Tess pushed Nigel back, both hands on his chest. He’d been one of her father’s tutoring students too. Most of the boys in the village had been. She didn’t fear him, but she trusted him far less than the Bromleys. When he tried to wave off her hands and push into the fray, she slammed her boot down on his, and he let out a roar.
Behind Hardy, two men stood from the drinks they’d beensharing with him, their matching scowls pointed in her direction.
Tess knew how quickly such tussles could get out of hand. She shot a pleading look at Old Tom. The barman had a club he kept on hand, which he used as more of a threat than a weapon to return order at moments like this.
But before he could step out from behind the bar, Wiggenstow’s magistrate emerged from a corner where Tess hadn’t even noticed him.
“Who threw the first punch?” he bellowed as he marched toward them, his barrel chest leading the way.
In chorus, the Bromleys shouted, “Tristan Hawthorne.”
“Might’ve known.” Magistrate Darnley waved a hand at Tristan. “Come, son. A night in the lockup will do you good.”
“Magistrate, please,” Tess cried. “I’ve only just returned and seen my brother for but ten minutes before all this.” She waved a hand to encompass the riled men standing in an uneven circle around them.
The balding, gray-browed man, a friend of her late father’s, assessed her, and she thought she saw pity flicker behind his spectacles. A mischievous little smile pushed up the edges of his mustache.
“You’re welcome to join him, Miss Hawthorne.”
Chapter Four
Dom had traveled to points around the globe. To Egypt so many times that a part of him felt homesick for its glorious sunsets and ancient ruins at times. To Greece and Italy, where the wine and food were incomparable. To France for pleasure more often than for work. And once, the year before his father died, they’d ventured together to Japan.
And yet despite his lifelong sense of wanderlust, his soul’s urgency to always be on the move, something about the green fields dotted with spring flowers on the train ride up to Norfolk almost managed to charm him. He’d headed north soon after leaving Lady Goddard’s and packing his usual kit back at his flat. Now, he stared out at the bucolic landscape. He hadn’t taken much notice on the previous journey, as he and Eve were likely in discussion about their plans. But now, on his own, he could almost understand why men yearned for a home in the countryside. Almost.
Find a lady as lovely and tempting as the one he’d met this morning and make a life. Wasn’t that what other men did? Wasn’t that what Peter had urged him to do?
Of course, being the sort of man he was, all he could think about was how he should have kissed the blond library beauty senseless.
The train arrived at East Winch in the early evening, and it was a short ride in a hired cart to deposit him in the villageof Wiggenstow. He and Eve had stayed at the local inn during their previous venture north, and she promised she’d once again make all the arrangements for this trip.
Dom wondered if she would leave Germany and join the dig as she’d vowed, or whether she’d get swept up in connecting with other academics. That side of things always interested her most—poring over books, writing about what she’d found, and hypothesizing about the past. He admired her knowledge and had needed it on every venture they’d undertaken together.
He opened the leather-bound journal he had tucked under his arm and found the details about Van Arsdale’s local man. He hoped—he squinted down at the man’s name—T. S. Hawthorne proved as helpful as Eve would be if she were here.
After his bags and equipment were settled into his room at the inn, Dom headed down to the taproom. It was sparsely populated, and he knew a more lively crowd could be found at The Black Swan up the lane.
“Good evening,” he said to the innkeeper, who stood with his wife preparing trays of food that would no doubt be taken up to lodgers.
“Mr. Prince, is the room to your liking?”
“No complaints whatsoever.” Dom had found the rooms as tidy and cozy as during his last visit when he and Eve had each rented rooms. “I’m wondering if you might know a T. S. Hawthorne and where I could find him.”
Mr. and Mrs. Randall exchanged a look.
“There’s a Tristan Hawthorne who all but resides at a table at The Black Swan,” Mrs. Randall finally offered. “Bit of a troublemaker, he is.”
Dom arched a brow. That didn’t sound promising. “I believe my patron, Mr. Van Arsdale, selected him for his knowledge of the history of the area.”
“Oh yes,” the couple said in near unison and apparent understanding.
“All the Hawthornes know this land’s history,” Mr. Randall opined. “But take care with that young man.”
The Randalls’ warnings rang in Dom’s head as he walked the short distance to The Black Swan. It was as lively as he recalled from their previous stay, and when he stepped inside, the publican tipped his head in recognition and welcome.
Dom beelined straight for the man and felt the perusal of the barmaid and a few others gathered around the pub’s scattered tables.
“Hello, sir. Welcome back to Wiggenstow.” He glanced over Dom’s shoulder, noting the empty space. “No Miss Prince this time?”
