“Yet you did not think you would get this far, did you?” Jessie asked, rushing to her side and stepping up to the desk. “I’d wager that.”
“It’s true,” Diana said slowly.
“Then, what is the harm in hoping for something more out of this?”
Diana didn’t have an answer. She merely continued to look at the letter, chewing her lip as Jessie’s question hovered in her mind.
***
“Right, now listen carefully,” Tommie said as he passed a slip of paper into Owen’s hands. “The man you’re looking for likes to frequent this alehouse. He should be able to tell you more.”
“How do you know this man?” Owen asked.
“He works at Avon Acres. Well, he did, a while ago. With a little luck, he might still have been there when the fire struck. I used to go to school in those parts, back when I was very young and before I came into service.” Tommie stepped back from the cart and urged Owen on his way, but he couldn’t leave quite yet. “What are you waiting for? He might be able to tell you what really happened at that fire.”
Owen glanced back at the house, thinking of the night he had spent with Diana. They had made love almost as soon as Owen had reached the room, then shared the champagne bottle and slept together in the same bed.
It had been an indulgence indeed, sleeping beside Diana, trailing his fingers across her bare skin and up into her hair, weaving it through his fingers. He had imagined a life where they could be like this every night, and he didn’t have to go back to the tiny bed he had alone in his butler’s chamber.
“Owen! Are you there?” Tommie called to him. Owen snapped his gaze back from the house, returning it to his friend. “You do not have long. It will take a while to get to Avon Acres and back. You must go.”
“I’m going,” Owen said with determination. Now he knew how he truly felt about Diana, just how passionately he loved her; he was going to do everything he could to keep her safe. “Keep an eye while I am gone, Tommie.”
“On who? The duchess or Jessie?”
“Both,” Owen said with finality before pulling on the reins and urging the cart down the lane. He knew it was a long shot, trying to speak to some of the people who had witnessed the fires, but at this point, he had little else he could try. If he was going to link the duke to these fires firmly, with something other than the slip of paper Diana had found, he had to find someone who had seen something of the fires.
As the cart pulled down the road, he glanced back, seeing Tommie return into the house. When he lifted his eyes to the house windows, he found another was watching him leave.
Diana.
Standing in the window, she was watching him part, waving goodbye. For one awful minute, he pictured what it could be like to say goodbye in such a way for good, to ride away from her, fearing never coming back. The mere thought made his eyes sting, and he had to blink multiple times, to stop the threat of tears.
“I will not let that happen.”
***
“Vickers. Peter Vickers. Is he here?” Owen asked, craning his neck around one of the timber beams as he queried the alehouse owner.
“Old Pete? Aye, regular he is. You’ll find him drowning his sorrows today.” The alehouse owner shook his head and gritted his teeth, his look of humour morphing into one of pain in an instant. “By the fire. You cannot miss him. He’s the one staring at the bottom of an empty tankard, hoping he can wish for more ale to appear.”
Owen nodded his thanks to the man and turned away, walking through the rickety old alehouse in search of the fireplace. It was busy for lunchtime, with many men having come in from the fields with their harvest jugs, ready for refilling with ale. Owen had to step around many such men, all eagerly drinking, before he found the fireplace.
Beside the hearth, there was an ageing man with a balding head sitting slumped in a barrel chair, with his chin resting on his chest and an empty pewter tankard in his hand.
“Buy you another, Mr Vickers?” Owen asked, approaching the man.
“No one calls me that. Though if you’re going to be a gentleman and offer me a drink, you best call me Pete. Thank you kindly.” The man lifted his head and smiled a little, though it did not last long. Owen retreated to purchase two ales before returning to Pete’s side and taking the chair opposite him. “Not many around here offer drinks so easily, and I do not know you. Must want something. Am I right?”
“In a way,” Owen said with a grimace. “I work for the Duke of Somerset.”
The man’s countenance shifted at once. Gone was the easy congeniality, replaced by a sharp gaze. He pushed back in his chair so harshly that it tipped backwards, clattering on the floor and making the other regulars of the alehouse spin around to stare.
“Don’t dare utter that name in here. You work for him; you can be gone right now, with your tail between your legs. Go. Off with you. Take your free ale with you too –”
“Pete, please.” Owen stood to his feet, holding out his hands as gently as he could.
“You not listening, boy? I said be gone! I will not talk to someone who works for that man.” Peter hobbled away, staggering slightly from the ale. He hurried out of the alehouse, leaving Owen alone with the two tankards and an awful lot of men staring his way.
