“All right then,” she replied, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s be off.”
Chapter Eleven
In Which Our Unmarried Couple makes Slow Progress toward London
She had remained calm thus far, but this morning had not exactly turned out the way she’d expected. Part of her had hoped for a carriage ride with Harry, a private time for just the two of them, when they could sort out their current situation.
But Willow soon realised that a fast walk along a country lane was not going to produce a similar chance for conversation.
Harry set a good pace, and she kept up, determined not to slow him down. But every now and again, he would stop and peer between the trees in the forests lining their lane.
“Can you see it yet?” She had to ask the third time he paused.
“Not yet, but we must be near.” He glanced at her. “Are you all right so far?”
“Of course,” she nodded. “I am more worried about your ankle than my feet.”
“I am managing.” He sighed. “Not something I’d like to do on a regular basis, but there’s not a lot of pain, thank goodness.”
They walked on, and Willow decided this was as good an opportunity as any to ask the question that had plagued her ever since their hasty departure from the inn.
“Who would have done such a thing, Harry? And do you think it has anything to do with your reason for going to London, or could it be just random thieves?” She frowned. “After all, who knew we were making this trip?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Very astute of you, Willow. I was actually just wondering the same thing myself.”
She couldn’t decide whether to be offended or amused, but he spoke again before she could settle on a response.
“I cannot, for the life of me, think of anyone who knew our direction. Certainly not anyone who would be aware of what I was carrying or where I was going…”
“Neither can I,” she answered. “Perhaps our coachman told someone?”
“It’s possible.”
“Or…” she paused. “Oh no, that would be too horrid.”
“What?”
“Mrs Smithers,” sighed Willow. “She knew. She found us the carriage. She also knew our destination was London. Goodness, she even provided the means for us to get there. So, without a doubt, she knew every detail of this journey, with the possible exception of exactly where you were going when we got there.”
Harry was quiet for a few minutes, enough time for her to know he was weighing her statement carefully. “I hate to think that. But I’ve learned that people are not always what they seem, Willow. And when you think about it, was it just coincidence that she happened to live next door to Madame Lépine?”
“Good grief.”
“Exactly.”
They walked on in silence for a while, both busy with their thoughts, then—on one of his pauses to look through the trees—he beckoned to Willow. “Look. Through there. I am certain that’s Roger’s house. Franklin Chase. I came down for a shooting party a long time ago.”
She stood next to him, looking at a very pretty country home. “Can we cut through here? The trees are bare, and the ground is probably muddy, but at this point we can’t afford to waste time, can we?”
Harry shook his head. “No, we can’t. I must reach London before tonight. I’m well over a week late now, and if I can’t get there today…well, the consequences might be…”
“It’s all right. I understand if you can’t tell me. It’s probably better I don’t know.” Which was a mixture of the truth and a lie, since it wasn’t all right at all, and she would very much have liked to know what messages, if any, he carried. But indeed, the truth was that it was most likely to be better she didn’t know.
To her surprise, Harry hugged her close. “You are quite astonishing, Willow.”
She blinked. “I am?”
“Yes.” He took her hand. “Now come on, we are about to get ourselves quite muddy.”
