Lord Hayes was framed by the waning light. Shafts of slanted sunshine broke through the trees on the opposite side of the road, casting his strong profile in a backlit glow. Lily thought he looked like some sort of harbinger of doom, seated as he was upon his large black horse, his black cloak thrown back from his wind-tousled dark hair. Steam still rose from the road as well as his horse.
Thankfully, Lord Hayes faced the town, one gloved hand holding the reins, the other fisted atop his thigh. As Lily watched, he tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed again, soaking in the sunlight just as she had minutes ago.
“Sarah, where are you?” he murmured, desperation tinging his voice. “Where did you go?”
Lily was exceedingly grateful he didn’t know her true name. As it was, the sound of her fake first name in his deep timbre was nearly enough to make her fall from behind the tree. She considered the shock a warning of her own exhaustion and eased her way back around the trunk until she was fully concealed, safe once again—at least for the moment.
It was nearly half an hour later, the sunlight mostly gone, by the time George returned from Stannington.
“No one’s seen her, my lord. It seems she didn’t pass this way.”
“Did you tell them to send word if she arrives?”
“Yes, sir. Just like Belsay. Just like Ogle. I still don’t think it’s possible she made it this far on foot. We would have seen her on the road if she’d come this direction.”
“Phillip said he saw her leaving by the back field.”
“But surely she would have used the road eventually. And if she didn’t, there’s no way she made it this far.”
“Which direction do you think she went, if not east?” Lord Hayes asked.
“I think she must have turned north or south. I think we’ll return home and find that Phillip or Matthews has news of her. Perhaps she’s safe at home already.”
Lord Hayes gave a deep, noncommittal grunt.
“If not, you can have Mr. Belfour’s hounds in the morning, my lord. Those beasts have tracked a fox halfway across the county, four days after it was last spotted.”
Lily nearly gasped; her heart pounded. They were going to set the dogs after her?
George continued, “If anything, there’s very little we can do with night coming on. Surely she’s made it to wherever she was going, or she’s met up with someone.”
“None of the servants ever saw her with a man,” Lord Hayes snapped. “She’s never mentioned one to anyone. Save for the one she received this morning, she’s had no letters. And she said that one was from her brother.”
Lily pressed the back of her gloved hand to her mouth. He’d questioned the servants? Asked them whether she kept company with aman? The knowledge reinforced her decision to run without explaining herself truthfully.
For Lord Hayes certainly didn’t understand—or care, more likely—what such questions could do to a young lady’s reputation. Miss Sarah Hughes would never be able to show her face in this part of the country again. If Lily had entrusted Lord Hayes with her true identity, the man would only have besmirched herrealreputation.
“Then perhaps her brother met her on the road, my lord,” George said gently.
“We’ve seen no carriages, no carts.”
“Which serves to prove that she never travelled this way. I’d wager she headed toward Harnham, my lord.”
There were long moments of silence in which Lily prayed Lord Hayes would listen to his groomsman.
“Very well,” he finally said. “We’ll take this road a bit further, then turn back at Clifton. Perhaps she went northeast instead.”
George sighed but didn’t argue. Soon, two pairs of hoofbeats headed north along the main road.
Lily sunk to her backside and resisted the urge to weep.
All her hopes of soon washing her hands, of resting before a fire, or even more impractically, ordering a warm bath, disappeared. Lily would have to skirt the village of Stannington entirely, keeping her distance from the houses on the outskirts, lest a dog’s alarmed bark give her away.
Lily bit back a groan. While George had been in the village, the sun had nearly set. The grey gloom of sunset had given wayto full dark. The moon cast only a dim light—barely enough to see the ground in front of her. Perhaps Lily should have been thankful—brighter moonlight would have made it easier for them to see her at a distance, to catch her.
She had made it seven miles. That was only about halfway to Blyth, and now it was night. Lily shook her head. Her gown was soaked through to the knees. She took a deep breath and tried to channel her sister Claire’s practicality, her sister Beatrice’s stubbornness.
Though it was shocking, Claire would probably point out that Lily had dry gowns with her. Granted she wasn’t in the safety of her bedroom, but it was dark, and she was well hidden behind an oak tree. What was more important—the infinitesimal chance that someone might see her change, or the importance of reaching Blyth?
