“Then this is where we start asking questions.” Oliver leaned back as the girl returned with their ales. He smiled at her—nothing forward, just friendly—and she flushed, glancing away quickly. “What’s your name?”
She looked confused, then a woman behind the bar—her mother, judging by the resemblance—called out something sharp in Welsh. The girl bobbed a curtsy and fled.
“Protective,” Webb observed.
“Can’t blame them.” Oliver took a drink of the ale. It was rough, bitter, but cold and welcome after the day’s ride. “We’re English strangers in a village that’s probably learned to fear strangers or fear talking to them because of Penharrow.”
They ate in relative silence, but Oliver was listening. The conversations around them were in Welsh, he struggled to keep up but tone also carried meaning. He caught Penharrow’s name twice, both times spoken in voices that dropped to whispers. He heard laughter cut short, saw men glance at the door nervously as if expecting the Earl himself to materialize.
After the meal, Oliver approached the bar where the serving girl’s mother was wiping down the counter. She looked up, her expression guarded.
“We’re looking for a place to stay,” Oliver said slowly, enunciating clearly. “A room for a few nights while we survey the area.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Survey?” She spoke English.
“Land survey. We represent interests in England looking to invest in Welsh property.”
It was a thin story, but it was the one they’d agreed upon.Surveyors had reason to be anywhere, to ask questions about the land, to observe without being observed.
The woman studied him for a long moment, then jerked her head toward the stairs. “One shilling a night. Each. Includes breakfast.”
It was highway robbery, but Oliver paid without argument. Money bought privacy, and privacy bought time to gather information.
Their room was barely large enough for two narrow beds, but it had a window overlooking the village square and, more importantly, a view of the road leading north that, according to Webb’s information, led to Penharrow’s hunting lodge.
Oliver stood at that window as darkness fell, watching the village settle into night. Lamps were extinguished early here. No waste of expensive oil or candles. By nine o’clock, the only light came from the tavern below and the church across the square.
“Tomorrow,” Oliver said, still watching the darkened street, “we start asking about the lodge. See if anyone here works at the lodge. People talk to each other, especially in small villages. If we can find someone who works there, or knows someone who does?—”
“We might learn the layout,” Webb finished. “Guard rotations. Penharrow’s schedule.”
“Exactly. But I suspect it’s not going to be easy. The people are afraid of the Earl.”
The next morningbrought their first real intelligence, and it came from an unexpected source.
Oliver was in the stable, checking on their horses, when he heard an old woman speaking Welsh to the stable hand. He recognized one word—Megan.
He turned casually, as if he’d just finished with his horse, andsaw her in a worn cloak, her face deeply lined, her hands gnarled with age. She was gesturing toward the north road, speaking rapidly to the younger man who was shaking his head, looking uncomfortable.
Oliver approached slowly. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”
Both of them turned, startled. The stable hand’s face closed off immediately, but the old woman studied Oliver with shrewd eyes.
“Some,” she said finally, her accent thick. “You are the English surveyors, yes?”
Word traveled fast. “Yes, ma’am. Oliver Somerset, at your service.” He gave her a small bow, the kind of respectful gesture that transcended language and class.
She smiled slightly, appreciating the courtesy. “Mrs. Griffiths. I keep house at the Earl’s hunting lodge.” She said it without pride, just a statement of fact.
Oliver’s pulse quickened, but he kept his expression politely interested. “The Earl of Penharrow? We’ve heard his name. Quite a prominent landowner in these parts, I understand. Perhaps I should beg an introduction as he owns much of the land around here.”
“Prominent.” Mrs. Griffiths made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been something darker. “Yes. That is a word for it.”
She studied him carefully, and Oliver had the uncomfortable sense of being assessed, weighed, judged. This was no simple housekeeper. There was intelligence in those old eyes, and wariness, and something else. Desperation, perhaps?
“I was just telling young David here,” she continued, gesturing to the stable hand, “that I need to send a message to my sister in Welshpool. I must get back to my charge, Miss Megan. The Earl doesn’t like his staff to be away from the lodge for long.”
The implication hung in the air. She wanted something from him.
