A stationmaster stood on the empty platform. The fellow rocked back and forth on his heels, gold pocket watch in hand as he proudly ushered in the latest arrivals.
The train whistle bellowed. The locomotive belched black smoke into the late afternoon sky, blotting out the clouds. One by one, the cars lurched to a stop alongside the platform.
Wade stood and opened the door of his first class carriage. He stepped onto the scarred boards as he placed his tall hat upon his head. He carried no luggage, but trusted his valet to handle the bags. A duke did not haul. A duke did not fret or manage. His Grace paid others—handsomely so—to deal with the more bothersome aspects of life.
The wide-eyed stationmaster recognized him at a glance. The man hurried across the platform, ignoring the other travelers in order to greet the illustrious Duke of Wadebridge.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” the fellow said, pulling on the brim of his cap. He wore the livery of a Midland Railway stationmaster. He was polished, pressed, and as punctilious as if he were overseeing King’s Cross rather than a sleepy country depot.
The stationmaster looked from the duke to the valet juggling two armfuls of leather baggage. His wide eyes rang a silent alarm. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was unaware of your arrival. Lord Althorne has not sent a carriage to collect you.”
Wade was not here to visit Simon. He did not even want his old friend to know he was lurking about. “I’ve no need of a carriage. I trust the inn has a room available?”
The fellow nodded, somewhat relieved. “Mr. Harris at the White Lion will be happy to receive you, Your Grace.”
Wade inclined his head in a curt dismissal. The stationmaster rushed to assist the remaining passengers, while the duke and his valet crossed the wooden platform and descended the steps that led to the street beyond.
He had never stayed at the White Lion, but it was impossible to miss. The tall, square, stone inn commanded one corner of the lane, just past the village green. Wade walked the length of the street, admiring the school, the shops, the church, and all the tidy limestone cottages that lined the lane.
A profusion of flowers bloomed in each cottage garden. Pink roses climbed craggy façades, drooping over the jagged walls, peeking through the gates to beckon passersby to stop in for a visit.
At one such cottage, a child tottered on a soft square of earth while its mother kept a sharp eye on her little one through the open window. The ruddy-faced woman watched Wade pass—no doubt he stood out from the crowd in his tailored frock coat, silk waistcoat, and tall hat.
He touched a gloved finger to the brim, bidding her and the lad ‘good day’.
The mother smiled. The child shoved a handful of dirt into its mouth, grinning.
There were no nurses, nannies, or prams in sight. Only honest, hardworking, friendly people going about their daily lives.Enjoyingtheir lives.
Martin, his valet, shuffled behind him on the pavement. The poor fellow had two arms full of luggage and no free hands to swat the bees that plagued him, for he had tarried too long in front of the cottage blossoms and upset the local swarm.
A bee buzzed at his valet’s nose.
Wade bit back a smile. “Pick up the pace, Martin. You are lagging behind.”
“Beg pardon, Your Grace.” The man fairly overtook him on the street. He’d never seen his personal beast of burden move so quickly. They crossed the village green to approach the White Lion inn.
The steps were swept spotless. The windows were sparkling and propped open to the breeze. Faded curtains hung limp in the summer heat, and when Wade pushed through the door, the interior was dark, cool, and, thankfully, clean.
The taproom boasted a low, wood-beamed ceiling, a large empty fireplace with a portrait of the queen above the mantel, and a dozen tables and chairs. It promised good ale, hot food, and a bed without fleas.
Wade liked the place immensely. He would be comfortable here.
A fat landlord emerged from behind the bar. He dusted his hands on his apron front before offering a paw to the visitors. “Afternoon, sirs. Welcome to the White Lion! Are you in need of a meal or a room?”
Wade shook his hand. “A room for my man and myself, if you have it.”
From the moment the duke opened his mouth, the landlord labeled him a gentleman of great wealth and refinement. Once Wade signed the register in a bold, black hand, there could be no doubt about his station in life.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Harris, the landlord, said, recognizing the signature. “We are honored! If you would follow me upstairs, I shall show you to your accommodations.”
They ascended the creaking stairs to the floor above. All was tidy and in order, and Wade gladly took the best room the White Lion had. It was, Mr. Harris informed him, a safe distance from both the stable yard and the privy.
“You’ll not be troubled here, Your Grace,” the fellow said, smiling proudly. “I’ll be glad to send my girl Liza up with a ewer of water. She’ll fetch anything else you might require. And her mother is a fine cook if you’re peckish. We’ve roast chicken on the menu tonight—”
He was hungry, but could not possibly sit down to a meal before calling upon the siren who’d lured him here.
Wade stopped the landlord mid-sentence, asking, “Where might I find the Staunton cottage?”
