Page 7 of Adeline

Thunder crashed outside, an outward display of his inner fury at the fate his people had nearly succumbed to all those years ago.

Jasper slid the papers back into his satchel and held tight to the hanging strap above his head to steady himself on the rutted road. The plans to fill in the deep crevices in the earth was likely to happen sooner rather than later, yet it had been hard to justify the expense when the road was only traveled by men going to and from the village to work at the plant. Many of the men walked or rode a horse, and carriages rarely traversed the area, mainly because Jasper was the only nobility for many miles and the townspeople did not travel in fancy carriages but flat-backed wagons when needed. The sturdy wagons used to deliver supplies to the plant and pick up products to be shipped from the port were well-built and accustomed to the harsh terrain.

Another bump sent his knee smashing into the seat across from him, the pain traveling up his thigh.

Bloody hell.

He should have had the roads repaired long ago.

The rain hammered against the top of his carriage as they traveled far too slowly for Jasper’s liking. He was tired, aching, and hungry, and hadn’t had a drink in what seemed like days. Hours crouched over a desk in a factory where one could barely hear themselves think could drain every ounce of vigor from a man.

Twelve hours away from his home at Faversham Abbey, and there were still hours of work left to do.

Jasper scrubbed at his dirt-streaked face, pulling his hands through his hair. His valet would likely be torn between running for the safety of London and chastising him for staining yet another white linen shirt; all the while holding a pair of shears close to Jasper’s unruly, shoulder-length hair. It had been tied back at the base of his neck with a length of baling twine that morning, but at some point, it had slipped away and was forgotten. Perhaps when he’d gone in search of his foreman to command all the villagers return home early due to the coming storm, or when he and his driver went into the gale to batten down the windows and doors to prevent flooding inside the plant.

He cared naught, either way.

No one but his servants would notice his less than proper attire or rakishly long, unbridled hair.

George, his driver, thumped on the side of the carriage. “Carriage ahead, m’lord. Shall we stop and see who it be?”

They slowed as they approached the conveyance, obviously stranded at the edge of the road. The approaching night and storm overhead made it impossible for Jasper to tell if the carriage was damaged or if they were only stopped by the increasing mud underfoot.

“We stop,” Jasper yelled as they pulled alongside it to see a man assisting a woman into the safety of the coach. “I do not recognize the conveyance or the driver.”

Strangers in this part of Kent? During a tempest? Traveling in such an outdated coach?

The person had either been taken by surprise by the turn in weather or was completely mad.

“You, there!” George pulled the horses to a stop and leapt down from his seat. “What business ye have here?”

Any further conversation was lost in the driving wind and unrelenting rain.

Finally, George knocked on the carriage door, and Jasper reached to open it.

“He says he be travel’n from Canterbury ta London and the storm done forced him offa the main road.” His driver glanced over his shoulder at the waiting carriage. “Somethin’ broke underneath, and the driver, a maid, and their mistress are stranded.”

It was not often that travelers stopped in Faversham on their way to London. The village, though it boasted good, capable people, lacked the draw of entertainment the beau monde was accustomed to. There was no playhouse, no fancy dining establishments, nor a tavern. Only honest, hardworking people trying to survive each day.

In Jasper’s mind, the area was better for it as there was no place for men to drink late into the night and lose their hard-earned coin at cards.

“I will have a look.” Jasper pulled the hood of his cloak up to cover his face and climbed from the coach when his driver stood back.

George’s lips pressed into a firm line, and his eyes widened. “Are you sure that be wise, m’lord?”

Jasper held back his growl at the man’s question, reminding himself that his servants only sought to look after his best interests. “It is nearing nightfall, and the storm is blocking all light. I will keep my hood raised. Do not fret.”

With a simple nod, George led Jasper to the damaged carriage. Beyond the wheels being submerged in several inches of muck, something hung loosely under the coach—likely the brake beam or push bar. There was nothing he or his servant could do to send the group on their way until the coach could at least be pulled back to the cover of the Faversham Abbey stables to be repaired.

“M’lord,” George called over the wind. “We need ta be on our way, or we be likely ta get stuck in the mud.”

“I agree.” Jasper glanced at the carriage window. Two women stared out at him, their noses pressed to the glass. “But we cannot leave them here. The night will grow cold, and the dawn may very well see temperatures close to frost, and that is if the storm passes.”

“What do ye think ta do?”

“Sir,” Jasper called to the other driver, pulling his hood up to better shield his face. “I’m the Earl of Ailesbury. It appears your carriage cannot be repaired here.”

“There be an inn nearby?”