, and soon Mr. Albany was back to staring at the bookcases.
The old man gave a small nod and turned his attention back to Nash. “I am Mr. Curtis Fortescue of Fortescue Saddlery.”
Thoughts pinged around Nash’s brain like bullets shot into a metal bucket. He’d heard of Fortescue Saddlery, of course; everyone had. They were known for crafting beautiful, sturdy saddles as well as high-quality bridles and harnesses. Their leatherwork was exceptional . . . which brought to mind Margaretta’s unique valise. He’d only gotten a glimpse of it that first day, but her last name and her overprotectiveness of the leather satchel merged with the presence of the men in his office. Nash had a feeling he was one step closer to finding what she was running from.
And how hard she was running.
The saddles were exclusively used by England’s richest, noblest families. Anyone connected to that business wouldn’t have the need to work in a shop. But how was she connected? Was this man her father-in-law? Or, Nash swallowed to ease the rising burn in his throat, was she possibly not widowed after all?
Mr. Albany swiveled his head in Nash’s direction. “Fortescue Saddlery has partnered with my family to extend their line of
saddles. We intend to take the racing world by storm and wish to travel anonymously until we choose to reveal the connection.”
“Thus the discretionary transportation,” Nash clarified. Now he knew for sure that these two were playing some sort of game. Marlborough was the last place anyone with a connection to horse racing would care to go. For that matter, Wiltshire as a county probably wasn’t high on anyone’s list. There was only one track of note in the whole county, and it was a good bit south of Marlborough.
If one was looking for a person, however, someone who would be looking to go somewhere with as many traveling options as possible, one couldn’t do much better than Nash’s little town.
“Yes.” Mr. Fortescue turned toward Nash, but his gaze flickered almost constantly in Mr. Albany’s direction. “We’re exploring ways to travel around the southern half of England without anyone knowing we’re there.”
“And you wish to talk to the people who might help you do that?” Nash asked.
The two men looked at each other, both frowning, both seeming to be trying to glare the other into some sort of submission. Mr. Albany was the one to finally break the glare and answer. “Yes.”
Nash couldn’t tell which man actually held the power in the pairing, and that made his job considerably more difficult. Of course, it would be much easier if he knew what his job was supposed to be in this instance, because he was fast coming to believe that his role in this little tableau was to protect Margaretta. There was no doubt in his mind that she was who these men were really looking for, but Nash couldn’t tell what they wanted to do when they found her.
Tension spiked up his neck until he was forced to roll his head along his shoulders to relieve it. He tried to cover the movement by reaching for a piece of paper and a quill, though he had no idea what he was going to write.
“I can certainly arrange for you to meet with a few people who might be amenable to arranging your travel needs.” It wouldn’t be difficult to keep them away from anyone who knew anything about Margaretta. Her dealings with the townspeople had been limited mostly to the women who came into Mrs. Lancaster’s shop.
“All of them,” Mr. Fortescue bit out. “We wish to speak to all of them.”
Nash’s eyes widened. “We’ve more than a dozen inns with stage stops in Marlborough alone. When you include the neighboring towns and villages, that number goes up considerably. Then there’s the smiths and stables that rent out horses and carriages and—”
“This is ridiculous.” Mr. Albany surged from his chair and paced to one of Nash’s overflowing bookcases. “Your discretion is costing us precious time, Fortescue.”
Mr. Fortescue’s eyes narrowed. “And what alternative would you suggest?”
Nash waited, not daring to even breathe, but both men lapsed back into an angry silence, glaring at each other. Finally, Nash cleared his throat to break the tension. “If you’ll give me your names and where you’re staying, I should be able to make some arrangements within the next day or two.” He looked from Mr. Albany back to Mr. Fortescue. He was an older man, but he carried himself well. He could be Margaretta’s father or husband, possibly even her father-in-law, and Nash desperately needed to know which. “Are you traveling with wives, gentlemen? I would be happy to suggest a few entertainments for them while you are in the area.”
“Women are a nuisance,” Mr. Albany muttered while Mr. Fortescue looked at Nash with assessing brown eyes that went a long way toward convincing Nash he was looking at the father and not the husband. The shape and color were too familiar to Nash for this man to be anything other than a blood relation. Why give her name as Fortescue, then? The idea that she might not have married at all crossed Nash’s mind, but he dismissed it. He had no reason to believe she’d lied to him at any other time than possibly that first day. And then it would have been understandable.
“The only woman in my life,” Mr. Fortescue said slowly, “has been taking the waters for the past two months to see to her health.”
Mr. Albany emitted a sound of disbelief. “Should have sent her to my estate in Shropshire. She’d have been safer there.”
“Have you reason to believe her health is in danger where she currently is?” Mr. Fortescue asked pointedly.
