Pippy pushed her dirty dark-blonde hair from her eyes and set her hands at her hips. “You mean Dr. Holks’s stuffy daughter? Pfft. She left town months ago. Fancied herself in love with—”
“That’s enough, Pippy. Ye got other customers.” The bark shot from behind the bar in a growl.
“That answers a couple of questions,” Brock said softly. “There are no other customers.”
Kimpton threw back his ale. “Can’t be too difficult to locate a local doc by the name of Holks.” He chucked a couple of coins on the table and rose.
Outside, dusk was setting, the sun low in the sky from the direction they’d ridden into town. “What do you say we head to Maldon and see what’s near that brook you mentioned?”
Kimpton nodded. “That is all well and good, but I think we need to see if anyone can direct us to the good doctor,” he said, tapping his horse in motion to lead the way.
Brock tugged at his cuffs. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something odd about this place. I don’t relish staying here.”
Kimpton grunted and led the way down a trodden dirt road past a small cemetery.
The church next door was the focal point. The village, while small, was spread wide. A few people milled about, but it appeared most of the populous were likely snug in their homes. Silent, but for the hooves clopping on the hardened path, Brock set back into his mount’s rhythm, his thoughts anything but. Each one was filled with a vision of Ginny’s rich mahogany locks splayed across his pillow, her willowy form writhing beneath him with responses he’d taken for granted a decade ago. His breeches grew decidedly uncomfortable, forcing him to shift in the saddle. He clenched the supple leather of the reins between his fingers, knowing every moment away from her afforded another greedy lord the opportunity to steal her away yet again. Griston courting her had Brock quelling an urge to hit someone.
“Brock, hold up a minute. Look there.”
Startled, Brock’s attention snapped to his surroundings. “What?” He didn’t see anything but a small shop closed up for the night with a couple of paintings in the window.
“Do you see them? That’s Harlowe’s work. I’d stake my life on it. He was here. Let’s find that doctor.”
Brock stopped a wiry, weathered fellow lumbering his way down a woodened walk toward the tavern.
It didn’t take long.
“Doc’s dead,” he said. “Ye might learn more from the old man’s sister. Just follow the road south of town toward Maldon. Small cottage near the bridge. Cain’t miss it.”
Thankfully, the house was just where the man said it would be, as darkness had completely fallen. By the time they reached the cottage, only dim candlelight from a front-facing grimy window guided them through a neglected garden that had Brock picking briar from the knees of his breeches.
An elderly woman cracked the door at Kimpton’s brisk knock. She peered around the edge, her gray hair poking from her limp lace cap. The bit of her drab gown visible appeared patched. “Evening, madam. We’re looking for Dr. Holks’s daughter, Evie.”
“She left town soon as her papa expired. Ain’t heard hide nor hair of her since. What do ye want with that ungrateful wretch?”
Brock clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Might we come in and sit a minute?” She studied them through the narrowed space. “We’re not here to make trouble, ma’am.”
“I ain’t got no tea or nothin’,” she said grudgingly.
Brock gave her his most winsome smile. “Excellent, madam.” He wanted this business done to get back to Ginny. “We mean you no harm.” He pushed gently but firmly on the door and stepped over the threshold. “We’re not here for refreshments.”
Kimpton followed him. “We understand Miss Evie nursed an unconscious man back to health. Our primary interest is in that man’s whereabouts.”
“Her name’s Evelyn. She found him all right. Her and her papa nursed him back to health. Well, as much as could be expected. He done gone and lost his mind, he did.”
Kimpton seemed almost in a panic. Harlowe, Lady Kimpton’s brother, had been missing for over a year, and after Kimpton and Brock stumbled across Harlowe’s murdered valet, Brock knew Kimpton was doing his level best to locate the man. No one wanted to tell one’s wife her only sibling had died. “Lost his mind?”
“Couldn’t remember a bloomin’ thang. Not his name, where he’d come from. Nothin’.”
Brock thought about the odd series of paintings he and Kimpton had found after Harlowe’s disappearance. Most, not all, depicted notorious traitors from history: Judas, Brutus, Guy Fawkes, and an adulteress kissing one man whilst looking at another on the docks at Dover before he sailed for Calais. And oddly, each showing a scythe somewhere within said work. Like the gates of the infamous Tower, its scythe prominently displayed in the iron. Looking back on the whole scenario, it was easy to see Harlowe had been on to some scheme regarding a traitor—up until the painting of the woman at Dover.
Brock had finally realized most of the works pointed back to Maudsley. The man had been an ingrate. He’d treated his dogs better than his wife and children. Brock flexed his fingers with an urge to drag Maudsley back from the dead so he could re-experience his violent death. Yet someone had beat him and Kimpton to the task, having shot the bastard just before they’d had arrived at Maudsley’s home last year. Irene had been drugged and kidnapped with no sign of the missing Lady Kimpton or baby Nathan. Thanks to Irene, they’d located the two locked in a hidden room in the wine cellar—terrified and no worse for wear. Brock cleared the memory, forcing himself to focus on the now.
“Imagine our surprise when he demanded paint. It ain’t cheap, ye know. Evie thought to help the man by letting him draw.”
“I’d be honored to reimburse you for his supplies,” Kimpton said.
Stunned at Kimpton’s words, her mouth dropped.
