Didn’t there?
After he’d seen the horses settled at the village’s sole inn, he’d gone inside and asked after Mrs. Halifax. He’d introduced himself as the Earl of Warren—traveling in the family coach made that somewhat inevitable—and refrained from giving his personal name.
The inn’s landlady—a pale wizened woman with a permanent purse to her lips—had, if anything, grown even more pinched. “Mrs. Halifax? You’ll have to ride on to Treffynnon, then, m’lord. That’s where they put her last night, the great steaming goats.”
“What’s in Treffynnon?”
The landlady made a little huff of outrage. “The jail.”
He had not been able to glean much more than that. The landlady had muttered rather evilly about “sheep” and “goats” and “jackasses” and Spencer honestly was not sure at what point she’d switched from livestock to curses.
He’d retrieved one of his horses from the stable where it had been posted for all of a quarter-hour and ridden on to Treffynnon, unable to contain his curiosity.
Was his wife—
Dear God, he quashed that insane thought promptly.
Was this totally-unknown-to-him Mrs. Halifax infamous for her crimes then? Perhaps she had already attempted to use his title and been caught out?
Perhaps he could interrogate her while she was incarcerated and be back at the inn by suppertime, secure in the knowledge that her real husband—whoever the poor sod was—could be easily distinguished from himself.
Treffynnon was a marginally larger village—he would still hesitate to call it a town—and a bluff man leading a scraggly flock of sheep boomingly directed him to the jail.
But as he entered it, he found himself growing uneasy. The place was foul; the jailer more so. He wondered, a bit bizarrely, if in the eighteen hours she’d been jailed, Mrs. Halifax had been given enough to eat and drink. If she could even bring herself to eat and drink, given the stench that seemed to permeate the building.
“Here she is.” The jailer stopped in front of a cell and made a flourishing gesture with his arm. “Your lady wife. In the flesh, as whole and hearty as when she came here. Sir.”
By God, the man had changed his tune. It made Spencer feel a little sick. How had the woman been treated before he’d arrived? And how would they go on to treat her if he—her supposed husband—abandoned her again?
He peered through the small barred square in the door. Inside the dim cell, what had appeared to be a pile of rags thrust itself upright and turned into a woman.
At least, it seemed to be a woman. He could scarcely make her out. She was begrimed from head to toe, her hair so dirty he could not discern the color. She had mud smeared across her cheek and she smelled of—
Ah. Hmm. Perhaps that wasn’t mud on her face. Perhaps it was sheep shit.
“Pritchard,” she said, “what the bloody hell is going on?”
Her voice was a shock. Spencer had expected the lilting tones of Wales, but her accent was precisely modulated, somehow aristocratic despite the oaths tripping off her tongue.
“I’ve brought you a visitor,” Pritchard said loudly, and then muttered something under his breath that Spencer did not like the sound of.
Spencer stepped away from the door to face the jailer. “What are the charges against her?” he heard himself ask.
“Thievery,” said Pritchard and spat again on the floor. “Trespassing.”
Dear God, this place was bleak. Spencer wouldn’t leave a dog here. Hell, he wouldn’t leave asheephere, despite the place smelling distinctly of their excrement.
“This is absurd,” the woman said. “Turner Green has had it out for me ever since my ram beat out his at the county fair in 1816.”
“Mr. Green tells it differently—”
The woman let out a tiny shriek, like the short blast of a whistle. “Of course he does, the muckworm! I was rescuingmylamb onhisproperty. I’d bet my best ewe that Turner Green knocked the damned fence down himself so he could accuse me of theft—I am going tokillhim when I get out of here—”
“Threats,” said Pritchard. “Attempted assault.”
“I have not assaulted anyone, you blasted nodcock!”
“Nearly scratched my eyes out, she did,” Pritchard informed Spencer.
