Her boots struck the cobblestones. Smoke, onions, wet wool, and horses overwhelmed her senses. She breathed deeply, letting the bustle wash away the silence of the carriage.
Maximilian helped the countess down before he joined Lydia. For a moment, they stood side by side, allies once again. He gestured toward the inn, a footman escorted the countess as they followed together, the space between them just wide enough for a stranger to pass unnoticed.
Lydia squared her shoulders. Perhaps this was survival—never speaking of what they shared, but carrying its shape, sharp and impossible to ignore.
Millbrook was a village that vanished from maps and would hardly be missed if it disappeared overnight. Its chief export was smoke: coal from a vein no one could quite locate, peat cut from fens too soggy for sheep, and the exhaust of a hundred cookstoves. Houses hunched under moss-brownshingles, eaves blackened, and yards hemmed in by crumbling stone. Lydia had expected something grander. Instead, it was a square that invited gossip, not grandeur.
The only spectacle was the carriage itself and them departing from it. Maximilian, hat in place and posture straight, ignored it all. The market froze—vendors mid-haggle, eyes drawn to two strangers dressed for both a funeral and a coronation.
Children gathered around the lamppost, faces smeared with bread and curiosity. A group of women in mobcaps huddled together like hens before a cackle. Even the vicar, peering from the squat church, squinted as if deciding whether they were friend or foe.
The Sotted Hare crouched at the far end of the square, its sign depicting a manic-eyed hare nearly caught by a fox. Inside, the common room smelled of wet wool, onions, and ale. Forced laughter clashed against the beams.
The innkeeper, a broad woman with strong arms, wasted no time. “You are the new owner’s lot?”
“Something like that,” Lydia replied, her accent a mix of Oxford and Covent Garden.
The innkeeper’s eyes flicked from faces to boots. “You will want the best room. And the gentleman?”
“Separate, but near,” Maximilian said.
A grunt, a scribble, and her daughter Jenny appeared—sharp chin, green eyes quick to retort. “Red room for her ladyship. Mind the stairs; they do not give.”
Jenny’s sly grin earned a smile from Lydia. “That is true everywhere, I find.”
Up the crooked stairs, Jenny chattered. “Are you here for the estate? People say it is haunted, or worse, that the old owner never left. My mother says debts do not stay buried, not when there is money.”
“I had not heard,” Lydia replied lightly.
Jenny leaned closer. “A tall gentleman came two days ago. Handsome. Did not smile. He asked about the house.”
“A name?”
“Not for the likes of us. He wanted news from London and to know if the new heir was as odd as the last. Paid in sovereigns, no tip.” Jenny sniffed. “I said he would be trouble.”
They reached the red room, so named for its faded velvet chair. A narrow bed, stiff sheets, and a view of pigs awaited Lydia. She unpacked with precision, washed the road dust from her face, arranged her hair to look casually windswept, then descended.
In the common room, Maximilian stood with the stable hand and blacksmith, allowing them to voice their fears. Lydia noticed the repaired cuff of his shirt; the frayed edge she had torn was now gone.
She warmed herself by the fire, listening for gossip: estate, murder, the Montague curse—all before her second cup of tea. Jenny entered with a tray of scones and whispered, “A letter came. Urgent.”
Lydia’s heart raced. “Who brought it?”
“A stranger. Older. Hat low. He left quickly.”
In the parlor reserved for the gentry—a small room with wingback chairs—Lydia cut the seal with her boot knife and read aloud for Maximilian to hear.
Miss Montague,
You have ignored my advice. The house is not safe, nor is the road. They know you are coming. If you value your companion’s life, or your own, you will turn back. The Montague debts are not only in coin. Some are paid in blood.
A friend,
C.M.
Maximilian’s hands clenched. “Do you wish to turn back?”
“Not for anything,” Lydia said, folding the letter. “Fear is their weapon. I will not yield it.”
