Another laggard mooched out with a box. At least that felt worthwhile and they all tightly shuffled forward, ignoring an interloper who’d wandered in and now lurked suspiciously to one side.
Jack readied his cane. He’d fight to the last for his place in this queue.
A red-haired fellow skedaddled empty-handed. Bloody time waster.
Finally, one ne’er-do-well remained, and Jack earwigged. Package for Brighton twaddle. Fragile prattle. Must be careful babble.
Jack harrumphed, and the chap twisted to glare.
Well, honestly, what did the nodcock expect? Mail coachmen flung your parcels around like a freshly landed sailor did with a doxy’s skirt – it’d be broken before it reached Falmouth so there was no point procrastinating.
At last…
“Lord Winterbourne?” The postmaster frowned. “Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t notice you in the queue.”
A likely story.
“No matter,” he lied, “I have this for London.” Jack produced his packet of words. “And is there a letter for myself?”
“Well, yes. In fact, there was an urgent dispatch from London, but Professor Pilkinghorne took receipt of it for you. First thing this morning.”
Cold dread hurtled through Jack’s veins. “And you let him? You let someone else collect my post?”
“Well, I-I…” The postmaster stiffened in his chair, eyes widening. “It had been paid in advance a-and he is staying with you at Penrose Manor and he asked if there was anything else he could take back. I th-thought it would help.” It ended on a squeak.
Unclenching his fists, Jack lowered both to the desk. “Never,evergive my mail to anyone other than myself or Mr Miggens.”
The man blanched further. “N-no, my lord. Terribly sorry.”
Jack pivoted, coat-tails whipping.
Grabbing his brother from the next-door taproom, there was no need to say aught.
“Jack?”
“Penrose Manor. We need to find the professor.”
Had the collection of his letter been innocent?
Foreboding tore at his nerves as his gelding pounded the dry dust back to the manor.
He hoped to hell it had been because if that urgent dispatch was from Whitehall and it had fallen into the wrong hands…
Jacket-less, he urged Jowlik faster, could hear Oliver close behind.
Air slammed his face yet gave no respite, remaining warm and muggy. Clouds had begun gathering to the south-west, slate grey and ominous, a low rumble echoing in the far distance.
He’d no need of Mrs Mildern to foretell it boded ill.
At last, the old manor house came into view, its battlement-like parapets readying for the coming clash, having seen the worst the coastal weather had to offer for nigh four centuries.
Flinging himself from Jowlik, he raced to the door; it opened immediately.
“Where’s Miss Penrose?” he shouted at the butler.
“Upstairs, I believe, my lo–”
Tearing up the old staircase two steps at a time, he dashed along the warren of corridors and flung open her door to find…
