“I say. Miss Finch!” Once again Miss Potter resettled her hat. “What has gotten into you?”
“I—em—well, there is a horse coming down the road at quite a clip. I did not wish to risk you getting a face full of dust.”
“But it rained only yesterday. There is more danger of kicked-up mud than dust.”
“Yes, that too.” She surreptitiously glanced past Miss Potter’s shoulder. His horse clopped by with a regal step, every bit as compelling as his master. “Do you happen to know who that man is? I mean, if the gentleman had managed to splatter you, we ought to know who to blame, hmm?”
Miss Potter glanced backwards, then chuckled merrily. “Don’t be absurd, Miss Finch. Mr. Russell would never do such a thing. I’ve never met a more civil man in my life.”
A swirl of thoughts left her unbalanced, and she widened her stance to keep from tottering. Theheirof Bedford Manor? La! What in all of God’s green earth had he been doing outside in the darkest of night hunting for her? And in naught but shirtsleeves? Was he so consumed with protecting his game that he’d not leave the task to his groundskeeper? She nibbled on her lower lip. This added a whole new depth of danger to her poaching predicament. If he discovered her true identity, the consequences would be more than dire.
They’d be deadly.
The fine hairs at the nape of Henry’s neck bristled. Someone stared at him. He’d wager on it. He jerked a glance over his shoulder, every nerve on alert.
The carriage he’d just passed ambled down the road, not a soul looking back at him. Two women stood in conversation on the pavement, one sporting a ridiculously feathered hat. Two lads played a game of kick-a-rock on the other side of the lane, and a shopkeeper in a blue apron swept away dirt in front of the tobacco shop. None of them paid him any heed.
But the man in the bakery doorway surely did. That fellow stared at him from beneath the wide brim of a black hat. Henry narrowed his eyes, studying the figure. He was tall, broad shouldered, and leaning heavily on a cane. Strain showed in his clenched jaw, the rock-hard line of it visible even from this distance. His dark coat pulled tightly around him, either warding off a chill or perhaps concealing something. And thoseeyes … deeply set, dark as midnight, and fixed on him with disturbing intensity.
Henry’s breath caught as recognition seeped in. Edwin Parker. My, how the man had changed. Gone was the jovial young fellow whose suit Charity had rejected over a year ago now. If memory served correctly, the man had joined the military after leaving town. So, what was he doing back in Bedford? And why such a venomous stare?
Before Henry could call out, a cart rumbled down the lane, obscuring his view. When it passed, the doorway stood empty, leaving behind nothing but an echo of Parker’s unsettling presence. Unless, of course, he’d read far too much into the fellow’s expression. Perhaps the man was simply trying to remember who Henry was.
He faced forwards, urging his horse onwards with a slight pressure of his heels to the animal’s sides—then winced from the leftover ache in his ankle. This sordid affair with his sister’s tormentor had him wound far too tightly. He’d spent the better part of yesterday relentlessly questioning each staff member, but to no avail. None offered any intelligence on the matter, though the footman’s reticence lingered in his mind longer than the others. Woodley, the most recent hire—three years ago, now. The man had been agitated and tight lipped, but was such reserve really an indictment? Perhaps he simply feared for his position.
At the next corner, Henry headed east, forcing his mind to the tasks of the morning. A stop at the George Hotel to arrange a coach to London and hopefully attain a shipping schedule for passage to Italy. Then town hall for travel documents and a visit to the bank for some lire. Charity would fuss, but knowing the villain had been in her room had sealed his resolve. She must leave the area, and the sooner the better.
He guided his horse to a stop at the front entrance to the George and dismounted, taking care to land on his stronger foot.
“See to yer mount, sir?” A young stable lad looked up at him, hope for a fat coin shining in his eyes.
“Yes, please.” He flipped the boy a ha’penny while striding to the door where a porter nodded a greeting. Henry tipped his hat, then pulled it off completely as he entered. Once inside, he scanned the room out of a newly acquired habit birthed from the past weeks of heightened vigilance.
To his right, the clink of teacups and low murmur of patrons drifted from the dining room. A polished mahogany reception desk sat on the far side of the lobby. Beyond that was a maze of plush chairs and low tea tables where guests gathered in pairs. Nearby, two women bid farewell to a smartly dressed gent, and when they turned, the younger lady’s blue eyes lit.
“Henry!”
Clara Whitmore and her mother approached, old family friends, their presence as familiar as a warm glass of brandy by the hearth.
He greeted them with a bow and a grin. “Good morning, ladies.”
“What an unexpected pleasure.” Clara beamed as she curtseyed, the very picture of poise and refinement. Her hair was drawn up in a perfect chignon, the colour of polished walnuts. Pink tinged her cheeks, her heart-shaped face and slender form the sort that turned men’s heads.
Mrs. Whitmore dipped her own curtsey, chandelier light gleaming off the silver strands in her hair. “It is always good to see you, Master Henry.”
He smiled. Clara’s mother would ever think of him as a lad in breeches. He gestured towards the dining room. “Are you here for a morning tea?”
“No.” Clara folded her hands in front of her, flashing a gold bracelet on the curve of her wrist. “Mother and I stopped in for a meeting with a potential speaker for the upcoming charity ball.”
“Ahh, yes.” He tapped his hat against his thigh. “I nearly forgot, though Charity mentions it frequently. I understand she is working on the silent auction for the event.”
“Yes. She is such a dear. Always so involved.”
Mrs. Whitmore held up a gloved finger. “Pardon me, you two. I see Miss Henning near the potted fern over there and wish a quick word with her, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Whitmore. Good day.” Once again Henry bowed.
“I will join you shortly, Mother.” Clara smiled sweetly at the woman and then faced him. “So, what brings you to town this morning?”
