Page 18 of The Scarred Lyon

“Where is Briggs?” Duncan asked Patrick.

“He’ll be in soon. He’s just feeding Dawn and Midnight. He said it’s a good thing we brought the smaller coach, given the possibility of rain. It’s easier to steer through the mud.”

Duncan looked at the maid. “Please bring sausage, a rasher of bacon, poached eggs, and porridge, if you please, for my two companions and me.”

The maid curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.” She departed.

“I asked whether we could stay another night, but Jemison is fully booked.”

McGloin poured their tea. “Here’s Briggs. He will know of coaching inns along our route.”

Briggs sat down across from Duncan. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning. Is it raining yet?”

Briggs sipped his tea. “A few drops. By the look of the sky, it will turn to showers and possibly a heavier downpour as the day wears on. It’s impossible to tell, though. The weather can be unpredictable.”

“Where is the next coaching inn?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much between here and Stoneheath. However, there are three medium-sized inns there, so we should be able to find rooms. I would not recommend traveling all the way to Bamford Park today, Your Grace.”

“My feeling exactly. How far away is Stoneheath?”

“About twenty miles or so. If we leave at noon, we should arrive before sunset, Your Grace,” Briggs replied. “I’m allowing extra time for the weather. Muddy, rutted roads can be dangerous, so we will have to go at a slower pace.”

With an early departure, they had planned to stop halfway for luncheon and rest the horses before continuing to Bamford Park, but now? They should have stayed in London. But how was anyone to know the weather would change? Thankfully, Briggs was a skilled coachman, and Duncan trusted his instincts. He could have thrown his ducal title around and insisted on staying another night, even though the inn had no rooms available, but that was not his way. Aristocrats often bumped weary travelers, forcing them to share rooms with multiple strangers. It was arrogant, too snobbish by far, and Duncan wanted no part of it.

All he wanted was for everyone to arrive home safely. As the food was brought to the table, a sense of unease settled deep within him, and he grew worried.

Chapter Eight

Augusta awoke to a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” she said.

The maid, Hannah, entered carrying a tray. “Tea and toast, as ordered, Your Grace.”

Augusta yawned and sat upright, and the maid set the tray on Augusta’s lap.

“Mrs. Jemison asked if you need me for anything else, Your Grace?”

“Yes. If you could, please return in about twenty minutes to help me dress. I also have that to be taken away.” She pointed to the covered chamber pot. “You and Mrs. Jemison have been a great help. I will see to it that the duke rewards you for your trouble.”

The maid curtsied, grasped the pot’s handle, and departed.

Augusta sighed as she poured her tea. Oh, the indignities of being on her courses while traveling. After breakfast, Mrs. Jemison came up to her room and she and Hannah did everything in their power to make her comfortable, including offering her a glass flask of hot water wrapped in a blanket to place against her cramping body. Mrs. Jemison also supplied her with a fresh supply of cloth pads while removing the soiled ones. If Augusta had her way, she would spend the day in bed.

But that was impossible. By the time Duncan came to the room shortly after twelve, she was dressed and packed, and was sitting in the chair by the fire. A young man followed Duncan into the room.

Duncan pointed to the medium-sized trunks. “They are to go on the back of the coach.” He picked up Augusta’s traveling case. “And this is to go inside the carriage.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Duncan came toward her, and before she could speak, he swept her up into his arms. “Duncan!”

“You are unwell. Allow me to carry you to the carriage.”

They were out the door and halfway down the stairs before she could reply. Duncan carried her as if she weighed nothing at all. Everyone stared at the sight, but Augusta didn’t mind. She looped her arms around his neck and rested her head against his shoulder. How thoughtful. And how strong he was.

The carriage was out front, and raindrops splashed against her face.