by Jo Beverley
“Then I will believe you. I prefer to think myself in the right at all times.”
She meant it as a joke and he chuckled. “Delightful as ever. Or is that too bold?”
Inside she purred, but she kept the tone light. “Any lady is pleased to be told she delights, sir. You should scatter your praise with abandon.”
“A very risky course.”
She raised a brow at him. “Are you claiming to be hunted by ladies with marriage in mind?”
“Some disregard my rags in favor of my charms. Not you, I assume.”
“If only I were a grand heiress, sir, I might be able to afford you.” She said it lightly, but watched his reaction. It was unreadable and they’d arrived at the innyard of the Lamb. There was nothing for it. She offered her gloved hand. “Good-bye, sir.”
He took it, saying, “Good-bye,” but raising it to his lips.
Despite sturdy cotton gloves, she felt a frisson, and his eyes held hers. Surely it spoke of emotions similar to her own.
Thief! she reminded herself. At the very least you must go carefully.
She pulled her hand free and hurried into the innyard, not allowing herself a backward glance, but she paused as soon as she was out of sight to gather her composure. Her heart was racing and she was almost in tears. Over a rascally thief.
A completely unrepentant thief. Good riddance—and yet she had to dab her eyes and blow her nose. It would never do for Polly to see signs of distress. She was just putting the handkerchief away when Thayne ran into the innyard.
Coming after her? No, he was surprised to see her still there. He hesitated, then took a letter from a pocket and thrust it into her hand. “Put it out of sight and into the post as soon as possible. It’s of crucial importance. Good-bye indeed!” With that, he ran toward the arch into the back area and out of sight.
Hermione gaped after him, then looked at the letter. It was addressed to Sir George Hawkinville, Peel Street, London. That seemed respectable, but the wretch had foisted his stolen goods on her. She was tempted to toss the thick letter on the muddy ground or to find the nearest fire, but he’d seemed so serious. “Crucial importance.” “Out of sight,” she remembered, shoving the letter in a pocket while she tried to make sense of it all.
Another man ran in from the street and paused, looking around. If Thayne seemed poorly dressed for his state, this man was too well dressed for his nature. His fashionable jacket and breeches stretched over bulging muscles and there was something about him that made Hermione think of a hunting dog sniffing for prey.
The turning head stilled to look at her. “Seen a man here?” he growled. “Brown coat. Low hat?”
“No!” She gasped it, for his brutish face terrified her. Her hand was to her throat, the packet of soap still clutched in it, the sweet rose perfume at odds with everything else.
He stepped closer, nose twitching as if he truly could smell his prey. His head was unnaturally square and that nose was fat, but it was the small, cold eyes that had her backing away, heart pounding.
“Begone, you wretch, or I’ll scream for help.” And this time, I’ll do it.
He smiled as if he found her threat amusing, but then turned his head sharply toward the back of the innyard. She looked that way and saw Thayne clearly visible in the archway. Why on earth wasn’t he far away by now? This peril was clearly what he’d fled.
He disappeared again, and his pursuer leapt into a run exactly like a hunting dog—all muscle and trained to kill. He raced through the arch and Hermione moved forward as if to run after, to protect and defend . . .
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
She turned to find an aproned servingman had come out of the inn carrying a broom. “Yes. No! A man ran through here and another pursued. I’m afraid there will be violence done.”
The servant shrugged. “Some private brawl, ma’am. Don’t you distress yourself. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Sweep away the past twenty-four hours and restore my orderly life.
“Hermione!” Now Polly was waving to her from the very arch where Mark Thayne had shown himself—in order to draw the cur away, she now realized. Polly and the others could have been put in danger by that.
“Come along!” Polly cried. “You’ve been an age and we’re ready to leave.”
Hermione was about to join her, but then remembered the wretched letter. She didn’t want to take the dangerous thing into the coach with her family.
