Chapter 2
On the Rugby Road
“Now what?” Gordon Sommerton dusted dirt from his gloved hands and pulled at the torn shoulder of his coat.
“Stop complaining,” said his companion and schoolmate, James Lovelace. “Another wagon will be along soon, and you’ll see. This one will be an upstanding farmer instead of a bloody rogue. Did you see his eye after I planted him a facer?”
“At least you haven’t lost your hat,” Gordon grumbled.
“Ack. Don’t forget this was your idea.”
“And you’re the one who said transport would be easy. I’m the one who has a place for us to stay. Do you suppose they’re looking for us yet?”
“Mebbe. Edward promised to hold out under questioning as long as possible. But we’ll make Kettering in time to see the mill before they catch up to us. At least then they’ll finally agree to send us off to the army.”
“My uncle will never allow his heir to join up.”
* * *
15th December, Rugby School
“Damn your foolishness, Edward. Mother is missing.”
Fitzhenry Lovelace, Lord Loughton, gripped his younger brother’s coat and gave him a shake.
“Missing?” Real concern shone in the freckled face, and his voice had resonated with the squeaky crackling of his twelve years.
The day had been a bloody confusion of troubling messages and hard riding.
Accompanied by his brother-in-law, Simon, he’d left at dawn to meet up with his mother, the dowager Lady Loughton, and escort her from her inn to the Swillingstone estate.
He’d been hoping to surprise her; instead, as only Mother could arrange, he’d been the one knocked off kilter.
He’d run into one messenger from his brother George, who had stopped at their younger brothers’ school in Rugby, and then another from his loyal butler, Biggs who’d puzzled out that she was headed for the same destination.
Now here they were, in Rugby.
“Yes, missing,” Fitz said. “She was supposed to be coming here to fetch you and James.”
A maid appeared with a tray loaded with sandwiches, and George directed her to a cleared table.
“Fitz, Simon,” George said. “Take some refreshments and let’s think about how to proceed.”
His brother George was always the steady voice of reason. He and his wife Sophie had decided to leave earlier than expected from their home in Lancashire to gather up his stepson and younger brothers instead of having them travel on their own by stagecoach.
Simon filled a plate and handed it to Fitz. “I’ll warrant she went to Kettering to snatch up James herself. Woe betides him. Your mama is a formidable foe.”
James and one of his good friends had departed school on Sunday, sneaking away to attend a mill.
Fitz shoved a sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with gulp of small beer.
“Well, then,” he said. “I’m off to Kettering.”
“It will be dark before you reach there.” Simon shook his head. “I’m coming with you.”
“I will as well,” George said. “Sophie will keep a guard on Edward and Arthur at the inn.”
“No, George, you stay here in case… just in case. Send a messenger with any news.”
* * *
Near Kettering
15th December
By the time her coach approached the decent-sized inn on the outskirts of Kettering, the sun had disappeared behind a shield of clouds as gray as the pall covering Neda’s spirits.
The Hound and the Hare was the third inn they’d stopped at in this quest. Her polite inquiries at the others along the way had been fruitless.
Martin and her groom, Jasper, had questioned the ostlers at each location.
As to whether two boys of fourteen had passed through, he’d found no answers, but he’d learned that The Hound and the Hare was the inn closest to the farmer’s field where the boxing match was to take place.
When they arrived, the yard teemed with traveling chaises, phaetons, and curricles, and they waited long minutes before an ostler approached.
Neda pushed open the coach door, and Jasper hastened to put down the step.
“This must be the place,” Martin said. “Want as I should go in and ask, my lady, so as the young master isn’t embarrassed by his mama snatching him up by his neckcloth?”
She shook her head, anger stiffening her spine. “He ought to be embarrassed.” If she were a man, she’d thrash him. Perhaps Martin, as well. “And you’re impertinent. Be prepared to leave immediately as soon as I bring him out.”
“If they have a fresh change of cattle,” Martin said. “Horses can’t go on much further. Mayhap we can stay the night—”
The door of the inn opened, and noisy laughter poured out.
“My lady,” Martin leaned in, “let me do the snatching up. No telling what…men in their cups—”
“No.” Exasperation sparked in her, laced thoroughly with anger. “And we’ll not stay the night here.”
It had been a long day—a long year with her mischievous son. It was a wonder that Nancy’s husband, Simon, would allow him into his home after the antics James had pulled at the Midsummer’s Eve party that year. Itching powder in a duke’s clothing, of all things.
