Chapter Fifteen
Dawn came fast. When Dalton entered the room and declared it was time to rise, he wanted to pout like a young lad and tell him, no, he was staying in bed.
Dalton had packed his bag the night before.
Since he was traveling on horseback, he could only bring what he needed most. He drank from a steaming cup of coffee and shoveled forkfuls of eggs from a plate Dalton held out while hurrying down the stairs.
“Everyone thinks I’m traveling to Danbury Estate.
If you need me, I left the inn’s information in my middle desk drawer.
Knight is remaining behind, and you can reach out to him if, God forbid, you have an emergency. ”
“Yes, my lord.”
Another forkful of eggs, and by then they were in the entry hall.
Greyson handed Henderson his empty cup. Oh, he almost forgot.
“Henderson, please tell the housekeeper to prepare a room for my cousin, Lady Colbourn. She will arrive sometime today to chaperone my sisters.” Thankfully, he had received a reply from his cousin just before retiring last evening.
“Yes, my lord.”
Henderson opened the door. Greyson descended the outside granite stairs and mounted Thorne. They made good traveling companions. He flicked the reins, and off they went to Club Knight, where Cooke waited for him. “Are we ready?” he asked when he arrived, pulling on the reins to make Thorne stop.
“Yes,” Cooke replied from atop his mount.
They rode at a fast pace, stopping every ten miles or so to tend to the horses and let them rest. Their first evening stop was a coaching inn called Houndstooth Hall, where they would spend the night. From the name, Greyson presumed the proprietors were Scottish.
Since it was the dinner hour, the taproom was filled with weary travelers. Knight was most proficient and had sent letters ahead requesting rooms for their travels. Greyson approached the middle-aged man behind the bar. “Are you the proprietor?”
The man paused while pouring an ale. “Aye. How may I help you?”
“I have two rooms booked under my name, Mr. James Barton.”
The man excused himself, entered a back room, and returned with a middle-aged, plump woman who looked frazzled as she wiped her hands on her soiled apron and looked at Greyson with tired, dark eyes. The proprietor asked, “Will you be wanting a bit of scran before you go upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Gentry room, ’tis there.” He pointed to a doorway across the room. “The missus will bring you scran.”
“Thank you,” Greyson said. He spoke briefly with Cooke, and they entered the private taproom, carrying their leather saddlebags.
A well-dressed couple with two small children sat at a round table before the small fireplace, which looked newly lit.
They settled at the only other table in the small room, placing their saddlebags beneath it.
“We made good time today,” Cooke said just as the proprietor’s wife, balancing a tray on her hip, approached. She set two tankards of ale, two bowls of stew with spoons, and two pieces of crusty bread on the wobbly table.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Cooke said.
“Thank you,” Greyson said as she hurried off.
He stared at what smelled and looked like rabbit stew.
His stomach growled, reminding him that since his hurried breakfast, he’d only eaten dried beef and an apple while riding, and he was famished.
He picked up the spoon and dug in. It wasn’t until he’d soaked up the last of the broth with his bread and finished it that he said anything to Cooke.
“That was good.” He picked up his ale and drained the tankard.
Cooke did the same after finishing eating. “Yes. It shut my stomach up. It wouldn’t stop growling the last mile we traveled.”
Greyson chuckled as he wiped his mouth with his hand. “I hope the missus comes back with our room keys. I don’t know about you, but my body’s sore from riding all day, and dawn will be here before we know it.”
She appeared several minutes later and said, “Follow me.”
Greyson and Cooke picked up their saddlebags and followed the lady up the narrow wooden staircase, which was surprisingly solid, to the second floor and the first doors on the right and left.
They always requested rooms closest to the stairs in case they had to get out in a hurry. Not something he anticipated tonight.
The owner’s wife unlocked and opened Cooke’s door on the left, then his on the right. “There is water and linens to wash. Clean bedding and logs for the hearth. All paid in advance.”
“Thank you,” Greyson said, and she went back down the stairs. “She seems well-spoken and English. I wonder how she ended up here.”