“I just need to go into the inn for a moment!” she called, and went inside. Polly would assume she needed a chamber pot and couldn’t object to that. She entered the inn and went down a cramped corridor into the crudely paneled entrance hall, which also served as the taproom and had the beer smell to suit. A coal fire gave off an acrid stench. It would serve Thayne right if she threw the letter there to burn. But that man, that predatory brute, had been vile. If he was a minion of the victim of the crime, she could believe no pity was needed.
People were staring at her.
An elderly couple sat at a small table, his clothing announcing him to be a clergyman. Two young women sat on a bench, shawls around their shoulders and bundles at their feet. Three sturdy workingmen stood between the kegs of ale and the fire with flagons in their hands.
The hard-faced woman stationed by the kegs asked, “Can I ’elp you, mam?”
“Can you tell me where I may post a letter?”
Before the woman could answer, the gray-haired innkeeper entered, all apologies. “I gather you have been discomforted, ma’am.”
“I was merely startled.”
“T’lady wants to know where to post a letter,” said the barmaid, as if that was deeply suspicious.
“The post office is but a short walk, ma’am,” the innkeeper said, “but I believe your party is ready to leave. May I have a letter taken there for you?”
Hermione stood pinned in indecision. She couldn’t bring herself to burn the letter in her pocket, but handing it over to the innkeeper felt like a betrayal of trust.
“Ma’am?” the innkeeper prompted.
“I thought to write one,” she said, “but I see I don’t have time.” No wonder the man looked as if he thought her deranged, and the barmaid as if she was sure of it.
Hermione hurried away to the carriage and endured Polly’s scold. They were soon on their way, but she felt as if she carried danger in her right-hand pocket and dearly wished to have that decision back to do again. Stolen papers. What if she was caught with them? Could she go to jail? Or worse?
If the papers were banknotes, theft of money was a hanging crime.
If that horrid brute had caught Thayne, it would serve him right. At the next stop she’d get the letter into the post if she could or burn it if she couldn’t, and she’d allow no more foolish yearnings over a long-ago dream.
Chapter 8
Mark ran for his life, aware that he was insane because he was enjoying it. He had no doubt that Nathan Boothroyd would kill him if he caught him, for he’d have no chance against the man’s brute strength short of a pistol, which he didn’t have. In any case, he wasn’t sure one pistol ball would stop a Boothroyd quickly enough.
All the same, he was grinning as he ran, because he was damned tired of skulking and conniving. He dodged through the laundry pegged to lines across the back lane, trying not to soil any of it, and down a narrow passage between high walls. He was probably faster than Nathan, but he didn’t know this town or any hiding places. He might be safer in the high street, but he wasn’t sure a Boothroyd would let a crowd stop him and innocent people could get hurt.
He twisted into a slightly wider lane that ran between the backyards of two rows of houses, but it was too long and without concealment. At any moment Nathan would turn into it and see him. Nothing for it. He scrambled over a head-high gate, hoping he managed it before Nathan g
limpsed his disappearing boots.
He was in a small backyard that held no greenery except weeds and stank of slops thrown out of the back door. He stood still, listening for Nathan’s footsteps on the other side of the brick wall.
A dog snarled.
Mark stifled a laugh.
He was facing a real beast this time—a bull terrier guarding its territory with bared fangs. It wasn’t barking, but such a dog could attack without warning. He stayed still, silently urging the dog not to make a noise beyond the rumbling growl. He could hear Nathan crunching along the rough surface of the lane now, going slowly, trying to sniff out his prey. The footsteps passed the gate and moved on. Mark let out his breath.
Then the dog barked, once, twice, three times.
The back door opened and a woman said, “What’s the matter with you now, Rowley? Here.” She threw out a knucklebone.
The dog whined its dilemma, but then clearly decided if the mistress was here, his job was done, and settled to gnawing the bone with excellent sharp teeth.
