Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“Your Grace, we’ve found him,” his butler announced, appearing in the study doorway with uncharacteristic urgency. “Mr. Blackwood’s man has returned with information about Lord Mallingham.”
Leo’s head snapped up from the maps he’d been studying since dawn. His fingers, which had been tracing possible routes to Thornfield, stilled on the parchment.
“Bring him in.” His voice carried the sharp edge of command that brooked no delay.
The butler hesitated, glancing briefly toward the hallway. “He’s… not presentable, Your Grace. Perhaps the servants’ entrance—”
“I care nothing for presentation. Bring him to me now.”
The butler bowed and withdrew.
Moments later, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hallway. Leo straightened, squaring his shoulders as he prepared to finally obtain concrete information about his wayward cousin.
The man who entered bore little resemblance to gentility.
Dirt smudged his face, his clothes hung loose on his thin frame, and his eyes darted nervously around the study as though seeking escape routes.
Behind him, Blackwood’s trusted lieutenant stood guard, his imposing presence ensuring compliance.
“Your name?” Leo demanded.
“Thomas Fletcher, Your Grace.” The man’s fingers twisted nervously around the brim of the cap he clutched. “I ain’t done anythin’ wrong.”
Leo rounded his desk slowly, deliberately, each step measured to heighten the man’s discomfort. “That remains to be determined, Mr. Fletcher. I understand you’ve recently come into a substantial sum of money.”
Fletcher’s eyes widened. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Your Grace.”
“Don’t you?” Leo kept his voice soft. “My men saw you purchasing a fine new coat just yesterday. Quite an extravagance for a man of your… position. And then there is the matter of drinks bought for an entire tavern in Southwark.”
“A man can’t have a bit of luck?” Fletcher protested weakly.
Leo stopped before him, close enough that the smaller man had to crane his neck. “Luck, Mr. Fletcher, rarely visits those who betray their friends.”
Fletcher’s face paled. “I don’t know—”
“Anna Finley,” Leo interrupted coldly. “She sent you to check on the Marquess of Mallingham. What did you tell her?”
Fletcher’s eyes darted to the door, where Blackwood’s man stood implacable. “I told her the truth! That he was gone, vanished like—”
“A lie,” Leo cut in, his voice dropping to a whisper that nonetheless filled the room. “You saw him, didn’t you? And someone paid you to keep that information to yourself.”
A movement at the door caught Leo’s attention. Beatrice stood on the threshold, her expression a careful mask that nonetheless couldn’t quite conceal her concern.
Their eyes met briefly, and something passed between them—understanding, perhaps, or determination.
Without a word, she entered and sat in the chair near the window, her presence lending weight to the proceedings.
Fletcher licked his lips nervously as his eyes darted between them. “I didn’t mean any harm. For a man in my position, when someone offers gold—”
“Who paid you?” Leo demanded, his patience evaporating.
“I never s-saw his face p-properly,” Fletcher stammered. “Kept his hat low, spoke all fancy. But the coin was real enough.”
“And what did this mysterious man pay you to conceal?”
Fletcher hesitated, fidgeting more frantically with his cap until Leo feared the brim might disintegrate entirely.
“I saw him,” he whispered finally. “Lord Mallingham. The night he disappeared. He wasn’t alone.”
Leo exchanged a quick glance with Beatrice, whose back had straightened at the confirmation.
“Continue,” he commanded.
“There were two men with him. Big fellows, the rough sort. Not the kind of gentlemen he usually keeps company with.” Fletcher swallowed hard. “They had a carriage waiting—a plain one, with no markings. His Lordship didn’t look willing, but he didn’t resist either.”
“Was he injured?” Beatrice’s voice was steady, though Leo detected the undercurrent of concern.
Fletcher’s gaze flicked to her, surprise evident at being directly addressed by a duchess. “No, Your Grace. He looked pale, worried, but was walking on his own.”
“And their destination?” Leo pressed.
“Heard one of ‘em mention Surrey,” Fletcher admitted. “Something about a quiet country stay. Lord Mallingham didn’t look pleased with the idea.”
Leo moved to his desk and took several gold sovereigns out of the top drawer.
“You will leave London,” he ordered, placing the coins before him.
“Today. You will speak of this to no one. If I learn you’ve shared this information with anyone else—particularly Lord Westbury or his associates—you’ll find my displeasure far costlier than any bribe they might offer. ”
Fletcher’s eyes widened at the gold, then at the implied threat. “Yes, Your Grace. I understand perfectly.”
“My butler will see you out,” Leo concluded, dismissing him with a nod.
As the door closed behind Fletcher, Leo turned to Beatrice, who had risen from her seat, her expression thoughtful.
“Thornfield,” she said softly. “Just as I suspected.”
“It appears your memory has proven invaluable, Duchess.” He hesitated, then added, “Philip may not be there voluntarily.”
“Westbury has him,” she concluded, her face paling slightly. “But why keep him alive? If Philip heard something incriminating…”
“Leverage, perhaps,” Leo suggested, moving to stand beside her near the window. “Or he’s seeking information. Philip may know more than Westbury realizes.”
The afternoon sun caught in her dark curls, transforming them to burnished copper. The sight momentarily distracted him, evoking memories of her appearance at the garden folly the previous day—the widening of her eyes, the flush that had spread from her cheeks down to her elegant throat.