Never mind that Simon had forgiven Nancy, who’d been complicit in the caper. That was different. Simon had made her his duchess, and now she was carrying his child.
“I’ll see to this, Martin and then we’ll leave. Do your best about the horses. There will be a quieter inn a little further along the road where we may stop before night falls.”
Muttering and shaking his head, Martin turned and whispered to Jasper, who hastened after her protectively.
“I’ll just stay close while you make inquiries, my lady,” Jasper said.
The inn door was held open by a gentleman whose perfect waterfall knot had forked into two decidedly separate streams.
She drew her cloak tighter and set her face into a haughty mask. She was far past her prime, and a lady, and she’d managed to raise four spirited males to respectable manhood. She could do this.
As she reached the door, an older man with an apron—surely the innkeeper—rushed to meet her. “Let the lady pass, if you please, sir,” he said, leading her inside.
At least he’d seen that she was not some doxy coming in to accommodate a room full of rowdy drunks. And surely such women were much younger. She might look well enough, but she saw the wrinkles in her mirror every morning.
A rush of distinctly warm air hit her as she stepped onto the stone floor of the entry hall, along with the odors of damp wool, masculine cologne, spirits, and horse.
Gentlemen had spilled out from the tap room into the inn’s hall. As if running a gauntlet, Neda followed the innkeeper, conscious of giggles, whispers, and heated glances, while the proprietor chided the drunken oafs with gentle obsequiousness.
Christmas greenery festooned the doorways, adding the faintest woodsy scent to the atmosphere. As inns went, The Hound and the Hare would be a pleasant stop, if one could sweep out all the present guests.
He led her to a reception desk and bent his head confidentially. “I fear I have no rooms available, madame,” he said. “Bedchambers or private dining rooms.”
“Because of the prize fight?”
With a grimace and a frown, he sighed. “I had heard a rumor it was to be held, er, nearby.”
Prize fights were illegal. He was probably running his own betting book on the match.
“A rum piece of work it was too.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the speaker. A youngish man with glazed eyes had moved closer. More bosky faces filled the doorway to the tap room.
“Be assured,” Neda said, “I’m not seeking lodgings, nor am I planning to call in the justice of the peace.”
Likely the local justice of the peace had attended the fight, winking away any legal concerns.
“I’m looking for a very young man, traveling with another young friend.”
“I’m young,” the drunken lout said. “Will I do?”
Behind him, laughter erupted, catcalls, and other offers.
She corralled her temper and looked back at the innkeeper, lowering her voice. “My fourteen-year-old son, James Lovelace. Tall for his age, with blond hair. I don’t know his friend’s name. His brother, Lord Loughton, is very concerned.”
The innkeeper blanched at the mention of a title. “God’s truth, my lady, he’s not here. I’ve been working the tap all afternoon and I would have remembered.”
“Did you attend the fight yourself?”
The innkeeper’s cheeks bloomed with color, and he hesitated.
“Please. I just want to find him.”
“Not a big crowd today,” he said. “Weren’t any young ones there that I didn’t recognize.”
* * *
“Might at least have expected a second round,” Lindhorst’s tablemate grumbled. A middle-aged brewer from Kettering, he was one of a few men from the middling sort in this crowd of popinjays and Corinthians.
Better dressed though, and slightly more sober.
“Did your man win?” Lindhorst asked. “I barely made it in time to see the knockout punch.”
When he’d finally reached The Hound and the Hare and hastened to the nearby field to survey the attending crowd, the fight had already begun.
When it ended too soon, the rowdy crowd of disappointed men retired to the tap room to while away the day and drown their sorrows.
He decided to join them before moving on to the next likely place.
The other fellow laughed. “That feisty Irishman is likely hightailing it back to Ireland before his opponent has the chance to die.”
A commotion in the entry hall had heads turning and excitable men shoving their way to an attraction outside the barroom door.
“There’s a well-rigged frigate asking about a boy,” someone called.
“Send her in. I have a lap for her.”
“A proper lady, a prime article, not a whore.”
“Then why’s she here?”
“I told you, she’s looking for a lad.”
“Is she pretty? Here I am.”
“Pretty enough if you like them your ma’s age.”
Words and fragments of phrases reached Lindhorst, tickling his intuition.
“Blonde,” someone called.
“No higher than a…”
“Son is Lord Lough…”
He tossed a few coins on the table, bid the brewer farewell, and strode toward the door, jostling drunken fools out of the way. By the time he’d elbowed his way through the gawkers, he found the innkeeper stepping back inside from the cold.