But out in the lane, Nathan’s footsteps had stopped, and now the woman had seen the intruder. She was probably in her thirties, with loose, slovenly red hair but a decent enough green gown. She wasn’t afraid. He tried last night’s trick and put his finger to his lips. Shush.
She looked at him as if he was crazy.
Aware of Nathan listening, Mark chose another route and dug out a coin—fortunately he found a five-shilling piece first—and showed it to her. She tilted her head to indicate he could enter the house. As he passed the dog, it gave a growl for honor’s sake, but hardly stopped its work on the bone.
Mark paid his dues and entered a small kitchen where a crone stirred a cauldron over a fire. Had he stumbled upon a witches’ coven? He went through a curtain into a front room and realized that, no, he’d found a bawdy house, and not one of the most salubrious in town.
Two thickly painted women lolled on a sagging sofa with their heavy tits hanging out of gaudy gowns. A third was plying her trade, straddling an elderly customer on a wooden chair. Perhaps there were beds upstairs. Perhaps not. The two available whores smiled invitingly, one showing missing teeth.
The woman who’d let him in said, “Suit yourself, sir. You’ve paid for them twice over.”
Fighting a wild bubble of laughter, Mark bowed to all of them. “My apologies, ladies, but I have pressing business elsewhere.”
“I can work quick, me ’andsome,” one of the whores called.
Mark sent her a regretful smile, opened the front door, and stepped out. He found himself on an alley so narrow two fat people couldn’t walk abreast, with the high street visible nearby on his right and a green area to his left with houses beyond.
He had two pressing but conflicting imperatives: one, get out of Warrington in one piece and on his way to London with all that he knew; two, make sure Lady Hermione came to no harm through his impulsive recruitment. A third was to find out what had happened to the damn letter, but somehow he felt sure she’d have done as he asked and put it into the post.
When he’d escaped out the back of the Lamb, he’d seen an additional area there containing two private coaches. One had been ready to depart. A woman had been leaning out of the window looking for someone—a brunette who bore a marked resemblance to Lady Hermione. She must have been the married sister. Hermione would have posted the letter and entered the coach, and they’d already be on their way and safe.
Alas, his conscience wouldn’t let him accept that without proof. When Nathan gave up the pursuit, he could well return to the Lamb to look for another trail. So Mark turned left and plotted a course that would bring him to the rear of the Lamb. He found the coach gone. Thank the gods for that. Now he needed a safe haven for himself. He continued along the lane, alert for a Boothroyd on the prowl.
He’d run because he’d seen Solange arriving in Warrington in one of the outside seats of an overloaded coach. That meant she’d done the same as he and escaped the disruption to the Manchester-to-London road. A piece of bad luck, but he should have anticipated it. Isaac Inkman and Nathan Boothroyd had been with her, and at her word, Nathan had scrambled down off the coach while it was still in motion.
So he’d run.
He’d evaded Nathan for now, but Solange wouldn’t give up the hunt. She knew now that Mark hadn’t taken last night’s London coach, so he’d be her prime suspect for the theft. He’d read through her papers. He didn’t understand it all, but she’d be desperate to get such dangerous documents back. He’d booked a seat on the next London coach, which would stop for passengers at the Nag’s Head, but it was the principal inn for London coaches. Solange would already be booking seats there, but also asking about him.
So there was another coach seat he couldn’t claim. At this rate he’d run out of money.
Would she stay in Warrington to search for him, or would she take the first coach south? Her priority should be to reach London and plan destruction for when the Crusade arrived. If she believed that wouldn’t happen, Isaac’s destructive ideas wouldn’t seem so important.
Mark weighed the situation and decided to gamble that she’d pursue her main plan and take the afternoon coach. He’d wait for the London mail, which arrived in Warrington at midnight, but in the meantime he needed to be out of sight.
