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Chapter 17
Charles didn’t know what to make of this short, thin character except that he appeared better versed in London’s Rookery than he did Devon’s woodland trails—particularly those traveled by a band of horse-thieving gypsies. How Amelia expected such a mangy man to find anything here was baffling. Though he did hope he would be proved wrong. He was tired of riding his uncle’s spare horse. He wanted Maximus back.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Boyle,” Charles said. “We are in dreadful need of your help and expertise.”
Mr. Boyle spared him a nod before turning back to Amelia. “Ready to sit down and give me the details, ma’am?”
“Yes.” She indicated the corridor behind Mr. Boyle. “We can speak in my brother’s study just down here.”
Charles watched them walk away, unsure if he was invited or not. He wavered a moment in the entryway under the large chandelier before hesitantly following behind them. He had a horse at stake, too. Or, at least he hoped so. No one had caught sight of Maximus since the creature had reared and run away on Midsummer’s Eve, so Charles was nearly positive the horse-thieves had taken him, but he couldn’t be certain.
Amelia paused at the study door and gave him an encouraging smile, relieving his insecurities at once. He held the door and indicated for her to precede him, then followed her into the room. Amelia took the seat behind the desk and gestured for the men to be seated. Charles lowered himself into the ladder-back chair nearest the cold fireplace and waited for Amelia to begin.
Folding her hands together on the large desk in front of her, she wore a serious expression. “What do you need to know?”
“Everything,” Mr. Boyle said, pulling a small notepad from his pocket and a stubby pencil. “Don’t leave anything out, mind. Sometimes the smallest details make all the difference.”
Charles sat quietly and listened to Amelia relay the events of the night her horse was taken, how Charles had lost his horse due to his own stupidity—not her words, of course, merely how he recalled the event—and how a man had jumped from the woods to grab at Howard’s reins. It brought the memories to the forefront of his mind as vivid as though he was there, and his body warmed in response. No amount of drink would have made him forget the feel of Amelia in his arms, and that horseback ride was the most pleasant he’d ever had—the subsequent fall notwithstanding.
“And these gypsies—you saw their faces?” Mr. Boyle asked. “Can you give me any defining features? Things that would set them apart, so to speak?”
Amelia adjusted in her seat, but her gaze remained steadily on the man across from her. “No, I did not see anything to identify them. It was too dark, and it all happened so suddenly.”
Mr. Boyle stood, his lips forming a grim line. “I’ll return the moment I have anything to share.”
Charles stood, too. “The inn in town is run by a man called Jolly. If anyone knows anything, it’s him, but I couldn’t get him to talk.” He suddenly believed if anyone could, it would be this small, bald man.
Mr. Boyle nodded, understanding what Charles was attempting to convey. “Even better. Now I have a starting place.”
Amelia rounded the desk and led her guest toward the front door, Charles close behind them. “Can I prepare a room for you here, Mr. Boyle?”
From her white-knuckled fists clenched tightly before her, Charles could tell that it had cost her dearly to make the offer, though he didn’t know why. While Mr. Boyle was unkempt, the man certainly did not seem nefarious. Not that Amelia would employ a man she deemed irredeemably disreputable.
“No bother, ma’am. I’ll be putting up at that inn. Much easier for me, you know.” He tapped the side of his head. “Easier to keep my ear to the ground.”
“May I offer you something to eat before you go?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I need a purpose for being in the inn, see.”
Mr. Boyle slipped outside and strode toward his waiting horse with quick, sure steps. He was confident, most assuredly. Charles only hoped he was competent as well.
When the front door closed behind Mr. Boyle, Amelia turned toward the footman standing sentinel against the wall. “Do you know where I could find Tabby? I would like to know if Mrs. Halpert is awake.”
“She just went upstairs, ma’am.”
Amelia turned to Charles. “Shall we go up? I’m sure you’re eager to see Mrs. Halpert.”
“Yes, please. I am quite eager,” he said.
Amelia’s face went blank, her expression flat. She turned, beckoning him to follow her, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Why were women so difficult to discern? Why was there no book that could teach him how to understand what a woman meant by her expressions? Or, more specifically, what Amelia meant.
Her skirts brushed over the marble stairs ahead of him, swishing with each step, and he marveled at the fact that he had been granted the opportunity to spend so much time with her of late. It would seem, at least at this point, that Nick’s advice from all those weeks ago had worked in Charles’s benefit. He had done his best to give Amelia the distance she required, and it had improved his feelings. He hadn’t realized that the answer to his prayers would be so simple—that to find contentment in a life of unrequited love, he merely needed to let the woman go, to simply be her friend.
He’d tried to do just that last summer when Miss Pemberton had shown an interest in him, even going so far as to offer marriage to Miss Pemberton even when he knew his heart would never be engaged in the alliance. It had turned out to be a blessing, indeed, when Miss Pemberton had chosen Mr. Wright instead, though the reflection, however welcome, still stung.
But now Charles felt freer than he ever had before. Indeed, if faced with the choice, he would rather live the rest of his days in quiet contentment and fulfilling friendship with this woman than in a life void of her.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Charles placed a hand on her upper arm, and she immediately stilled before turning to face him in the corridor.
