“No matter. Let’s be off.”
“By your leave, sir,” Bullen said in a tone of patient martyrdom, “you may wish to know that Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce are staying at this establishment.”
“The great-aunts? In December? You must be mistaken.”
“No mistake, sir,” said one of the other men, his age and dignity suggesting that he was in charge of the stables. “An unplanned stop, sir, possibly because of the cold. And begging your pardon, sir, but your man’s right. You’ll court death if you ride off into this night in your jacket.”
Plague take it, the men were right, and there wasthe mystery of his great-aunts. If they truly were here, he’d better find out why. Great-aunt Calliope in particular had no business traveling in this weather.
It was also occurring to him that the intriguing Miss Smith might have information he wanted. She was clearly part of Molly Carew’s schemes.
He addressed the head of the stables. “Do you know the Trayce ladies’ destination?”
“No, sir.”
“How many people do they have with them?”
“Three coachmen and grooms, sir, and four outriders, as well as a bunch of maids and footmen. Quite a turn up here, for we’re not an inn that normally serves the nobility, though I hope we can do our part.”
It was said with pride, so Ashart said, “I’m sure you can.”
“By your leave, sir,” said Bullen, with rather heavy-handed patience, “you might remember that the ladies requested your assistance with a journey, and you ordered your coach and servants be put at their disposal?”
“I might,” said Ash with an edge, but recollection was stirring. A letter from the great-aunts, which he’d tossed to his secretary to deal with. He’d assumed a short trip, however, and here they were days from Tunbridge Wells in blood-freezing weather, their travel arrangements obviously in chaos. If this was due to mismanagement by his people, heads would roll.
“We stay the night here,” Ash said. “We may have to escort them on tomorrow.” He turned to the head groom. “What do you make of tomorrow’s weather?”
“Milder than today, sir, but that’s not saying much. I hope your relatives don’t have far to go.”
“So do I. Perhaps they’ve gone batty. Could be said to run in the family.”
The grooms shared an uneasy look.
“Don’t worry,” Ash said. “It only strikes at the full moon.”
“Itisthe full moon, sir,” the head groom said, but he was clearly too sensible to take nonsense seriously.
“That probably explains everything.” Ash looked at the disapproving Bullen. “Where’s Fitz?”
“Said he’d wait in the tap, sir.”
Ash tossed a coin on the table and thanked the men, then headed back out into the cold. Gads, but it was perishing out.
A lit door at the back of the inn beckoned. He headed for it and found it opened straight into the tap room, another place fugged with smoke and smelling of ale. It was warm, however, which was a blessing.
Most of those drinking looked like local men, but Ash spotted his friend Octavius Fitzroger alone at a table across the room, a flagon and a plate in front of him. Trust Fitz to get right to the serious business of food and drink.
Ash was aware of silence and of people watching him as he crossed the room. They would be recognizing that he was a stranger, not just to the inn, but to their lives. He realized he was still wearing jewels, which he wouldn’t normally do in circumstances like this. He’d put them on only before arrival, hoping to remind Molly whom she dealt with.
Too late to correct that now, and he couldn’t pass himself off as an ordinary man if he tried. Being a marquess from the age of eight left its marks.
The locals settled back to their talk and drink as Ash slid onto the bench opposite Fitz.
“Well?” Fitz asked. He was tall, blond, and slender, but it was the slenderness of a rapier. Though only two years older than Ash, Fitz had been an adventurer and a soldier and matched Ash’s temperament well. A recent friendship had rapidly become close.
“Not well. Molly’s not here.”
“That sounds excellent to me.”
