Daizell was a hanger-on, eternally a guest at someone else’s table; Cassian owned the table. They usually had half a dozen people living off Staplow at any given time: impecunious artists, amusing younger sons, spinster friends of Aunt Hilda, aspiring scientific minds, foreign travellers, temporarily embarrassed politicians. They’d once had a poet stay for threemonths, reciting his verse every evening, and only when Lord Hugo insisted they get shot of the blasted man before he resorted to violence did the Crosses discover that none of them had actually invited the fellow: he’d simply turned up.
He wondered what might happen if Daizell turned up at Staplow.
Chapter Ten
Cassian once again woke with Daizell wrapped around him.
He lay there, quivering with the awareness, feeling Daizell’s breath on his neck and the weight of his arm. The wanting was overwhelming.
He’d never woken up with anyone in his life before this trip. He’d always had his own space, in bedrooms and in carriages and hotels and everywhere else lesser mortals were expected to crowd together. A ball or rout might be a sad crush, but nobody jostled the Duke; when he travelled, crowds parted before him or, more precisely, before the people whose job it was to make the crowd part. He’d never asked anyone to get out of his way and leave him untouched; he’d never had to, since inviolability was one of the privileges of his position. The Duke of Severn was a man apart.
Cassian was a man with a handsome lover draped over him in bed, warm and intimate, and for all that they had an urgent need to leave Stratford, he gave himself a moment to luxuriate in the feeling.
Just one moment, though. ‘Daize?’ He shook his companion until he got a grunt. ‘We have to go.’
‘Oh, God,’ Daizell muttered. ‘I suppose we do.’
They really did, Cassian reflected as he dressed. There was the outraged Mr Bezant, for one. Cassian hoped he would count his blessings at being reunited with his horse, or, failing that, would be unable to track them down, but Daizellhad unquestionably committed a serious offence. Then there were Sir James’s men. He doubted they’d risk making a complaint of horse theft under the circumstances, but they now had a grudge against Cassian to go with the one against Daizell. He had a feeling the First Bravo in particular would be keen to avenge his humiliation at kidnapping the wrong person and then losing him, not to mention he’d have a long and tedious walk into Stratford, and a deal of explaining to do to his master if he failed to find Miss Beaumont. Vier’s men had been both more violent and more ruthless than Cassian had anticipated, and he had to remind himself very consciously that it was good they were following Daizell. Every day Vier’s men spent chasing him was a day for Miss Beaumont’s track to grow colder, and Cassian knew first hand how easy it was to lose track of somebody.
‘Where will we go?’ he asked Daizell. ‘Back to Worcester?’
‘But not by the same route. There should be more coaches to Birmingham and we can shake off any pursuit there much more easily.’
That seemed an excellent plan. Cassian followed him down, and ordered breakfast while Daizell took seats on the first coach. That was scheduled to depart a half-hour hence, which gave them time for a substantial meal of eggs and bacon and a pot of adequate coffee. He was wondering about a second cup of the latter when Daizell said, ‘Shit!’
Very few people had ever sworn in front of the Duke of Severn. Cassian tried not to show shock. ‘What is it?’
‘One of Vier’s men. The big brute with the horsewhip. Outside.’
‘You’re joking.’ Cassian fought the urge to duck under the table. ‘The fellow from last night?’
‘No, a different one. Appalling lout.’
‘Is he coming in?’
‘Don’t know. He went past.’ Daizell looked decidedly alarmed, as well he might. ‘Hell’s teeth. He’ll spot me at once.’
‘He’s got no grounds to accost either of us,’ Cassian said with more hope than certainty.
‘Don’t be a fool. He’s Vier’s man, looking for a runaway ward and I took out a marriage licence with her. And if he’s talked to the men you met last night . . . We need to get in the coach and away without being seen, or we’ll have to come up with alotof explanations.’
Cassian considered the many explanations that might be required of them both, in the matters of horse theft, young ladies, and identity. ‘We do, yes. How—’ He cut himself off.
He had been going to say,How will we do it?from sheer force of habit. He didn’t want to. Cassian had very much liked being the kind of man who extricated himself neatly from a tricky situation; he’d recounted the tale to Daizell before they’d gone to sleep, and basked in his admiration because he’d earned it.
Daizell had heard the question, for all he’d tried to stifle it. ‘I don’t know. He doesn’t know you, so I suppose you could get on the coach and I can try to dodge him?’
‘Don’t be absurd. Here.’ Cassian pushed coins across the table. ‘Pay our shot while I see what’s going on outside.’
He stuck his head out of the door, rebuking himself for the fluttering in his stomach. Really his nerves were nonsensical, the fears quite overblown—
No, wait. The man was terrifying.
He wasn’t tall but he was thick-muscled and brutish, with a malevolent expression and piggy eyes. He couldn’t help his face, of course: he might have the pure soul of a gentlesaint under the menacing exterior. Cassian wouldn’t have put money on it, what with the scarred knuckles and the billy club he held loosely in one hand.
Cassian slipped out, walking past him in a carefully nonchalant manner, skin prickling with the anticipation of a shout, or even an attack. It didn’t come: the brute ignored him. Thankful for his insignificance, he strolled around the yard, wondering what he could do. The stage was due to leave in seven minutes by the yard clock. He wasn’t sure he could distract the fellow, who was presumably standing watch for Daizell here, for that long or at all. And if Vier’s other men were on their way, they’d recognise them both. He and Daizell were in real trouble, and he wasn’t sure his name would protect them, or not nearly soon enough to avoid arrest, perhaps a beating. His pulse thudded unpleasantly.
A small fuss was happening at the entrance to the yard. Cassian glanced over and his heart plummeted even further. It was the man from last night, Mr Bezant, rubicund of face and ruffled of manner, expostulating with one of the ostlers. He had someone who looked like a constable by his side. Clearly, he was not taking yesternight in his stride.
