Page 11 of Duke of Sapphire

Lady Charlotte’s book did not move from her hands at any of them.

He was impressed.

* * *

Kirkfield was the largest market town they had passed through since leaving Bedfordshire. It sat at a crossroads, busy with midweek trade, its coaching inn considerably more active than those in the villages before it. The yard was thick with noise and horses, and a chalkboard near the taproom door listed four departures before nightfall.

Henry had the carriage pull to the far side of the yard, away from the main bustle. He climbed out, then turned back to the window.

“A magistrate by the name of Alderton has been coordinating the search for the Drummonds across this part of the country. He sent word last week that he had information. I am going inside to speak with him.” He kept his voice low. “That is the reason for the stop.”

“I understand,” she said.

“You will remain here.”

“Yes.”

“You will not open the door.”

“I said yes.”

“I mean it.”

She looked up from her book. “And I answered you. Twice. Go and speak to your magistrate.”

Henry held her gaze for a moment longer than was necessary, turned, and crossed the yard.

Alderton was a broad-shouldered man with a methodical manner and the particular look of a local official who had been busy producing extraordinarily little results. He met Henry in a private sitting room off the main hallway, a map spread across the table between them.

“I am glad you’ve come in person, Your Grace.” He pressed a finger to the map. “We’ve had reports. A carriage matching the Drummond description was seen on the road north of Keswick, perhaps three weeks ago. The driver was asking directions to a drovers’ track that cuts east before the border.”

“Three weeks,” Henry said. “That puts them well ahead of any search party.”

“It does. But it also means they were moving under their own power, which is a better sign than the alternative.”

“Was there a woman in the carriage?”

“One report says yes. Another says the carriage was empty of passengers when the driver stopped to water the horses. Hard to know which to credit.” Alderton straightened. “I am sorry. I wish I had more.”

“You have enough to indicate a direction.” Henry moved the folder of papers aside and studied the map. “They were heading east before the border. Not directly to the estate.”

“Which may mean they were avoiding the main roads. Deliberately.”

Henry traced the line with one finger. “Or they were being followed and they knew it.”

Alderton said nothing, which was an answer of its own.

“What names can you give me?” Henry asked. “People who may know more as I go further north.”

Alderton reached into his coat and produced a folded paper. “Three men. A drover who works that eastern track regularly. A landowner in Cumberland who keeps in close correspondence with the Scottish border posts. And a woman in Carlisle who runs the largest coaching inn on the northern route. She knows everyone who passes through.” He tapped the paper. “She is the most useful of the three. Nothing moves on that road that she does not know about.”

Henry pocketed the paper. “I am obliged to you.”

“I hope you find them well.” Alderton rolled the map with careful hands. “It is not a forgiving stretch of country, that route. Not in this stormy weather.”

“No,” Henry said. “It is not.”

He shook the man’s hand, made his farewells, and walked back to the waiting carriage.