Chapter 3
“The lady,” Lindhorst said, squaring up on the innkeeper. “Where is she?”
“She’s just left, sir. Wouldn’t wait for fresh horses.”
“What was her name?”
“Sir, she’s a respectable… Her privacy… I wouldn’t want to…”
Lindhorst pressed a coin into the man’s hand. “I’m Lindhorst,” he said.
Though he himself hadn’t been recognized, the Earl of Lindhorst was well-known in these parts, more for ill than good, though the ill days of his father were long past. Past, but not forgotten among the wary locals.
“And if the lady is who I think she is, her eldest son is a friend,” he said. “He wouldn’t want one of these louts molesting her.”
The innkeeper looked down at the half-crown in his hand, his lips twitching as he came to his decision. “Lady Loughton,” he whispered. “Looking for her son of fourteen. Left school with a friend to… to, er, attend the event. Though I didn’t see the lad.”
Nor had he. Either lad.
“Where was she going next?”
“I sent her on to The George,” he said.
Lindhorst strode out, calling for his horse. Despite the lofty name, The George was two steps below The Hound and the Hare. Very few of these sporting so-called gentlemen would have gone there seeking shelter.
Would a pair of boys have ventured that far?
He knew Lady Loughton’s son James, a lad only slightly more badly behaved than his own nephew and heir, Gordon Sommerton.
Gordon was James’s friend and schoolmate and the named subject of the letter sent by express and stowed in his very pocket. He’d been silently cursing the lad for disrupting his visit to Swillingstone’s house party.
Perhaps now he would thank him.
* * *
Neda pulled the carriage blanket higher, regretting that the hot bricks at her feet had grown frigid. Though it was still the afternoon, the gloom had thickened. There would be rain, or if it continued to grow colder, snow. With perhaps ice in between.
The tired horses had slowed to a mere walk and now stopped. She peered out but saw no evidence of an inn or other dwelling.
“Why are we stopping?” she called up to Martin.
A horse appeared next to her window, the rider swathed in a many-caped great coat, with a tall beaver shading his face.
The man brought his mount closer, and she lowered the window and strained to hear the words he exchanged with her coachman.
A shiver went through her, the low baritone setting her nerves on edge.
Jasper appeared at her window. “His lordship says The George ain’t safe for a lady alone.”
“Lord who?” she asked.
Jasper stepped aside and another face appeared. “Lindhorst, my dear.”
Lindhorst.
Oh feathers, of all the gentlemen offering help, why must it be him?
“At your service, my lady. I happened to be at the inn you just left and learned from the innkeeper about your quest.”
Nerves jangling, her mind raced with alarm and… questions. “You attended the boxing match?”
“I happened upon it just as it was ending. And no, your son was not there. I can also affirm that I did not see him among the crowd at The Hound and the Hare.”
She nodded. “Martin, let’s push on. Good day to you, my lord.”
Lindhorst eyed her a too-long moment, and then his face crinkled in the dimpled smile that ladies found so charming.
Heaven help her—that she found charming as well.
He disappeared from her view and as the carriage rolled forward, she leaned back against the squab and pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to stop pounding, willing the warmth Lindhorst always incited to cool.
Yes, she was charmed, and truth to tell, a bit relieved to have more than Martin and Jasper to help her. What if…
She squeezed her eyes shut. No, Neda Lovelace was, for heaven’s sakes, respectable; responsible. She had children who were still young. She couldn’t shame her boys by engaging in a mad fling. Couldn’t and wouldn’t, and that was that.
* * *
When they arrived at The George, Lindhorst dismounted and went to open the coach door before the groom could reach it.
A few gentlemen’s gigs crowded in with humble carts and wagons, and the sound of raucous laughter signaled that the crowd here might be even less refined than the one at The Hare and Hound.
He might have galloped ahead and talked to the innkeeper before her coach pulled into the innyard, but he knew that would win him no points with Neda. And he desperately wanted those points.
Lindhorst yanked the door open, and she edged forward on her seat.
“My lady,” he said, blocking her exit, “will you allow me to make the inquiries while you wait here?”
“He’s my son. This is my mission, not yours.”
The inn door burst open, a roar pierced the air, and bodies tumbled out. Two men had stripped off their coats and begun thrashing each other, while a circle of others stood at a distance exchanging bets and calling encouragement.
She frowned and looked up at him. “This is just the sort of place James might frequent. Perhaps you could accompany me? If you’ll but put down the step?”
Instead of dropping the step, he reached in and scooped her out, carefully depositing her on a dry spot in the innyard.
“At least they’re not blocking the door,” he said, ignoring her irate expression.
