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Fred Crawley, landlord of the Speckled Hen Inn, was just lugging a cask of ale up from his cellar when the Wild One and his Den of Debauchery came charging up on their fancy horses.
"Aye, I saw 'er," he grunted, in reply to their frantic queries. "Bought a ticket for London, she did. Ye missed 'er by no more'n two, maybe three hours." He looked up at the group of rakehells, letting his disgust for them show on his face. Crawley was not inclined to exhibit his usual good humor to the scapegraces. He could see the statue's glaring purple bollocks from where he stood, and he wasn't altogether thrilled with the view his paying guests had from the dining room window — though admittedly, were he two or three decades younger, he might've found the incident as hilarious as did most of his neighbors.
"Come on, Gareth, we're wasting time!" cried Neil Chilcot, already turning his horse. "The more we delay, the harder it'll be to find her!"
"Wait, Chilcot." The Wild One put out a hand in restraint. "Was she upset?" he asked, his face shadowed by his tricorn and his blue eyes troubled.
"The devil if I know. But yer friend's roight. If ye want to catch 'er, ye'd best be off. I ain't got time to sit 'ere 'avin' a chin wag with ye, I got work to do."
"Such insolence!" exclaimed Lord Brookhampton, raising his pale brows. "Really, Crawley, have you no respect for your betters?"
Crawley put the cask down. "Respect? Harrumph! Maybe when me betters start doin' good deeds around this 'ere village, instead of treatin' life like a lark, raisin' 'ell, and goin' around vandalizin' our statues, then, aye, maybe I'll respect 'em."
"Gareth's done a good deed! He saved that coach from the highwaymen!" Chilcot cried, defensively.
"An accident o' fate. Probably so far in 'is cups 'e didn't even know what 'e was doin'."
"I'm not listening to this." Muttering an obscenity, Chilcot turned his horse and galloped away. Perry, Lord Brookhampton, shot Crawley a quelling look and sent his horse charging after him. Tom Audlett, Jon Cokeham, and Sir Hugh Rochester all followed, guffawing and mimicking Crawley's humble, country accent. Only the Wild One remained behind, his horse blowing and foaming and fretting to be off with the others.
Lord Gareth studied the old innkeeper for a long moment, frowning.
"I say, Crawley ... about that statue — I am sorry. I'll fix it for you when I return." He gave a wan smile, and flipped the innkeeper a coin in appreciation for the information about the woman. Then he gave the big hunter its head and sent the animal thundering off after his friends.
Crawley watched him go. Then, shaking his head, he hefted the cask of ale and carried it inside.
The Beloved One going off to America and getting himself killed.
The Defiant One trying to invent a flying machine.
And now the Wild One, vandalizing statues and ruining innocent young women.
The duke might be the devil's kin, but Crawley didn't envy His Grace The Wicked One one bit.
The Wild One Page 26