He took the stairs by twos and soon stood before Morgan’s door. He raised his knuckles, hesitated briefly, then rapped three times. He smiled with anticipation as the door opened. However, his brow tightened when a white-haired man appeared behind it.
“Who the devil are you?” he blurted.
The man stared back with a frown. “I might ask the same. What do you want?”
“I am looking for Mr. Brady. Or Miss Brady. Either one will do.”
The man shook his head. “Don’t recollect knowing any Brady, miss or mister. You have the wrong room.”
Steadman blocked the door from closing with a well-placed boot. “When did you take possession of this room?”
“An hour ago. Now, I’d like to enjoy it in peace.”
“Of course.”
The door slammed in Steadman’s face. He glanced down the hall with confusion before sailing downstairs to find the innkeeper dusting tables.
“Sir.”
The man looked up with brows arched in invitation. Steadman approached him. “Is Mr. Brady still here?”
The man smiled wryly. “You mean ‘Miss Brady’?”
“Her, too.”
“She left.”
Steadman cocked his head. “When?”
“This morning, early. Put on her suit, packed her horse, and left in the company of Prudence Lightboddy.”
The stunning revelation robbed him of speech. He turned away from the innkeeper without a word, exited the building, and stared down the road leading toward London.
“Gone?”
A wave of dismay washed over him. He had hoped to use the return journey to reclaim her regard, just as she had claimed his during the trip to Broad Chalke. But she was gone. He leaned against the low stone wall beside the road, suddenly weary. Her flight to London without bidding him farewell was a sure sign that she could not accept him for what he planned to do. She was finished with him, and it was his fault. He rose again to pace back and forth along the road, whipsawing between doubt and resolve. However, he could not escape the inevitable momentum of fifteen years. He finally realized that he no longer owned the mission, but the mission owned him. To turn back now was to cease to exist. Having decided, he returned to his room, shoulders slumped and head hanging low.
Chapter Twenty
As the sun attempted to beat back mid-morning clouds, Morgan’s thoughts were of Steadman. He would be meeting with his father soon to destroy him and shatter his loved ones in the process. She shook her head with crushing disappointment. His mission of vengeance was so dissonant with his life of seeking justice for the poor and the powerless. That he could not discern justice from revenge gnawed at her bones like a ravenous beast. If only he could see the difference. If only he could leave behind the life of a legend to find contentment with an ordinary woman who loved him. She shook her head for the hundredth time to dispel the destructive fantasy.
“Thinking about him constantly will not make all things well.”
Morgan raised her eyes from the road to find Prudence smiling slyly at her. She nodded meekly. “You are right. It will not.”
“You would not be the first to pine over him, my dear.”
Morgan’s stomach seized briefly. Prudence was right. She was just another in a long line of women who had fallen for his charm and devastating good looks. She had thought for a brief shining moment that perhaps she might be the first to keep his attention.
How deluded I have been!
Why would he choose her after dismissing so many others? Stewing in misery would not change the facts. She glanced at Prudence to say as much, only to find the older woman staring fixedly at the road ahead. Her expression was abruptly grim. Morgan whipped her head around to find threemasked men in the road. Two carried cudgels, while the third casually aimed a pistol in the general direction of the cart.
“We’ll have your cart, Mrs. Lightboddy. And the French port it carries.”
The tenor of the man’s voice communicated complete disregard for the ability of Prudence and Morgan to mount a challenge. In the ringing silence following the demand, Steadman’s advice from that first day on the road came to her. Without thinking, she pulled the flintlock, leveled it at the man’s right eye, and steadied her wrist with her free hand. The footpad’s eyes grew wide as she counted to three.
“Lower your weapon, sir,” she said with a masculine growl.
