“We have to be careful, Billy.”
Indeed, Lucas had read the notes from the magistrate as they had travelled and it wasn’t pleasant reading. A woman named Bridget Loxley had been murdered over a month previous. An upstairs maid to a family called Lambert. She’d never spoken of any relations and had originally come from Manchester. No husband or beau was known of, although from the description, the girl had been comely.
Her clothed body had been found by a groom in Stonebridge woods on the earl’s estate, which for Lucas probably ruled the earl out as a suspect – you didn’t dump a body on your own land unless you were very clever or very stupid.
Of course, Stonebridge could be either.
“I’ll be yer secret spy. Get all the word from downstairs. Eh, guv?”
Lucas groaned. “Yes, indeed, it would be useful to know the servants’ gossip. But the most important thing is to keep safe, Billy. Listen to everything but don’t ask questions. Anything, and I mean anything at all, and you tell me instantly.”
He fixed Billy with a glare, although in this light, it was fairly pointless.
“S’pose,” was the reluctant reply, and they both huddled down into their damp blankets, Lucas cursing his empty hip flask.
There was nothing better, Rosalind thought, than being cosied up next to a roaring fire when the rain was lashing down outside. It gave a feeling of well-being and snugness.
Sherry, however, really wasn’t to her taste. Vinegar. That’s what it tasted of – sharp and mouth-puckering. Rosalind threw off the wool blanket, eased herself from the comfy chair and padded across to the decanters.
Mrs Mereworth had encouraged her to try the sherry again, but it still made her wince, so she poured a small brandy. Now that really did warm the cockles.
Settling down again, she returned to her book. It was a ridiculous tale of a Scotsman haunting a castle; she was enjoying it hugely. Dinner was another half hour, but wafts of venison already permeated the house, making her stomach grouse its impatience.
The brandy imparted a welcome heat as it slid down. Her liking for the liquor was Benedict’s fault. When she’d first left the asylum, he’d given her a small glass before every dinner, supposedly to promote her strength, a dubious claim, and those were the days before the arrival of Mrs Mereworth.
How had the journey gone for Lucas Mainwaring, she wondered? It was a long and gruelling one at this time of year, although the coaching inns were plentiful. He was probably holed up in a welcoming, warm hostelry, sipping ale with a buxom barmaid hanging on his every word…and anything else she could get her hands on.
The wind blasted the rain hard against the windows, and she shivered, snuggled down into her warm blanket and picked up her book, glad she wasn’t outside this foul evening.
Jerking violently, the carriage unseated the two of them again as it hit a stretch of cobbles at speed. Pain radiated from the old wound as Lucas’s leg smacked against the door.
God, that rain would be coming through the roof soon; it had already breached the covering, drips lining up above them as if on parade. If not for this damned weather, he’d be cantering through the woods with the fresh air and chill winter wind on his face. As it was, he was desperately hoping that they’d reach the inn before it got much darker.
He bent to rub at the twinge in his leg. His superior, Asher Rainham, had been the one to dig the bullet out, and he swore the man had left half there, it bloody ached so. Either that or it was because he’d done it with a blunt and dirty knife.
To take his mind from the journey and his leg, he contemplated the second murder.
A young girl of respectable parents had been found some three weeks before with her throat cut – in exactly the same way as Bridget.
According to the rather lacklustre report, she had been blissfully betrothed to the curate and had enjoyed a sheltered existence, her whole innocent and happy life ahead of her. No signs of a struggle or indeed of defence. She had also been found in the earl’s woods, and by the man himself no less.
The local magistrate, a Sir Hector Webster, was being hounded for his incompetence, but Lucas felt wary of assigning blame. All too well he knew the difficulty of gathering information, and a grieving family would quickly blame the magistrate if results were not forthcoming.
“Have those notes told yer who the suspects are?” Billy questioned.
“Everybody.”
“Oh,” he replied flatly. “Could take a while then.”
Indeed, Lucas thought, it could be anyone in the village – labourer to doctor, farmer to earl.
He heard Billy sigh dramatically; the boy had viewed the whole thing as an adventure at first, but five days stuck in a carriage with a crusty old soldier had dampened his spirits somewhat.
“I do know that Stonebridge has the best horses in the land. I’m sure you’ll be allowed to ride them.” Which ought to keep you out of trouble, he added silently.
“Lawks, guv, d’yer think? I heard the swell’s prads are bang-up prime.”
“Erm. Quite.” He really must keep the boy from talking with the coachmen. “I also hope you’ll be able to act as my valet. Nothing too tricky – coats and so forth.”
