Page 12 of Duke of Sapphire

Twenty minutes.

Charlotte had lasted twenty minutes, which was, she decided, considerably more than she would’ve imagined possible.

The carriage had grown warm in a stuffy way, and the yard outside was alive with noise. Horses stamped. Ostlers called across to each other. A cart owner unloaded barrels with a great deal of enthusiasm and little consideration for the peace of anyone nearby.

She had tried the book. The book was not helping. The same four-line stanza had drifted in and out of her head four times without leaving any impression.

I only wish to stretch my legs, she told herself. I’m wearing plain clothes. This is a busy yard. No one will give a second glance at a valet’s boy.

She slipped out of the carriage and crossed toward the far end of the yard, keeping her cap low and her pace unhurried. It was a good yard, well-trafficked. Exactly the sort of place where an additional person was invisible.

She was wrong about that.

The man near the stable block did not look at her the way other people looked at strangers. He looked at her the way someone looks at a thing they have been asked to find.

Charlotte kept walking. She did not look directly at him again, but she had already seen what she needed to: well-dressed, not a drover, not a merchant. The kind of clothes that said London and said it quietly. He shifted his coat as he moved, and for one second, she caught the edge of a folded paper tucked against his side.

Her pulse thudded.

She turned away from the stable block and walked toward the outbuildings on the far side of the yard.

He followed.

She kept her head down and her shoulders back, the way Edith had taught her and told herself that she was imagining it. She was not imagining it.

“A moment, if you please.” His voice was pleasant. His eyes, when she turned, were not. “I am looking for a young lady. Perhaps you have seen her. Brown hair, about your height⁠—"

“I am a valet,” Charlotte said. She pushed the words out low and flat. “Traveling with my master.”

“Your master.” He smiled. “And who might that be?”

“He is engaged inside.” She took a step back. “I beg your pardon; I have an errand.”

She turned and walked faster, angling through the gap between two outbuildings. The passage was narrow, the cobblestones uneven, and she was moving quickly enough that when her foot caught the edge of a raised stone, she had no time to catch herself.

She went down hard. Both hands and one knee hit the stones, and the ankle folded sideways in a way that sent a bright stab of pain straight up her leg.

Charlotte sat up. She pressed her lips together, breathed through her nose, and got to her feet.

She could not move at anything approaching normal speed.

Oh, that is inconvenient.

The man had stopped at the entrance to the passage. He was watching her, and the pleasant expression had gone entirely.

And then Sappherton was there.

She did not see him come. He was simply not present, and then he was there, stepping into the passage to put himself between Charlotte and the man without any apparent effort at all.

“Is there a problem here?” he said to the man in the voice Charlotte had heard him use with the driver. Perfectly civil.

The man looked at him. Then at the crest on the carriage at the far end of the yard. His expression shifted.

“I was merely⁠—”

“My valet’s boy,” Sappherton said, “has been running a series of errands on my behalf this last quarter-hour. I trust he has caused no commotion.” He let the pause land. “I am Sappherton. If you have any further questions about my household’s arrangements, I would be glad to hear them. Though I confess I cannot imagine what they might be.”

The man stepped back. “No, Your Grace. My apologies.”