He forced his mind back to the matter at hand.
“I leave for Surrey within the hour,” he announced, turning away from the window. “Blackwood’s men will accompany me. We should reach Thornfield by nightfall.”
“I’m coming with you,” Beatrice stated, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Leo’s jaw tightened. “Absolutely not. This is no longer a matter of simple inquiry. If Westbury has Philip under guard, there may be violence.”
“Philip is my friend,” she countered, lifting her chin in that gesture of defiance that simultaneously irritated and intrigued him. “I will not sit idly by while you determine his fate.”
“This is not a debate, Duchess.”
“Indeed, it is not,” she agreed, surprising him. “It is simply a fact. I am coming with you. Philip trusts me; he may be more willing to cooperate if he sees a friendly face.”
“And I take it I am no friendly face?” he asked out of compulsion, feeling that twinge of annoyance at her insistence on seeing his cousin.
It was irrational, and he knew he should not be feeling so, but he could not stop the monster from wheedling through his ribcage.
Beatrice harrumphed and folded her arms. “I made no such assertions, Your Grace.” Her tone conveyed her stubbornness, as ever.
It was quite a wonder how much obstinacy she could fit into that body of hers. A quality he couldn’t say he didn’t respect, at this point.
Leo studied her for a long moment.
“Ha,” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. “Very well,” he conceded, wondering even as he spoke what madness had possessed him to agree.
“We cannot continue in this weather,” Leo told her as the rain pattered hard against the roof of their carriage.
Their search for Philip had acquired fresh urgency following Fletcher’s revelation. It was compelling enough information to prompt their immediate departure despite the threatening skies.
Leo gestured toward a modest structure visible through the streaming windows. “The Hare and Hound. Not the accommodation I would have chosen, but necessity leaves us little choice.”
“Any shelter is preferable to drowning in this downpour,” Beatrice replied, gathering her traveling cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “And your horses deserve some rest.”
After they hopped off the carriage, they rushed into the inn.
The common room buzzed with chatter and laughter, travelers huddled over mugs and warm fires, boots squelching on the wet floor. Damp wool clung to their shoulders, and the smell of ale and woodsmoke mixed with the storm that still clung to them.
Outside, rain lashed the windows, but inside, the room throbbed with the ordinary chaos of strangers trapped by the tempest. They moved through it, following the trail of a gentleman reported heading toward Surrey, each step urgent despite the storm.
Leo approached the innkeeper, a stout man whose florid complexion suggested a liberal sampling of his establishment’s spirits.
“Three rooms for the night,” he requested. “One for myself, one for my wife, and one for my driver.”
The innkeeper’s face tightened, and he spread his hands helplessly. “I’m sorry, My Lord, but there are only two rooms left. One single above the kitchen, and a double at the far end. The storm’s got the place full.”
Beatrice noted the faint tightening of Leo’s jaw, a small sign of displeasure she had come to recognize in their short time together.
“Very well,” Leo conceded after a moment’s consideration. “We shall take both rooms. Prepare the single one for my driver, and the other for my wife and me. Have dinner prepared and sent up to both rooms, along with firewood and additional blankets.”
The innkeeper nodded with evident relief, having clearly anticipated a less accommodating response. “Of course, sir. Right away.”
“One more thing,” Leo added. “Two buckets for bathing—one filled with hot water, the other with ice, if you have it.”
The innkeeper’s eyes widened at the unusual request, but he quickly swallowed his surprise. “As you like, sir. Though I should say, there isn’t much ice, what with the season…”
“Cold water then, directly from the well,” Leo amended. “The colder, the better.”
Their driver accepted the key to the single chamber with murmured thanks before heading upstairs to his room after securing the horses.
Beatrice followed her husband up the narrow staircase, the worn wooden treads creaking beneath their weight.
The corridor stretched before them, illuminated by sputtering tallow candles whose uncertain light cast strange shadows over the whitewashed walls.
At its end stood the door to their shared room.
Shared. Which meant one bed for both.
The door opened into a modest, neatly kept room. The ‘double’ bed looked barely wide enough for two; Leo’s broad frame would take up most of it.
Beatrice gulped.
“Well,” Leo drawled, slight amusement lacing his voice, “it appears we will be better acquainted here.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to respond, but a knock at the door announced the arrival of a young maid bearing the requested bathing supplies, and the moment was cut short.
The maid entered, her gaze darting between Beatrice and Leo with poorly concealed curiosity as she deposited two wooden buckets—one steaming, the other not—alongside soap, towels, and a folded screen that offered at least the illusion of privacy.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked.
“That will be all,” Leo dismissed her, removing his traveling coat and draping it over a nearby chair.
Once the door clicked shut, Beatrice felt the weight of being alone with him. The storm rattled the windows, rain hammering against the panes, while the small room seemed to shrink around them, the air crackling with tension.
“You should bathe first,” Leo said. “The hot water will cool down, eventually.”
Beatrice felt heat rise to her cheeks at the mere suggestion of being naked in his presence.
“No, thank you,” she managed, her voice more breathless than she had intended. “I am quite comfortable as I am.”
A smile played at the corners of his mouth, transforming his severe features with unexpected warmth. “As you wish. Though I should note that the prospect of a cold bath becomes considerably less appealing as the evening progresses.”
When she didn’t budge, he shrugged and went about undressing.
Beatrice’s eyes widened.