Bradford’s incredulity grew as the hours passed. It was difficult to imagine the polite Miss Hughes traversing that entire distance on foot. Yet, by the constant, steady pace of the hounds that followed in a very nearly straight line, he knew she must have done. Several times, Mr. Belfour pointed out smudges or scrapes against mossy boulders or in the grass.
Though the man was an experienced tracker and he seemed perfectly convinced, to Bradford they appeared to be natural scuffs against the landscape, the kind that could have been left by any number of things.
It was on the path through a particularly muddy field that Mr. Belfour pointed and chortled, “Look there. She got her boot stuck for a moment.”
Bradford leaned over his horse to examine the mark, and there it was—plain enough even for him to see it—a small print of a lady’s boot, perfectly preserved in the muck. He shook his head and tried not to be impatient with the process. If only they’d had the hounds yesterday!
None of them could have guessed she’d make it this far. Even last night, when he’d rode out to Stannington, he’d called himself mad. It was far too great a distance, and yet his desperation and anger spurred him along.
And now they were almost to Stannington, albeit by a much more difficult path. It was only Bradford’s practiced goodbreeding that kept his expression free of shock. He gritted his teeth together in frustration instead.
They’d almost reached the road outside town when there was a great, alarming baying from up ahead.
Mr. Belfour’s face grew grim for the first time on the entire journey. Until that moment, Bradford wasn’t sure the man was capable of frowning, at least not when his dogs were trotting about.
“They’ve found something,” he said darkly. “Stay here, my lord. I will check.”
Bradford couldn’t stay back. He had to see, even if it was the worst. He swung down from his saddle, loosely tying his horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch, as Mr. Belfour had done. Bradford scrabbled up the steep hillside, wading through the underbrush toward the epicenter of all the ear-splitting baying.
But it was not a body, as they’d both feared.
In Bradford’s mind, what they found was slightly worse—a worn carpetbag, resting at the base of a tree. The very tree that he and George had stopped near the evening before. He recognized the large gnarled oak that marked the crossroads.
Mr. Belfour opened the bag, then examined the area. “She stopped here for some time, my lord. You see the depth of the prints, the way they’ve shuffled about? Methinks she was waiting to get the courage to head into town, or hiding from something.”
Hiding from me,Bradford thought, his head swimming.
He leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried not to be sick. Mr. Belfour didn’t seem to notice—he was methodically searching the carpetbag. He grunted and Bradford looked up in question.
“Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but I think she might have changed her gown.”
Bradford’s forehead creased. “What?”
“This gown is mucked to the knees. She must have been cold and wet, thought she’d do better with dry skirts.” There was a crinkle as Mr. Belfour held the gown up for Bradford’s inspection. He dug in the pocket. “There’s a note.”
Bradford swiped it from the man’s outstretched hand and unfolded the parchment. It was Miss Hughes’s handwriting—the very resignation she’d offered him only the day before.
Bradford read through the concise letter once more, then tucked it into his jacket pocket—it contained no more information than it had yesterday.
Mr. Belfour’s sharp eyes took in the pallor of Bradford’s face, then slid back to the carpetbag. “The young miss must have been motivated if she made it this far on foot.”
It was an innocent statement, delivered lightly, but Bradford felt the curiosity behind the statement. He knew what people might think of the situation—a single lord desperately chasing his beautiful young governess across the countryside. Bradford didn’t want to discuss it with him, but he wouldn’t risk theotherkind of gossip that withholding the truth would produce.
“It’s my fault,” he admitted. “I told her I’d have her arrested.”
Mr. Belfour chortled. “Did she make off with the silver plate, then, my lord? No reason to be embarrassed—thieves are common these days.”
Bradford grunted. He couldn’t admit—even to himself—that the longer they chased Miss Hughes, the more Bradford suspected that she’d stolen something, after all.
CHAPTER 6-LILY
Lily slept in the following morning and ate a hearty breakfast brought up by the inn’s cook, who was far more solicitous than her mistress. Someone—Claire, most likely—had sent a trunk of items along with Abeer and the maid. It was a good thing, too. Other than a wet gown and a pair of even wetter boots, Lily had arrived at the Cask and Crowne with nothing.
Her maid carefully dressed her in a lovely emerald-green travelling ensemble with buttery-soft heeled boots that were only slightly too big, but easily remedied by adding a pair of warm socks. Lily teared up when she saw herself in the mirror. It shocked her the difference that a bath, a capable maid wielding curling tongs, and a fine dress could make.
In the next instant, she named herself vain and silly—surely she didn’t lookthatdifferent. Though perhaps she did, for the innkeeper’s wife goggled at her when she came down the stairs.
Abeer waited for her at the front door, a large wicker hamper clasped in his hand. He wore all the elements of a traditional English gentleman’s suit—jacket, trousers, vest, and shirt—butthere was something loose and flowing about the outfit that made Lily think he missed his native country.
