Chapter One
The world had contracted to a dark box and an irregular dance of rattles and jolts. And pain. Every inch of Lawrence’s body—from his tired feet to his spasming back—ached, smarted, or throbbed. He’d always made a poor traveler, and with every year that passed, his body objected more.
The carriage lurched to an abrupt stop. The coachman shouted at the groom, who yelled back.
Lawrence couldn’t tell what they were saying, but it was clear that something had gone wrong.
He reluctantly opened his eyes and tried to shake himself awake, stomping his feet to restore life to slumbering nerves.
When the door to the carriage swung open, Lawrence’s groom greeted him with a woeful face.
“Broken axle?” Lawrence suggested, hoping to forestall the excessive apologies that had been his lot ever since he ascended to his cousin’s title.
“Nothing as bad as that, Your Grace,” Jenkins assured him. “But there’s flooding in some parts o’ the road and Robertson can’t see well enough to drive any further. He says we’d best stop here.”
“Where is here?” Lawrence squinted into the rain, but could see little more than a hazy glow shining through the windows of an unfamiliar building.
“An inn north of Doncaster,” Jenkins replied. “Here’s hoping they have room, eh?”
“Here’s hoping they have Miss Pinkerton-Smythe,” Lawrence grumbled. If he caught his niece now, it might not be too late to hush up her elopement.
“She might well be here. They couldn’t have gotten far in this rain.”
He had a point, Lawrence supposed. The keeper at the last tollgate was fairly certain he’d seen Sally pass in a chaise, shortly followed by a rider who matched Captain Craven’s description. Lawrence had been only a couple of hours behind them, and he’d probably decreased the gap since then.
Lawrence stepped down from the carriage and sloshed through puddles toward the hulking darkness of the inn. A porter who must have been watching through a window opened the front door for him.
The moment he stepped inside, Lawrence’s glasses fogged up.
He blinked and turned his head in a hopeless attempt to examine his surroundings.
A dull roar assaulted his ears; the public room must be doing good business tonight.
The smell of something savory from the kitchen reminded his stomach how long it had been since he last ate.
A strong voice broke into his confusion. “Welcome to the Hart and Hind! How may we be of service, sir?”
Lawrence took off his glasses so he could see who addressed him. He beheld a tall, rather bonny woman of indeterminate age. Her hair had been scraped back into a severe bun, and her apron marked her as an employee.
“May I help you?” she repeated. “Do you require a meal? A room? A change of horses?”
By then, Lawrence had cleared the fog from his spectacles.
“I require information, if you please. I am looking for a young relative of mine—a girl of sixteen years. A young lady, I mean. She has brown hair and stands about so high.” He held a hand up to his chin, then lowered it a little.
Sally was a bit shorter than his own daughter.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And what might you want with this young lady, sir?”
Damn. Sally must have already told her side of the story. Or else the woman was naturally suspicious.
“Miss Pinkerton-Smythe has run away from home.” Lawrence employed the firm, confident voice he might have used in the courtroom. “I am her guardian, and I have come to collect her. She ought to be at home with her mother, not gallivanting about the countryside.”
He hoped that would convince the innkeeper that he was on the side of the angels. It ought to be obvious to anyone with good sense that a sixteen-year-old girl should not be traveling without a chaperone or guardian.
But the innkeeper’s suspicion did not abate. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? You might be a villain trying to kidnap that poor child for your own evil purposes.”
Lawrence drew a shaky breath, hoping to preserve his frayed nerves. “I am Miss Pinkerton-Smythe’s legal guardian. I assure you, I have only her best interests at heart.”
The innkeeper shook her head. “There’s no one here by the name of Pinkerton-Smythe. I am afraid you have the wrong inn.”
Hellfire! “My niece may be traveling under an alias,” Lawrence suggested. “She is not likely to use her own name. She must know she is being followed.”
The innkeeper put her hands on her hips and glared. “I am afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere, sir. Might I suggest The Black Swan? It is only a mile down the road.”
If the landlady wouldn’t help, it was time to change tactics. Lawrence shifted his senses, looking with his magical ability rather than his natural eyesight. He scanned the foyer for lingering magic.
Sure enough, traces of witchcraft or wizardry led through the foyer of the inn, leading into the public room.
A magician had come this way recently. Unfortunately, Lawrence’s magical sight was not keen enough to tell the difference between one type of magic and another.
Maybe the trail had been left by Captain Craven; maybe not.
He would never know unless he searched the inn.
“Might I at least have a hot drink while my coachman baits the horses?” He did not have to feign the longing glance he threw at the public room. Now that his stomach had settled from his travel, he was getting hungrier by the minute.
The innkeeper scanned him up and down, still looking doubtful. “Our private parlor has already been taken, sir. But if you are not too fine to dine in the common room, you are most welcome.”
“I am by no means too fine to dine in the public room,” he assured her. “All I ask is a hot drink and a bite to eat.”
The pub was so crowded, there was no chance of getting near the fire, but the room was at least warmer than the outside.
Lawrence took a seat in the quietest corner and loosened his greatcoat.
Though his stomach rumbled impatiently, he had not forgotten his real purpose.
He scanned the room with his magical sight, looking for any traces of Sally or her scoundrel of a suitor.
The trail of residual magic leading through the public room was so faint, he almost missed it.
When he squinted, he could trace it all the way to a closed door.
Someone had passed through the pub to another room.
The kitchen, maybe? If so, the trail might have been left by a resident witch or wizard.
The best public houses sometimes employed kitchen witches.
But no—a serving girl stepped through a doorway behind the bar, carrying a platter laden with dishes.
That must be the kitchen. The other door could lead to a storage room, or—Lawrence’s eyes widened as the server opened the mystery door and stepped inside.
He caught a glimpse of papered walls and a dancing fire before the door clicked shut.
Not a storage room, then. A coffee room or private parlor. In other words, the perfect place to search for Sally. He had only to wait for the right opportunity.
When the waitress emerged from the private parlor, she approached Lawrence to take his order. He briefly considered asking her who was in the other room, but decided against it. The innkeeper already seemed to distrust him. Better not to rouse further suspicions.
The waitress brought Lawrence a generous serving of steak-and-kidney pie.
Though he ate it all, he hardly noticed the taste.
He was too busy watching the parlor door, lest the room’s occupants slip away.
This resulted in him splashing ale onto his greatcoat, but he told himself that some sacrifices must be made for the greater good.
When he finally drained the last of his ale, Lawrence put his tankard down with a decisive thump.
Now was the time. Neither the serving maid nor the innkeeper were in sight.
The other guests had gathered around a game of checkers, commenting on each move.
No one in the pub noticed when Lawrence stalked to the parlor door, turned the handle, and slipped inside.