Lord, if she got out of this, he would never let her leave the house again.
Which, of course, was why he was here watching his wife instead of helping her. He was torturing himself with the truth that he could never be at ease with her. He would never be able to simply assume she would be safe. He would forbid her from doing something that might put her in danger, and she would pull herself up to her tiny five-foot height like a Russian Grand Duchess and just walk off to do whatever it was anyway. And he would be left to fret. Or grieve. And by God, he’d already done enough of that in his life.
He had just taken a sip of his ale when he saw movement across where Kit had set up shop posing as a down-on-his-luck veteran. He, of course, was also having fun. He insisted he might keep up the premise, since he’d already gained about a crown in donations. But when Kit looked up, it was to greet a young woman bent over him dropping a coin in his cup, a blonde woman whose glasses glinted in the fading light.
It took every ounce of control he had to keep from leaping to his feet. He could just see her in the twilight, smiling down at Kit as if she’d just discovered a new friend. He scanned the area, making sure no one took particular notice of them.
They were, but inside the pub.
“That the new maid?”
“Tasty morsel, ain’t she? Thought I’d welcome her to Richmond, you know. Just bein’ all friendly. She all but broke me finger.”
There were generalized guffaws and back slapping.
“Worse,” he said, “she’s got the only key to her room. She might be a bit more of a challenge than Maisy before her.”
“Maisy was no challenge. I’m waitin’ ‘til they give us leave to entertain the rich ones. We could be real comfortin’, we could.”
More laughter.
Beau memorized their faces for later. Then he turned back just in time to see her give Braxton a little wave and turn back into the asylum. He wanted to jump up and run after her, make sure she was all right. She had looked all right, even in that awful gray sack and oversized mobcap. She looked healthy and smiling.
Even so, it took all he had to remain in his seat until Kit wandered in the door ten minutes later, his cup clutched to his middle, his head down as if a supplicant.
“Can’t ya dress a little better?” one of the asylum guards demanded. “Look like a scarecrow.”
Braxton bobbed his head. “Just want a bite. No bother.”
Beau raised his hand. “Soldier! Come on over here. I’ll stand you to dinner.”
“He’s a beggar,” one of the men complained.
“He’s also a Rifleman, as was my brother who died at Busaco. Did you fight?”
That shut them up quickly enough. Braxton slid into a chair and set his cup down. Beau took a look inside. “Not a bad day, eh?”
“I’ve ‘ad worse, for sure,” Braxton said. “Thankee, milord, for ‘elpin’ out.”
And that quickly, the others lost interest. It was no trouble then to order some stew and another pint and share desultory dialogue that hid the intelligence that had been shared.
“Pamela?!” he gasped, hearing that news.
Braxton just nodded.
Beau shook his head. “Not possible. Pip must be mistaken.”
“She said that, as she’d been under the lady’s bed for three hours, she should know what she looks like.” Braxton considered his beer. “She was most definite about wanting to save her, Drummond. After what I’ve heard about Pamela’s escapades, makes that wife of yours unnaturally kind.”
Beau was still trying to digest the idea of Perfect Pamela in an asylum being drugged with laudanum. Pip was correct. It wasn’t right, no matter how capriciously vile Pamela could be. But yes, he agreed. His Pip was truly inordinately kind.
Then he got the rest of the message.
“Two days?” he echoed, appalled. “It barely gives us time to get there.”
“You need to get the information to Drake soonest,” Kit said, sipping his beer.
“He’s waiting to hear from me. You’ll watch for Pip while I’m gone?”