The men were staring at each other again, struggling for power. What would happen when one of them actually came out on top? If Margaretta was caught in the middle of these two gentlemen, he could see why she would run away.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Mr. Albany finally said quietly. “But then again, neither do you.”
Another tense moment passed before Mr. Albany straightened his coat and strode toward the door. “We’re staying at The Castle Inn. My man arranged rooms for us there.”
Mr. Fortescue’s skin faded to a sickly gray that matched his hair. “Your man is in town?”
“Is that a problem?” Mr. Albany’s eyebrows lifted, along with the corners of his lips. The smile was smug and even sent a shiver down Nash’s back. “I’ve been sending him ahead of us to scope out the prospects. He seems to think this town very promising.”
“Tonight.” Mr. Fortescue snapped at Nash. “I want the first meetings arranged by tonight. We’ll spend no longer in this town than we absolutely have to. You may join us for dinner with the details of the arrangements.”
“Quite right,” Nash said slowly, though he wasn’t really sure what he was agreeing to. All he knew was a moment ago he’d been sure that these two men were the threat Margaretta was running from, but now he’d just learned there was a third man. One who might have been in town for a while.
It was a grim prospect indeed.
It was nearing evening before Nash managed to enter Mrs. Lancaster’s store. By then he was nearly trembling with worry. He’d wanted to go straight there after the men had left his office, assure himself that Margaretta was tucked away safely in the rooms upstairs, but knowing there was a third man, an unknown who Nash couldn’t recognize, made him cautious. On the chance that he was being followed, Nash visited stables and talked to the innkeepers who dealt with the stages and mail coaches.
Every time he’d considered running for the store, he’d see a stranger or lock eyes with one of the townspeople he didn’t know as well and cautiousness won out over panic and made him put every effort into looking as normal as possible. But now sufficient time had passed, and he couldn’t stand the wait anymore. He had to see her.
She’d had a month—more than a month—to decide he was trustworthy and tell him her problems. Now that he’d been thrown into the middle of them without a single clue, she was going to give him answers.
Assuming, of course, that she was still safely tucked away above the shop.
Frustration and worry ate at him until his composure and patience crumbled, leaving him vulnerable and angry. He was nearly shaking with the emotions as he strode down High Street with the wind whipping his coat about. Rain was probably blowing in. It seemed to be that sort of day.
The store was blessedly empty when he walked into it. In fact, the only person he could see was Mrs. Lancaster.
“Where is she?” He knew the blatant question would give the meddling woman ideas, but he’d handle that later. She was already assuming whatever she wished. Right now, he needed answers, and he desperately needed to know that Margaretta was safe.
“Upstairs.” Mrs. Lancaster shuffled toward the door and turned the sign to Closed.
“Are you certain? Have you actually seen her today?” Nash forced himself to breathe more slowly. What if they only thought she was upstairs and she’d actually been found by Mr. Albany’s man or run away again so that they wouldn’t catch her?
Nash couldn’t wait for Mrs. Lancaster to work her way around whatever clever phrasing she felt like giving him today. He had to see Margaretta, had to know the worst thing that had happened was that she’d caught a head cold. He tore through the store and out the back door. He was two treads from the top of the stairs before he realized what
he was doing. Was he really planning on storming up here, invading what was essentially her home? A gentleman didn’t do such a thing.
The sick feeling he’d had when Mr. Fortescue’s skin had paled welled up within Nash’s gut once more until it squeezed his heart. Gentleman or not, he had to see Margaretta.
His pause had given Mrs. Lancaster time to catch up with him, though, breathing a little harder than Nash would have preferred. “Can’t have you up here without a chaperone,” she huffed before reaching past Nash and pushing the door open. “We’ve a guest, dear!”
A groan came from deep within the rooms, sending panic through Nash. Had Mr. Albany’s man already been here? He nearly pushed Mrs. Lancaster into the front room, which acted as a sort of parlor and kitchen area. A worktable was positioned along the wall near the fireplace, and cooking hooks sat empty along one edge of the hearth. An iron rack cut across the middle of the fireplace opening. Three chairs sat around a dining table, while three more created a little seating area near the window. A door across from the fireplace stood open, and that was where Margaretta appeared, looking so pale that her thick dark brows and red lips stood out in shocking contrast.
“Nash, er, Mr. Banfield?” Her dark gaze swung from Nash to Mrs. Lancaster and back again. “What’s going on?”
Relief took the strength from Nash’s legs, and he braced an arm against the wall, forcing breath into his lungs. She was well. Everything was going to be fine. On the heels of relief came determination. Whatever was going on, he could keep her safe, as long as she finally gave him all the answers. But how to convince her to do such a thing? He’d asked more than once about her life, her past, and she’d proven to be quite silent on the subject, so trying to be delicate it about it was something he didn’t have the time or inclination to do. So he decided to throw the largest rock he could into the pond and see what ripples it created. “I think it’s time you told us about your husband.”
A Search for Refuge Page 5