They moved into the foyer as Irene came down the stairs with Miss Lambert.
The walk was short. Just to a large oak on the bed of the Serpentine, with the girls, Miss Lambert, and Lord Griston’s man strolling before them. The early afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, and a lightness filled Ginny watching Celia bait Irene, teasing Irene to near drastic frustration, running circles around her. It was exactly the interaction Irene needed to occupy her mind and spirit.
“I’m tempted to admonish Lady Cecilia for her unladylike darting about,” Lord Griston said, smiling. Ginny’s hackles rose, but before she could defend Celia, he went on, “But she is an engaging little thing, isn’t she? She certainly succeeds in drawing out your older daughter.”
Ginny couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat, only nodded and drew in a cleansing breath. It felt glorious.
Irene’s temper snapped. Nothing overt, mind. This was Irene, after all. She grabbed Celia’s arm and whispered a sharp set down Ginny couldn’t hear.
Pouting, Celia walked to the backside of the large tree.
“Oh, dear,” Ginny said. “I should probably speak with her.” Just as she said the words, Irene let out a long-suffering sigh and moved in Celia’s direction, and Ginny held back. It was probably best to let the girls work out their differences.
One minute, Ginny was enjoying the spring day, and the next Irene was screaming. Ginny’s heart pounded hard against her ribs, threatening escape. Irene never screamed. Ginny took off in a run, but Griston surpassed her in two long strides. Celia was thrashing and kicking out at a boy not much larger than herself, who was tugging at the locket around her neck. The chain snapped just as Griston grasped him by the neck.
Celia’s hands splayed her tiny waist. “Hand it over,” she demanded. The boy’s eyes held depths of shadows, though he had to have been but a year or two younger than Irene. He dropped the locket at Celia’s feet, struggling against Griston’s hold.
“Farcle, take care of this”—Griston’s eyes narrowed on Irene’s and Miss Lambert’s widened eyes, finally moving to Ginny. She knew her own expression must have looked just as bewildered—“miscreant.”
Farcle took the boy, whisking him away in long strides.
Celia held her locket in a white-knuckled grip. “W-what’s going happen to him, my lord?”
Griston gave her shoulder a condescending pat. “He won’t be bothering you again, Lady Cecilia. He is nothing for the likes of you to worry over.”
Ginny glanced at Irene’s stark white face. She moved to Irene and wrapped an arm about her. “I’m sorry to cut this short, my lord, but I think it’s time we returned home.”
The ride to Goldhanger took Brock and Kimpton the better part of the afternoon on deplorable roads. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining. Cedar smoke rose from the sporadic cottages dotting the landscape, tangling with briny sea air. While farmland stretched before them, flat and wide, the ocean could be found over a rise less than a twenty-minute ride past the village. An outcropping of trees had been left behind some hour past. Brock shaded his eyes looking out over the small, worn village. He glanced at Kimpton. “Where do we start?”
“There’s likely less than five hundred people here. The local tavern seems the most logical place.” In unison, they kicked their horses into motion.
The local tavern was an inn by the name of The Red Stag. They reined in their mounts. “When the devil was it built? The 1290s?” Brock took in the stained wood that went halfway up the wall to the base of cracked windows. “Is it open?”
Kimpton didn’t answer for a long moment, his mouth in a tight grim line. “Harlowe was located between here and Maldon, closer to here, I believe. There’s a brook alongside the road where he was found by Evie, last name unknown.”
“So, first we find Evie.”
“Can’t be that difficult in a township this small.” Kimpton swung down from his saddle.
Brock followed suit, tying off his horse.
Kimpton moved to the tavern door and tugged. It opened.
The pungent smell of stale beer, unwashed bodies, and cooked sausages hit Brock the moment he entered the establishment. He paused, acclimating his eyes to the dark interior. Long tables with wood benches lined grimy walls. The crowd was nonexistent, but it was early yet. Then again, perhaps the town didn’t house enough men to fill up the place.
Kimpton chose an area to sit where they could watch the door and still pick up any conversation behind the bar.
A bosomy blonde sauntered their way. Her low-cut bodice exposed fleshy mounds that defied decency. “My, my. Don’t see many gentlemen of your ilk ’ereabouts too often. What can I get for ye?”
“A couple of ales,” Brock told her. “What’s your name, my dear?”
She batted lashes so light they were barely visible to the eye. “Anything ye want it to be, lover.”
“Er, I see.”
She let out a resigned sigh. “It’s Pippy, sirs. Two ales, coming up.”
Within moments two ales were planted in front of them that should have had gravity sloshing it over the table but didn’t. “Thank you, Pippy. Have you seen Evie about?”
