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“You climbed out an upper-floor window without hesitation, didn’t you?” he pointed out.
“I hesitated a little,” she admitted. It was very high up, after all.
“I am glad to hear it. Only a fool wouldn’t have.”
“Sybil never hesitates.”
“Sybil is in trouble,” he pointed out. “And you are the one Priya sent to help her.”
That made her feel marginally better. It sounded logical when he said it. If this mission required planning and reserve and patience, then perhaps she was the right woman for the job after all. Sometimes you needed a little mouse to climb through the cracks in the foundation that no one else saw. A pale ghost to float through the house.
“What do you know about the marquis?” Bram asked.
Clara took her journal out of her reticule. The cover was embossed in simple letters: Four Diocese Sermons. No one every asked her questions when she read it, or The Mirror of Graces or The Rudiments of Genteel Behavior. Or anything meant for a vicar.
In actuality, the pages inside were filled with notes for stories she was writing, questions about realistic positions, wicked slang she overheard when walking in London. Today, they also had lists detailing the marquis, his reputation and his estate, and everything she had been able to find out about Lady Heloise, which, admittedly, was not much.
“His father died seven years ago,” Clara said, struggling not to sound like a governess and failing. “He is the eleventh Marquis of Eastbourne. His reputation predates his recent title, even when he used his father’s courtesy titles he was a bit wild. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, mind.”
“For a knab.”
“Knab?”
“A toff. Their rules are different, y’ken?”
“I’m a woman, Captain Thorn.” Not to mention an author of licentious and lewd stories. “Of course I ken the rules are different.”
She knew the rules. All of them.
Before she could get tangled in that depressing topic, she went back to her notes. “He’s a gambler. Obsessed with horse racing and does not care for Beau Brummell.”
“A blow, I am sure.”
“He has six estates, four in England, one in Ireland, one in Scotland.”
“Blighter.” Bram’s Scottish brogue was particularly thick.
“And three houses in London. At least as many mistresses.”
Really, it was the biography of any profligate peer of the realm.
They soon stopped at an inn to change the horses. It was well frequented, busy and welcoming with smooth, butter-hued wooden benches and the tantalizing scent of beef pies. They were clearly accustomed to highborn travelers, immediately offering wine, warming bricks for the feet, and picnic hampers with cheese and bread and blackberry jelly. Bram ordered two, as well as a small beer for Clara.
She blinked down at the thick brown beer. She wasn’t sure she’d ever tried it before. Miss Vinegar drank ratafia and lukewarm lemonade until she wanted to scream. She had earned the nickname during her first Season, and it had, regrettably, stuck.
“You look peaked, lass.”
She sighed. “I’m naturally pale.”
He half smiled. “I only meant you’ve too many thoughts in your head and not enough food in your belly.”
“I’ve never had beer before.”
“Never?”
She shook her head.
“Have a wee sip.” He passed her the glass, his HOLD FAST tattoos dark against his knuckles.
