“More than you’ve bothered me before, that’s certain.” Flipping her braid, she paraded toward the wood-framed doorway to the coaching inn taproom—then stopped short. Beer sloshed. Her eyes travelled the length of Tom with a calculating glint. “What do you ’pose you’ll be doing now, Mr. McGwen, now that Miss Foxcroft is gone?”
“She is not gone.”
“Oh?”
“About Hector—”
“I know you and Miss Foxcroft used to slip out at night.” The girl brushed closer to Tom, scented of yeast and mutton and leather. “Papa says every man needs a woman. He’s got a fine horse and one of his best silver pieces tucked away for when I get married.”
“Miss Creagh.” Tom’s patience drained like the beer now dripping from her tray. He resisted the urge to thump the wall with his fist. “I’ll thank ye to answer my questions.”
“And get myself a whippin’ with Papa?” She shook her head, grinning. “I don’t rightly think so. Now, if we were alone—”
“Betsey!”
The girl jumped, the tray slid forward, and earthenware tankards clattered to the floor in a spray of brown liquid.
Mrs. Creagh, the innkeeper’s wife, marched toward them with a glower. “Clean this up, you little bird-wit. What have I told you about pestering the men like a … like a little …” Biting her tongue, she turned her glare to Tom. “What do you want, McGwen? If you think you’re going to go seducing my Betsey just because your—”
“I came to find out about Hector.”
“Did you?” Mrs. Creagh harrumphed. “Well, there’s nothing to tell except this. He came for a meal that Thursday, after dark, and paid his fare for the morn’s coach. We lodged him in one of the chambers upstairs. No, he didn’t speak to the likes o’ no one, and no, we heard no struggle during the night.” She threw up her hands. “We thought he was on the coach with the rest of the passengers until he turns up dead in our garden. If it weren’t for all the pigwidgeons about this place, rubbish like this wouldn’t happen.”
Frustration lined his stomach. He had more questions, too many more, but none they could answer. He thanked them and quit the coaching inn, the sunshine glaring into his eyes.
Joanie sat where he’d left her—leaning against an old barrel, coddling a couple fuzzy orange-and-white kittens. She glanced up with a soft, familiar look. The same one Papa or Mamm had when they’d stumbled upon another lost waif. “I wish I could keep one. The hostler over there said I could.”
Meade was on the verge of throwing Tom and Joanie out already. He’d be in a fit of rage over another stray. Although—
“Mr. McGwen.” Betsey came tumbling out the door, drenched in beer from her knees down. Her cheek was red, as if she’d just received a slapping for the clumsiness. “There is one thing. Some little nonsense I found in that man’s chamber once he was gone.” She glanced back, as if to be certain her mother could not hear. “I don’t have it with me now, but if you was to meet me out at the wharves come dark, I would bring it for you.”
“What is it?”
“Betsey!”
She grimaced at her mother’s shrill voice. “I’ll bring it tonight” was all she said before she disappeared back inside. The door slammed behind her.
“Come on, Joanie.” Tom helped her up, and when she placed the kittens back into the grass, he plucked them up himself. They wiggled and meowed in his grasp. Meade would murder him. “Let’s go home.”
“I want to see him.” The hoarse words came out a whisper. She’d resisted them all night in her sleepless tossing as she clutched the raw, throbbing line across her neck. But then she’d pulled the possibility back over her. Like a teacup of warm milk and honey or a worn chair by the hearthside, the reality of seeing him again soothed her.
Which was nonsense, of course.
She despised the stranger. Did she not?
He had accosted her in the street. He had invaded her chamber. He had been intense and reckless instead of gentle and calm—and then he had done the unthinkable. He had stolen the first kiss she could ever remember giving.
But he knew her.
Or claimed to.
“If I am ever to learn the truth, it is time I cease hiding from it.” Meg resituated herself on the pillow-stuffed chaise lounge in the library. She accepted the cup of willow bark tea on its saucer. “Thank you.”
“Admittedly, I do not think it a wise course of action.” Lord Cunningham knelt before her at the chaise lounge. He readjusted the soft counterpane across her legs. “If anyone should be summoned for answers, Mr. Willmott is certainly the most objective and, I daresay, safest option.”
“We may speak with Mr. Willmott another time.”
“Miss Margaret—”