Cooke snorted. “I’m too exhausted to care. See you at dawn.”
Greyson entered his room, shut and locked the door.
First, he started the fire in the hearth to take the chill out of the room.
He washed up with cold water, a tiny clump of rough soap, and a small, clean cloth.
He stripped off his clothes and fell into bed.
His muscles ached, and he couldn’t wait to sleep, which came immediately.
The next day of travel was rough, with wind-driven rain soaking them to the skin.
The horses struggled on the muddy roads.
When the Great Grouse Inn came into sight, Greyson wanted to weep with joy.
The first thing he did when he entered his room was to set a fire in the hearth, strip off his muddy, wet clothing, and lay them near the hearth, hoping they would dry overnight.
Dressed in dry, clean clothes, he met Cooke downstairs in the small parlor for lords and gentry.
Tonight’s dinner was venison stew with a roll and ale.
They both had seconds of the stew and ale.
Greyson enjoyed the blaze from the stone hearth as it warmed his chilly bones.
“Today was brutal. I gave the stableboy extra coin to clean and brush down our horses and to provide additional feed and apples for a treat.”
“Good thinking,” Cooke said, holding his hands out toward the fire. “My mind was frozen along with my body.”
Since they were the only ones in the private parlor, Greyson shut the door and said, “We have roughly twenty miles to go tomorrow before we arrive at the Pheasant Lane Inn in Bristol. I have several names of mine owners and overmen who work for them. Hopefully, they are agreeable to meeting and discussing whether there’s any contention among their workers that could prompt a rebellion.
And if there’s talk of unrest, perhaps we can help them be heard peacefully.
” He paused and took a drink of his ale.
“Sometimes I wonder why Prinny formed the Black Knights.”
“I think we all do at times. The idea of the Black Knights is brilliant in theory. I believe Prinny loves the secrecy surrounding us. But wouldn’t it be easier and more productive to have his Dragoons do what we’re doing? Instead of having them work against us.”
“Agreed. Something we should address with Knight upon our return.” Greyson drained the last of his ale and stood. “Time to retire. I’ll see you at dawn.”
“Dawn,” Cooke mumbled.
Before Greyson climbed into bed, he poked the logs in the hearth, checked his still-damp clothes, and undressed. Then he fell into bed and into a dead man’s slumber.
Dawn came quickly, and they reached the Pheasant Lane Inn by ten in the morning Greyson already dreaded the return trip. Except he couldn’t wait to return and see Letitia. He’d thought about her almost nonstop during the quiet ride.
The proprietor expected them and escorted them to their rooms. The first thing Greyson did was strip down and wash up with soap and water as best he could to get the stench of the road and Thorne out of his hair and off his skin.
He buffed his skin dry with a large linen cloth and dressed in the only other pair of clean clothes he brought, dark-gray riding clothes.
He left his dirty clothing along with several coins on a wooden chair for the maid who cleaned the rooms to launder.
Knight, forever the planner, must have sent letters to the three owners who controlled all the mines in Bristol and to their overmen. Six notes awaited him at the inn. All six men agreed to meet tonight at eight in the private salon at the inn.
Greyson was relieved. He thought he and Cooke would be riding all over Bristol today, traveling from mine to mine, hunting down the six men. Now they could have a fine luncheon.
Eight came quickly. Greyson had ordered ale and refreshments for the men and expected them at any time. They trickled in two by two until everyone sat at a long banquet table in the center of the room. Greyson had given extra coin to the inn owner to have the room to themselves.
“Welcome. I’m James Barton, and my associate is Stuart Brown. We’ve come because we’re interested in purchasing mines in Somerset and have a few questions. I hope you, good gentlemen, will indulge us with our many questions as we research the profitability of owning such mines.”
The meeting lasted nearly two hours. Yes, the miners and owners were frustrated with the prices they received for their coal, but neither he nor Cooke sensed any planned rebellion forming.
They would spend another day or so investigating before Greyson felt confident enough to return to London and report their findings to Knight.
They needed to be absolutely certain that no rebellion was brewing in Bristol.