As he passed the rear of a string of inns, he looked for a quiet, out-of-the-way place and settled on the Roebuck. It was too small to cater to public coaches or to tempt many who traveled in private ones. The only vehicle in sight was a light sporting curricle, which no one would use for a long journey, so the owner must be local. As he walked by it, Mark admired the expensive toy with its gleaming paint and shining brass. He wasn’t surprised to be glared at by a groom dressed in matching livery who was eating his meal while on guard. Clearly the local was a wealthy man, which promised a decent inn and a fine kitchen.
He went in at the back and followed a corridor to a flagstoned hall with a taproom off to the left and two doors on his right. A plain staircase led to an upper floor. The taproom was deserted and the whole place very quiet.
Perfect.
He went into the taproom and asked a massively bosomed woman for a tankard of ale. She might be a barmaid, but the high-necked dark gown, the voluminous cap, and an air of command suggested she was also the innkeeper. She drew the ale from a cask, but grudgingly. Would she allow him to linger here till midnight for the purchase of occasional tankards of ale? To take a room for the night would deplete his money to no purpose.
He sipped and tried to sweeten her. “An excellent brew, ma’am.”
Her only response was a cold stare.
He tried a smile. “The town seems busy.”
“’Appen it is,” she said, discouragingly.
He turned away and caught sight of himself in a dingy mirror. Gads! He was dressed shabbily, but he’d lost his hat and his unkempt hair was in disarray. He’d a dirt smudge on one cheek, and when he looked down, he saw evidence of his scramble over the gate, including a rip in his breeches. He couldn’t go out to search for his hat and he’d never pass for respectable without one. He was tempted to laugh out loud, but in truth his appearance could make things difficult here, there, and everywhere.
“Faringay?”
Mark turned, shocked and on guard to hear his title. He saw a man who could be his opposite in all respects. Beau Braydon was blond, fine-featured, and turned out to perfection from complex cravat to gleaming Hessian boots. He was hatless, but surely only for the moment, and his hair was perfectly arranged in what was doubtless the latest style.
No point in denying who he was. “Braydon. What are you doing here?”
“It’s forbidden?” Braydon said, strolling forward. “I’m on my way south from a family place near Lancaster. I do trust you’re not in as dire straits as your appearance suggests.”
“Yes and
no,” Mark said, glancing to see what effect this conversation had on the innkeeper. She resembled the bull terrier—confused, but still inclined to growl.
“You know this man, sir?”
Braydon’s lips twitched. “Well enough, Mrs. Upshaw. Clearly I should feed him. Lay another place in my parlor, if you please.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mark said humbly, and followed through one of the doors off the hall into a private parlor. It was a simple room with whitewashed walls, but a fire burned in the grate and the table was set for a meal.
He and Beau Braydon had known each other in the army. They’d never been close friends, but they’d worked together a couple of times, and passing a few hours in his company would be useful—as long as he could come up with a tale to cover the situation.
A young serving maid hurried in with plate, cutlery, and glassware. Despite looking only fifteen or so, she dallied at Braydon’s side in hopes of flirtation. Braydon gave her smiling thanks and she had to leave.
He poured wine for them both. “Don’t strain for a lie, Faringay. I can be remarkably incurious when necessary.”
Mark toasted him with a smile. “Noble of you. Believe it or not, mayhem isn’t my daily style, but today I had to run from a hunting dog.”
“And lived to tell the tale?”
“By scaling a gate and escaping through a whorehouse.”
“Unscathed again?”
“Untempted.”
“Ah, one of those.”
Yes, spending a few hours with Braydon would be no sacrifice, and with such sponsorship, perhaps the gorgon of the taproom wouldn’t quibble at him lurking here until midnight. The afternoon coach would soon leave the Nag’s Head and chances were good that Solange would be on it. She needed to get Isaac to London to do his evil work, and she’d take Nathan Boothroyd, because she liked to have a bodyguard. What a quivering conscience she must have.
The maid returned with an aromatic tureen of soup and Mark, safe for the moment, settled to enjoy it.