Setting a protective hand at her waist, he put himself between her and the informal mill, and they skirted the group of fighters and watchers.
Inside, The George was as he’d remembered it from previous stops, a sagging, half-timbered Elizabeth structure in need of a new roof and paint.
The innkeeper came around the bar to greet them. With most of the crowd outside for the fisticuffs, the only remaining patrons were passed out from drink or were wavering on the cusp of oblivion.
“Sir,” he said, bowing. “Madam.”
The innkeeper had assessed her attire and bearing and donned a measure of respectfulness. At least the man knew a lady of quality when he saw her.
“Well if it ain’t Lindhorst.”
The greeting came from one of a pair of young bucks.
Lindhorst sighed. Stewart Chaney lolled on a bench at a nearby table, next to another drunken lout, Horace Pickworth, much younger brother of the execrable Elliot Pickworth.
Younger sons of peers, they’d been let loose on the town to sow their wild oats until their fathers pulled in the reins and packed them off to the army, the church, or the inns of court.
Lindhorst turned his fiercest frown on them, the one he’d had occasion to use on Gordon.
Chaney, leaned from his seat, blowing beer breath and almost falling before righting himself. “Brought one of your doves,” he said in a stage whisper.
Pickworth laughed.
Lindhorst, his hand still at her waist, felt Neda stiffening.
“Here now,” the innkeeper said, turning on the two young bucks. “I’ll not have you—”
“Allow me.” Lindhorst cut off the innkeeper’s rebuke, abandoned Neda to his care, and yanked Chaney out of his seat.
Astonishment lit the lad’s face as Lindhorst steadied him. Pickworth, a hair more sober, wobbled to his feet, looking almost as surprised.
“Don’t mind him, Lindhorst,” Pickworth said. “He’s spoony. Don’t know what he’s saying.”
Chaney giggled.
Lindhorst gave him a little shake. “Does he have the wits to apologize?”
“He does. Don’t you, Chaney? Tell his lordship you’re sorry. I ain’t in no condition to serve as your second.”
“Wha-at?” Chaney teetered, almost falling backward.
“You are sorry you insulted the lady,” Lindhorst said.
“Lady? Who?”
Lindhorst sighed and let go. Chaney staggered, clung to the bench, and tipped it over, before struggling to stand again.
Chaney’s father was a high stickler, not a particular friend, but nevertheless they were on speaking terms. “Your father and I—”
“No, no, no,” Chaney said. “Not the old man. Don’t tell him. Please. Sorry. Sorry, my lord, madam.”
Lindhorst felt a tug on his arm.
“Leave it,” Neda said, turning to the innkeeper. “I’m looking for my son. He’s a bit younger than those two,” she waved a hand, “but I fear just as silly. Tall for his age. He was traveling with another lad to attend the prize fight. Have you seen him?”
He frowned, scratching his head. “No, madam. Even in this crowd I would have noticed them. Did you want a room, er rooms? I’m afraid mine are all taken, though mayhap some one of these fellows will give one up.”
“Could they have gone somewhere else?” Neda asked.
“There’s The Hound and the Hare—”
“We’ve come from there.”
Her voice had taken on a strained note, and the innkeeper noticed.
“I’m sure there’s no need to worry. Further down the road you’ll reach The Wild Stag. But will you sit a moment and take some, er, refreshments first?”
Neda did look pale, but they wouldn’t stay a moment longer than necessary in this place.
“Send hot drinks out for the lady’s coachman and groom. Something hot for the lady, and a basket of food as well.” Lindhorst leaned in, close to her ear. “I know the place,” he said.
He tossed coins on the bar. “Those drinks and victuals right away, landlord. Come, my dear, before that crowd returns inside.”
He hurried her to the coach and helped her in. A fine drizzle had started, the air had grown noticeably colder, and she was unexpectedly quiet.
Before he closed the door, she gripped his hand. “Lindhorst—”
“No. We won’t worry yet. Or at all.”
Frowning, she opened her mouth for what might be a tongue-lashing, but the innkeeper and a maid carrying steaming mugs interrupted them, promising to bring the food basket forthwith.
“Drink up. I daresay your lad is not so foolish that he can’t find shelter.” And there was shelter nearby. The boys would easily find their way there before freezing to death.
The fight outside had broken up, and curious eyes were turning their way. Worse, he spotted Pickworth approaching.
He reached in and squeezed her free hand. “I know another likely place to look,” he said. “Please trust me.” Closing the door, he signaled the coachman to wait a moment for the innkeeper’s wife who was hurrying their way with the basket.