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Ambrose laughed, grimacing. “This storm is extreme. I am starting to feel that I will never make it to Bradford. I am almost starting to feel like Bradford is just a dream.”
The barman laughed with him. “It will end soon enough,” he said, putting another log on the fire. “It’s starting to clear on the road heading south. We had another carriage pull in late last night that just made it through, but the passenger was forced to take a room here.”
Before he could make any more enquiries about the carriage, he heard footsteps approaching them. To his shock, it was Jack Baldwin, his business acquaintance from Bradford. The last time he had seen the man was at the hotel in London when his carriage had been stolen.
“Hartfield?” Baldwin did a double take. “What the deuce areyoudoing here, sitting by the fire?”
Ambrose laughed. “Exactly the same as you, Baldwin. Cooling my heels in this inn while waiting for the storm to pass.” He paused. “Sit down.”
He watched as the man sat across from him. He didn’t much like Baldwin, but the man was a welcome distraction, nonetheless. He might have news of the outside world. And the less he thought about the problem of Delia, the better.
“How long have you been stuck here?” asked the man, gazing at him intently.
“A few days,” said Ambrose, shrugging his shoulders. “I was just saying to the barman that it feels like I have been here forever.” He rolled his eyes. “It has been a hell of a trip. I was forced to take a public stagecoach in the end. My carriagewasstolen from that hotel in London.”
Baldwin whistled. “What a pain,” he said, shaking his head. “Public stagecoaches are dreadful. If I had known, I would have made an offer for you to accompany me in my carriage.”
Ambrose shrugged again. “Thank you. But we are stuck in the same place now, anyway.”
“Still,” said Baldwin, crossing his legs and gazing around the room. “It would be a lot more comfortable a trip.”
Ambrose nodded, but privately he was glad that Baldwin hadn’t known of his predicament and made the offer. As much as he despised public stagecoaches himself, he still thought it a better option than sitting for hours with Jack Baldwin as the only company.
“My coachman is confident the storm will abate in the next day or so,” continued Baldwin, smiling. “He is very familiar with snowstorms in this area. He said they usually blow themselves out in a few days.”
“Let’s hope he is right,” said Ambrose, frowning slightly. “In the meantime, here we are.” He waved a hand, indicating the room. “The only amusements are cards and chess. And drinking, I suppose.”
“Speaking of which, I might have a whiskey now,” said Baldwin, clicking his fingers to attract the barman’s attention. “Just a nip to get the blood racing.”
Ambrose watched in distaste as Baldwin sipped the whiskey. It was barely light outside. If the man kept drinking at this rate, he would be in his cups by noon.
“Any news from London?” asked Ambrose.
Baldwin belched slightly. “Not really,” he said, scratching his head. “Parliament is sitting. There was a horse accident in Hyde Park which was quite frightful, but I do not have great detail.” He took another sip of his whiskey, contemplating the fire. “Oh, there is an odd tale about a missing lady. The daughter of a marquess. Apparently, this marquess is offering averysubstantial reward for her safe return to him. Or rather, her abandoned betrothed has put up the money on his behalf, for the marquess is in a spot of bother financially.”
Ambrose froze. Then he shook himself, leaning forward, gazing at Baldwin intently. “A missing lady? Thatisodd. Do you have any other details?”
“I do,” said Baldwin, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Thetonare buzzing like a hive of bees about it, and word filters down. I like to keep up with such things.” He laughed. “Her name is Lady Cordelia Pelham. And she was quite audacious. Apparently, she swapped places with her maid, sending the poor girl to her betrothed’s house in her place.” He laughed again.
Ambrose’s heart was thumping painfully. His mind was furiously spinning. It was possible. In fact, it might be likely.
Cordelia, he thought, his breath catching in his throat. Delia is a diminutive of it. Although it is a name in its own right, as well.
But the coincidence in the names was too striking to dismiss. He felt his blood run cold again.
“Do you know why she ran away?” asked Ambrose, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Baldwin sighed. “Apparently, she didn’t much like the gentleman her father betrothed her to,” he said. “Even though the man is a lord. A flighty female, like a lot of them, fine ladies or not. They all need a firm hand if they are princesses or maids.”
Ambrose felt a stab of anger, which he tried to hide. “Perhaps there is a good reason she is running away from marrying the gentleman, lord or not.” He gritted his teeth. “Just because he is a fine gentleman doesn’t mean he is a nice fellow, as they say.”
Baldwin shrugged. “A disobedient woman is a curse upon this world,” he said. “If she were my daughter or wife-to-be, I would drag her home by the hair.”
Ambrose stared at him in distaste. “Lucky for the world that you do not have a daughter or a wife then, Baldwin.” He hesitated, wondering how much information he could press the man for without raising his suspicion. “Do they know where the missing lady was heading when she ran away?”
Baldwin leaned forward. “They have no idea,” he said. “The maid that took her place refused to say a word, only that she was aiding her mistress. As soon as they finished interrogating her, she took off, and no one has heard from her since.” He smiled grimly. “Needless to say, that maid will not be getting a good reference.”
“Did they give a description of the lady?” asked Ambrose, holding his breath.
