Page 5 of Duke of Sapphire

“I will keep it in mind.”

Tristan paused on the threshold. “When you find Ian Drummond, do not try to explain the world to him all at once. It will only frighten him.”

“I do not frighten children.”

Tristan’s look said otherwise, but he left it at that. “Safe travels, Sappherton.”

“Thank you, Evermere,” Henry said, and meant it.

* * *

The carriage rolled out of the London drive at six precisely. Henry checked his watch, then leaned back against the squabs, letting his mind move ahead of the road. He thumbed through correspondence, jotting notes in the margins, refusing to let his thoughts wander to anything but the day’s itinerary.

Every stop, every hour, were mapped in advance. The driver had orders to alert him if there was any delay longer than five minutes.

The streets changed from city to fields, the fields to gray, empty miles. He preferred not to look out the window. There was nothing of value out there, nothing that could affect him, at least.

He drafted a letter to the Drummond stewards, sketched out a plan for consolidating the household, and began a list of possible tutors for Ian. None of them would last, he suspected, but the boy needed structure immediately.

At noon, the carriage stopped for horses. He stayed inside, nibbling at a cold chicken sandwich his cook had insistently packed, his eyes never leaving the page.

At three, another change occurred. This time the inn yard was noisy, full of travelers and the slap of harness leather. The driver brought a note: a local land agent was waiting with news. Henry steeled himself and went inside.

The land agent was a reed-thin man with an apologetic cough. “Nothing yet, Your Grace, but the search continues. There is rumor the Drummond carriage was spotted north of the river, but it may have been a false report.”

Henry nodded. “Report again if you learn more.”

The man bowed himself out. Henry returned to the carriage, more aware than ever of the time pressing on him.

He made Biggleswade by dusk, as planned. The Swan Inn stood at the town’s edge; its yard already lit with torches for the evening trade.

Henry stepped out into the cold, stamped the stiffness from his legs, and handed the driver a coin. “Up at first light. I want no delays.”

The driver nodded. “Very good, Your Grace.”

Inside, the inn was warm but crowded. He took a private room rather than eat among the locals, preferring the silence and the quick service. The food was tolerable, the ale, thin and sour. He barely tasted either.

After supper he spoke with the ostler, checked the horses himself, and paid in advance for the rooms occupied by himself, his valet, and his coachman. The staff were competent, if nosy. He ignored their questions, retiring early.

In his chamber, he locked the door, undressed, and sank into the hard bed. He listened to the distant noise of the taproom below, the stamping and snort of horses in the yard, and the rattle of the window in the wind.

He closed his eyes and, for one moment, allowed himself to remember Nathan’s laugh, and the way they used to walk the moors at dawn. The last letter Nathan Drummond had sent was full of jokes about the weather and not a single word about disaster.

Then Henry put the remembrances away, as he always did, and fell asleep.

He woke before the inn’s rooster, dressed, and shaved by candlelight. The world outside was flat with morning mist, the yard empty save for the sweep of a broom and a sleepy ostler unbarring the stables.

Henry went out to the carriage and checked the harness because he liked to maintain order in every aspect of his life, the undercarriage, and the wheels. The driver was inside, taking tea with the stable hands. The carriage was as he had left it—except for a slight list to one side, as if a load had shifted.

He frowned. He had not loaded anything himself last night; all trunks were stowed in the box and strapped by the porters. The only thing that might have moved was the sheaf of papers on the rear seat.

Or…there was a stowaway hunkering down inside the coach.

Impossible, he told himself but checked anyway.

He swung open the door and peered inside. In the half-light, there was a shape curled on the bench, slight and limp, hat pulled down over the face. A boy, from the look of it—too small to be more.

Henry’s first instinct was irritation. The second was calculation: a stowaway meant delay, disruption, and perhaps a scandal if the boy belonged to the one of the staff members at the inn.