Page 64 of What a Widow Wants

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Less than two hours later, Matthew was trotting into the courtyard of the Chequers in Southwater, cold and windblown, but extremely impressed with the stamina of this horse. Lucifer had taken him at his word and galloped for the better part of an hour before Matthew had pulled him down to a trot. That hadn’t lasted for long. The horse had eased back into a brisk canter and it had been all Matthew could do to keep him from running full tilt again. He’d make the beast rest a quarter hour at least, while he stretched and grabbed a mouthful of ale by the fire. He could also inquire about Fanny, although he assumed they wouldn’t turn off this road until they saw the sign for Copsale to the east.

“Walk him, then give him water and a feed. He’s earned it.” Matthew patted the horse’s withers fondly. He might have to buy Lucifer off the innkeeper at Mickleham. This one was a gem. He was just turning away when he thought to ask, “Has the Marquess of Theale’s carriage come in today?”

“Yes, milord.” The young ostler had begun walking Lucifer in circles. “Twice in fact.”

Matthew spun back around. “Twice? When was the first time?”

“Some time after two o’clock, I think.” Widening his circle, the groom soothed the horse when he tossed his head. “Easy, now, my fine fellow. You’ll get your feed in a bit here. Beg pardon, milord.”

Waving the apology away, Matthew fell into step beside him. “Continue.”

“We’d just got two or three carriages and a mail coach in, so we were busy, but I took note of the crest.”

“Did you see if a woman and child were in the carriage?” Matthew held his breath.

“Yes, milord. Tall dark-haired lady and a little girl just like her. They went inside.”

“And you said the carriage has returned?”

“Yes, about half an hour ago. One of the horses had cast a shoe.” The lad stopped Lucifer, as if his own words reminded him he’d best check that too.

Gazing up at the inn, Matthew’s hands grew clammy. Fanny might be inside this very minute. He summoned moisture to his parched mouth. “Is the lady here now?”

Looking up from the hoof he’d grasped between his legs, the ostler gave a quick shake of his head. “No, my lord. Only the coachman. He’s staying the night. No one else on the return trip.”

A horrible sense of foreboding crept into Matthew’s soul. “And you said they came through here the first time about two?” Mind racing, Matthew tried to tally the miles between the Chequers and Copsale, but gave up in frustration. “How far from here to Copsale?”

“A good twenty miles, my lord. Almost twenty-two with the way the roads curve about so. You won’t get there before dark tonight.” The lad went back to his job.

Something was terribly wrong. If Fanny’s carriage had left the Chequers sometime well after two o’clock, and it was now almost half past four, it was absolutely impossible for the carriage to have taken her and Ella to Copsale and returned in two hours.

Dread squeezed his heart. Where were Fanny and Ella?

“I’ll just go look in on John Coachman. Lord Theale is a particular friend of the family. He’s the little man, Irish I’d say by the red hair and bran face.” Matthew waited, praying the man would accommodate him.

“No, milord, you’ve mistaken him.” The groom straightened and returned to walking his charge. “The coachman that come in today was a tall, thin, older-looking man with a weathered face, like most coachmen get after some time on the job.”

“So I must have. His lordship has several drivers and outriders. It’s hard to keep up with such a big establishment. I was just speaking with one of their grooms this morning in London, William Carter. I thought certain he said John had taken this trip.” Matthew took out a coin and pressed it on the groom. “Thank you for your good service.”

“Thank you, milord.” Staring at the gold, the lad shook himself, stuck his newfound wealth into his pocket, and commenced his attentions to the horse again with renewed zeal.

Rage seeping into his every pore, Matthew strode into the inn’s taproom. The cozy room, filled with men drinking, eating, laughing, playing cards by the fire, exuded a homey charm and warmth. Disregarding the atmosphere that would have beckoned any other cold and tired traveler to join the company, he stalked to the center of the room, drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and bellowed, “I seek the servant of the Marquess of Theale.”

The joyful hubbub of the pleasant room ceased, as though cut off by a stroke of Death’s scythe. Wide-eyed men glanced at their companions, then about the rest of the room, searching. At last one man with thin shoulders clad in a black coat of quality, raised his head from his tankard and turned slowly revealing beetled brows and a weathered face. “I serve Lord Theale. Who the devil are you?”

“I am Lord Lathbury. You are Davies?”

The man nodded.

Matthew flowed forward, grasped the man’s arm, and jerked him onto his feet. “Let me speak a word in your ear.”

“Wha—”

“Bleat so much as one syllable that is not an answer to my questions and you’ll find yourself charged with kidnapping forthwith.” Matthew wrenched the rascal’s arm behind his back. “You’ll swing from the end of a rope before Theale can raise a hand to save you.” Growling this warning in Davies’ ear, Matthew hustled him out of the taproom, through the crowd of slack-jawed faces.

They reached the courtyard, and Matthew shoved his captive out into the fading afternoon light.