Lottie tapped her bottom lip. “We should ask.”
“Pardon?”
“We should ask my father’s former man-of-affairs. I would wager that I could find an address for Mr. Argent in my father’s study. At the very least a former address that we could apply to for information.”
“I am aneejitfor not thinking of this before now.” Alex nearly laughed at his stupidity. Granted, he had been wanting to avoid entangling himself in the affairs of the marquisate. But that ship had long sailed.
“I’ll fetch pen and paper.” Lottie rushed from the room.
Alex watched her leave, trying to decide what concerned him more—
The fact that Mr. Argent would thoroughly enlighten him as to the problems with the marquisate.
Or the realization that Lady Charlotte took the sun with her whenever she left a room.
Alex arrived earlyto meet Mr. S. Smith.
He procured the finest private parlor The Dancing Bull had to offer—which was a wee, shabby space off the main dining room—and ordered up a selection of cold meats, cheese, and tea. He checked his pocket watch.
Mr. Smith was to arrive with the London-bound coach around noon. The stagecoach would break for an hour for passengers to lunch and would then be off again, with Mr. Smith aboard. Alex would only have one hour to discuss Mr. Smith’s medical issue and his connection withThe Minerva.
Who would this Mr. Smith turn out to be?
Clearly he wasn’t so ill as to be unable to travel long distances. The journey from Yorkshire to Plymouth and back was not for the infirm.
Alex longed to pace as he waited, but the jostling of the two-hour journey to the inn had set his leg to aching. Servants had piled the interior of the carriage high with pillows and blankets to cushion his leg, and though the coachman had driven at a snail’s pace, the jolt of the rutted road had been unpleasant.
He had settled into a chair as soon as he arrived, propping his leg atop a footstool with relief. The twinge was a good reminder that no matter how recovered he felt, his leg was still healing.
And so instead of pacing, he was left to obsessively consult his watch and compare its time against that of the aged clock sitting atop the fireplace mantel. The simple act brought up a surge of familiar memories—wiping down his surgical table between patients, the smell of chlorinated lime, McNeal’s laugh echoing down the hallway.
Bloody hell but he missed his life in Edinburgh.
Soon, he promised himself.Soon he would be well enough to travel. Just a few more weeks.
And what about Lottie?a quiet part of his heart asked.
Alex swallowed. He didn’t have an answer to that, and the thought made him tetchy.
He checked his pocket watch again.
Where was the blasted coach?
After nearly an hour’s wait, the stagecoach rattled into the coaching yard. A few minutes later, Mr. Smith entered the parlor with a quick rap.
“Dr. Whitaker, I presume?” the man asked, removing his hat and fixing Alex with a rather stern look.
Mr. Smith was a wiry man who appeared determinedly sparse in everything—height, hair, bonhomie.
More to the point, Mr. Smith was more appropriately referred to asReverendSmith. The man’s cassock coat and stiff collar loudly proclaimed his profession. The threadbare nature of both testified of his poverty.
“Aye.” Alex nodded. “Forgive me for not standing tae greet ye. My leg wasnae keen on the journey here.” He waved toward his propped foot.
“Ah.” Reverend Smith dragged his gaze over Alex’s injured leg, studying the wood-and-metal brace for a moment. “A lack of manners is to be expected with such an injury, I suppose.”
Alex barely stopped his eyebrows flying upward in surprise.
The reverend’s tone was unexpectedly combative.
