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The rolling hills, dotted with trees and smoothed over with dry grass, spread out in every direction. If they were any farther north, they would have the blessed relief of the salty sea breeze, but now the sun baked down on them as they trotted along the rutted dirt road.
“Have you known Mrs. Fawn long?” he asked.
Boyle screwed up his eyes. “Don’t know. Four years? Five? I knew her husband first.”
“Which one?”
Boyle looked startled at that, but then an amused smile—the first Charles had seen—spread his lips wide, and he pointed his finger at Charles. “That’s asking the right questions. It was Arthur Williams. Served together in Spain. Good man, he was.”
Ah, things were beginning to come together. “So you knew this horse then, too.”
“Everyone did. Arthur was besotted with the thing.” He snorted. “I would be too, I guess, if my horse had saved my life.”
This was the first Charles had heard of the story. “How so?”
“Williams was out patrolling one night and was shot right in the leg. Right there”—he clutched his thigh and shook it for emphasis—“the bullet got him. He was nearly knocked out from the pain, but Howard got him out of there and brought him back to camp. Saved his life.”
Well, it was no wonder Amelia felt such a debt of gratitude to this horse. Charles felt all the more foolish for playing a game and pretending he had been qualified to retrieve the animal. He’d gotten nowhere—hadn’t even looked in the right place if Boyle was correct about the gypsies’ innocence. Which, he likely was. It couldn’t be a coincidence that more horses had been taken last night.
They rode into town and stopped at the inn, the same one Charles and Nick had visited weeks ago. “Maybe I ought to stay with the horses,” Charles said. They could ill afford to lose them now. How would they get home?
Boyle tossed his reins to Charles and pushed the door open without saying a word. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. But evidently, that was too much to ask.
A wooden sign hung above the door with a white hare on it, swinging from the force of the door closing. Puffing out his cheeks, Charles took the reins of both horses in his hand and pulled them around the corner of the building so they might have some shade. It was blisteringly hot, and the street was empty.
He could use another swim right now to cool off. Perhaps when he returned to Graton he could stop by the pond in Donning Grove. If he was really lucky, he would be able to go for a swim without the woman he loved finding him splashing around in the water like a child. It certainly beat trying to swim in his own pond in full view of Sheffield House and all his servants.
“But I don’t have it,” a voice said from around the corner, near the entrance to the inn. Charles froze. “You’ll have to wait.”
A second man replied, his voice unbending. “I don’t plan to wait much longer. You have two days.”
“Two days?” the first man expostulated. He sounded familiar, but Charles couldn’t quite place where he knew the voice from. “It takes longer than that to sell—”
“Two days,” the second one repeated. “I told you, I don’t have time to wait.”
The first man was getting frustrated, his tone dropping. “I have a buyer, but the meeting place has to be arranged. We have to treat this carefully. It will only call attention to us if we’re seen traveling down High Street with six blasted hors—”
“Shhh! You want to give us away?” He sighed. “Fine. One week. But not a day more. It’s already been long enough.”
The door banged open, and one of the men grunted before the door to the White Hare slammed closed again, faintly shaking the wall Charles leaned against.
Charles looked around the corner but pulled back quickly when his eyes fell on a man walking away, down the street. He was tall and wore a plain brown coat—nothing discernable about him whatsoever. He could be nearly anyone.
Given his posture, however—shoulders slumped, head down—Charles would bet money that this man was the one he’d heard first, the one who clearly had the missing horses in his possession.
All Charles needed now was a glimpse of the man’s face. If he recognized him, then they would know where their horses were being kept. Unless they weren’t at this man’s house. And if Charles accidentally gave himself away trying to figure it out, that could put everything in danger. No, it was best to accidentally pass the man, catch a glimpse, then report back to Boyle.
Charles would not mess this up again.
Leading the horses further into the inn’s yard, he handed Boyle’s horse off to the ostler and mounted his own, trotting out onto the road and hoping to affect a careless attitude. He swept his gaze up and down the mostly empty street but saw nothing. No brown coats, no men. Clenching his jaw, he made it to the end of the road and turned up the next one, keeping his eye out for anything or anyone out of the ordinary.
The man could not have simply disappeared. Turning back toward the White Hare, Charles urged his horse into a canter and returned to the inn yard, sliding from his horse and handing it off to the same ostler who had taken Boyle’s horse. He reasoned that if the horse thieves were inside, he was safe to leave them. And he already knew one of them was in there.
Letting himself into the inn, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. He located Boyle at a table on the far side of the room but something about the short man’s hunched shoulders and seeming indifference told Charles that it would be best if he did not approach him now. Taking a seat at an empty table near the window, he tried to look discreetly about the occupants, but there weren’t many people about at this time of day. Disappointment snaked through him. Of the four other men sitting around, it was unclear who the man in question could be.
“What’ll it be?” the serving girl asked, resting her hip against the table and blocking his view.
“Just an ale.”
She left him, and he tried to surreptitiously obtain Boyle’s attention. If they met outside for a moment, he could explain what he’d heard, and maybe Boyle would know who had entered the building a quarter-hour before.
But Boyle wouldn’t bite. He caught his eye for a second, but the man looked away so smoothly one would think they truly weren’t acquainted.
The serving girl returned, slamming a tankard of ale before him moments before the door opened. Charles turned to see who it was.
The man in the doorway caught his gaze and stuttered to a stop, his eyes widening. Looking very put out, he exclaimed, “Mr. Fremont! What are you doing here?”
Charles managed a long gulp of ale before turning a plain smile on the man in the brown coat. Tim Tucker didn’t realize this, most likely, but his expression reeked of guilt. He had just given himself away.
