“Hate to hear them toastin’ to the likes o’ murderin’ marauders, like they be kings and such.” The proprietor seemed at ease with the darkness, as he stopped at a door and pushed it open. “Disgrace to crown and country. Drunken fools.”
William entered the sparse room, a shiver working through him.
“You want I should bring dry clothes for ye? Hain’t got nothing so fancy as those, but they be warm.” At William’s nod and another coin, the proprietor left, promising to return with food and dry clothes.
Exhaustion pulled William to the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, he dropped his face into his hands and willed the pain to leave his head.
And his soul.
Show me what to do, God.Throughout his life, his aunt had taken Horace and himself to a large brick manor. Mostly, William had been forced to stay in the hot carriage, where he’d sweated for hours and tried to entertain himself by twisting the buttons on the carriage cushions—or when he was older, watching the outdoor servants busy with their chores.
But once or twice, his aunt had brought him inside. He remembered well, because it was the few times in his life he remembered his aunt speaking softly to him. She had held his hand, laughed at him, and called him a “darling boy” to the kind-faced Lord Manigan.
The earl had always responded the same, a tender look in his eye, “He is the picture of his mother.”
Perhaps if Lord Manigan knew William’s mother so well, he would also know Edward Gresham. A faint chance, perhaps, but it was the only one he had.
The stairs creaked again.
William lifted his head as footsteps reached the hall and thudded quietly. Too quietly. Unease sparked through him and he groped for the door to feel for a lock.
None.
He backed up and found the window. He yanked it open and swung a leg out, air trapped in his lungs. Should have lit a candle. Should have braced something against the—
The door burst open. A shot exploded.
William sprang from the window, smacked the ground on his side, and rolled. Breathless from the impact, he scampered to his feet and darted around the back of the inn, ducking under each window.
The stable loomed in sight.
He hesitated at the corner of the inn, but it was too dark to see if anyone awaited him in the shadows. He sprinted into the open anyway.
No shot rang out, and when he stumbled into the stable, even the unkempt boy was gone.
Without taking time to saddle his horse, William leaped on the animal’s back and spurred him through the open stable door. The night swallowed them. Duke galloped into darkness.
A shiver raced through William as the lights of the inn disappeared behind him and the severe reality settled in his brain.
Whoever wanted him eliminated was finished playing games. It no longer mattered if his death was deemed an accident.
They simply wanted him dead.
CHAPTER 3
No one had followed him. At least he assumed. He was still alive.
William trotted Duke through the massive brick-and-iron entrance gate. He followed the pea-gravel drive as it curved through green countryside, the rolling meadows dotted with herds of sheep and flower-blooming trees.
He dismounted before the towering brick manor. For all his aversion to running, he easily could have done so now. What would Lord Manigan say to his arrival? Years had passed since his aunt had last brought him. Would the earl even remember? Or see William?
Hunger tightened his stomach, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten in two days. Or slept. Or stopped running. If nothing else, perhaps the earl would permit William a chance to care for his horse, maybe even rest a few hours, before he started off again.
Rubbing the grime from his face with his sleeve, he ascended the entrance steps and knocked on the white-painted door. His legs twitched. He glanced behind him twice, scanning the area, just as he’d been doing all night.
Nothing.
No one lurking behind a wall or building or peering at him from beneath a continental hat.
