Page 59 of A Hint of Scandal

“Well, it is on the Great West Road,” Max said, by way of explanation. “Every coach heading west, or nearly every one, stops here to change horses and to pick up or drop off passengers. And the inns need to cater for a wide range of different types of customers. As well as those that have nothing to do with the stagecoaches but perhaps come in just for the market.”

Serafina nodded as though this meant something to her, although, in truth, it didn’t. Having led such a sheltered life, the idea of people traveling in such numbers up and down the breadth of England was alien to her. Information to be explored at a later date. There were some places in England she’d read about in her father’s old library that she’d love to visit. Why not? If she could persuade Max then she would do it. And travel the length and breadth of England in some of these coaches. Another little shiver of pleasure ran through her. Yes, she and her husband would travel. They would explore the mysterious reaches of her native land. Her husband. That this now meant a lot more than it had a few short hours ago had her succumbing to yet another metaphorical hug of her torso. She really must concentrate on the matter in hand. She and Max had the rest of their lives to be together.

As if her thoughts had caused it to appear, a stagecoach came rumbling up the street from the east at that very moment. Recognizable by its red livery and the six matching gray horses drawing it, the equipage came to rest right outside the very establishment where they’d taken their meal. The Angel.

As they were right now opposite The Angel and about to enter the next inn on their list, Max’s attention was fixed on their next destination. Serafina paused for a moment to watch it as the guard jumped down from his seat at the rear.

The rooftop passengers, who numbered five and were all men, well-wrapped up against the cold, scrambled down in a hurry, and the driver, having to duck to do so, guided his horses with consummate skill through the low archway towards the stables at the back of The Angel.

Four of the rooftop passengers hastened into the tap room but the fifth, a short, sturdy young man with a mop of unruly sandy hair, lingered on the pavement as though waiting for someone. After a couple of minutes, a woman emerged from the archway. She must have been traveling inside the coach while her partner had been forced to take a seat on the roof in the cold.

Serafina stared at her. She wore a plain brown pelisse over what looked to be a matching dull brown gown, and a straw bonnet covered her gray hair. She was clearly some years older than the man awaiting her.

Serafina tugged Max’s arm. “There. Look.”

He turned his head.

The man and woman were talking, and as they talked, an untidily dressed fellow, who might have been one of the inn’s ostlers, arrived carrying two bags which he dropped on the floor in front of them, then stood there, waiting to be tipped.

The younger traveler picked up the two bags and turned his back on the man. There would be no tipping going on there. Together, the two travelers began to cross Marlborough’s wide main street, heading for the same establishment as Max and Serafina. The disgruntled ostler, unseen by the couple, raised a single finger at them in a gesture Serafina knew to be rude and disrespectful. Then he turned on his heel and stomped back through the archway to the stableyard.

“Well spotted,” Max said. “It could be them.”

“Wait,” Serafina whispered. “Let them go in first, and then follow them.”

He gave her a brief nod, and for a moment they stood pretending to look in the window of a milliners shop, admiring the array of hats on sale.

The two travelers disappeared inside the doors of The White Hart Inn and Max and Serafina followed hot on their heels.

The White Hart appeared to be of the same sort as The King’s Head, but without the cheery and angelic landlord. Instead, a thin, sharp-faced woman with her hair scraped back in so tight a bun the skin on her face looked stretched, inhabited the space behind the bar. The taproom was empty but for her.

The travelers had already approached her.

Serafina pulled Max close enough to hear what was being said.

“We require two rooms for the night, possibly for two nights,” the woman said. She had a faint trace of an accent, but was trying hard to disguise it, which made her voice sound forced and overly refined.

Behind her, the man hung back a little, as though accustomed to her being in control.

“Names?” The sharp-faced woman said, as though no one who entered her inn could possibly be trustworthy. Perhaps she was correct on that.

“Mrs. Aubrey,” the woman said, a note of satisfaction in her tone. “Mrs. Abigail Aubrey.”

They’d found her. Serafina’s heart skipped a beat, not, this time, from nearness to Max.

“And him?”

This caused the woman to hesitate. Might she be considering gracing her son with a title? What would it be if she did? Viscount something or other that Serafina couldn’t remember. Julian’s son’s title. Would she dare?

“Mr. Quentin Aubrey. My son.”

Beside her, she felt Max’s body stiffen. That the woman and her son were using his family’s name must hurt. But it seemed likely the woman had a right to do so. As far as they knew, they were watching the true countess booking herself into the inn.

The sharp-faced landlady nodded her head. “Rooms one and two. Top of the stairs.”

Max released Serafina’s arm and stepped forward. “Mrs. Aubrey? Mrs. Abigail Aubrey?”

The woman swung around and Serafina obtained her first proper view of her. A trifle shorter than George Paynter had described her, and now in possession of a stout and matronly body, it was her face that struck Serafina the most. She must be approaching fifty, but the lines on her face suggested she was older. They deeply incised her cheeks to either side of her nose, and beneath her jaw, badly concealed by a scarf, a crepey neck hung like chicken skin. Thin lips, thin eyebrows, a nose that jutted from her face. No hint of any beauty remained to her.