It was early afternoon when Beck rode into the George’s small innyard. He was tired and discouraged. The news about Elise Lanscarr was not reassuring.
At the last posting inn down the road, he’d heard of Monday’s crash. They claimed there had been no survivors. The Mail had been running behind, the coachman had pushed it, and he had wrecked his vehicle in a nasty storm.
No one from the inn had remembered seeing Elise on the coach, which was unusual. He’d had no trouble tracing her path out of London. She was alone and beautiful. People noticed. Men noticed. Gwendolyn had also drawn a fairly good likeness in a pencil sketch for him to share. It had been a great help.
But this news of a crash? Of no survivors—?
He had no wish to tell Gwendolyn that her sister was dead. Then again, Beck had learned over the years to never assume the whereabouts of anyone. People started off in one direction, changed their minds, and took off in another.
He didn’t think this of Elise. What he remembered about Miss Lanscarr, beyond her singular beauty, was her willful determination. The young woman had a firm belief in what she wanted and what she didn’t want. If she said she was on her way to Ireland, then he had no doubt she was.
But there was always the chance that someone he spoke to had just not recognized her.
There was even the possibility that rumors and gossip about the accident could be incorrect. And considering the stakes—Gwendolyn—he was determined to ferret out the truth.
The stable master took the reins of Beck’s horse. Beck pressed a coin into his hand. “Rub him down and give him grain.”
“Aye, sir.”
“By the way, my name is Steele. I’m searching for someone.” He’d learned long ago to never play with subterfuge when a direct inquiry was faster and more effective. He took the picture from his coat. “This young woman. She is missing. Her family is very concerned. Have you seen her?”
The stable master shook his head. “Not that I recognize. My father is the innkeeper. You might ask him. It’s just me and a lad here most times.You know what that means. I’m too busy working to see who is coming and going much.”
“I understand. Thank you.” Beck walked into the building. It was a pleasant place with flowers in the boxes and a fresh coat of paint on the stone structure. There were a few patrons in the inn’s one main taproom.
The innkeeper’s name was Sarver. He was happy to serve Beck a tankard and a mutton chop. Once Beck felt settled, he looked around and threw out a statement in a general way to the patrons around him. “I hear there was a coaching accident the other night.”
A man who had the arms of a smithy said, “Aye, no survivors.”
“There were survivors,” said a man who sat beside his wife, who was knitting. “A young couple. Ask Sarver.”
“I didn’t hear tell of any,” the smithy argued.
At that moment, the innkeeper came out with his chop. Beck drew out the picture. “We were talking about the coach accident the other night. Some say there were no survivors and say some there were.”
“There were survivors,” Sarver assured him.
“Do tell? Was this young woman one of them? She’s hard to forget. Her family is most anxious for her return.”
Sarver barely looked at the picture. “She could be a number of women.” The smithy and the couple came over to look as well.
“You can’t tell anything with a pencil drawing,” the woman agreed. “What color are her eyes?”
“Blue. The color is so bright they can rob a man of speech.”
She nodded. “If you are looking for blue eyes, you might mean that lass that was in here last night.”
A look crossed the innkeeper’s face as if he wished she hadn’t mentioned the woman. Interesting.
“The one who ruined the game?” the smithy asked. “I heard Rawley was furious about that.”
“Rawley made out better with the game being disrupted than if we’d kept playing,” the man with the knitting woman answered. His dark hair was streaked with gray. The others laughed their agreement.
Beck felt hope. “Do you know where the woman is now?”
Sarver answered, “She and her husband were heading to Liverpool.”
“Her husband?”
