Chapter 2
The village of Llandrindod Wells sat in a valley between two mountains, a collection of stone houses huddled around a church and a tavern like sheep seeking shelter from a storm.
Oliver and Webb arrived on the fifth day of their journey, mud-splattered and weary, as the sun began its descent behind the western peaks.
The tavern—The Red Dragon, according to a weathered sign that creaked in the wind—was the largest building in the village after the church.
Oliver pushed open the door to find a low-ceilinged room thick with pipe smoke and the smell of ale.
Conversation stuttered as they entered, then resumed at a lower volume, the locals eyeing them warily.
Oliver chose a table near the fire, close enough for warmth but positioned so he could see the door. Old habits from the war. Webb settled across from him, his back to the wall, his eyes already cataloging the room’s occupants.
A young serving girl approached, perhaps sixteen years, with dark hair and downcast eyes. Oliver ordered two ales and a meal in his careful Welsh which couldn’t hide his Englishness, watching her reaction. She nodded without speaking and scurried away.
“We’re five miles from Penharrow’s hunting lodge,” Webb said quietly in English, hoping no one here would understand. “According to the innkeeper’s wife two villages back, this is the nearest settlement. His servants come here for supplies.”
“Then this is where we start asking questions.” Oliver leaned back as the girl returned with their ales. He smiled at her—nothing forward, just friendly—and she flushed, glancing away quickly. “What’s your name?”
She looked confused, then a woman behind the bar—her mother, judging by the resemblance—called out something sharp in Welsh. The girl bobbed a curtsy and fled.
“Protective,” Webb observed.
“Can’t blame them.” Oliver took a drink of the ale. It was rough, bitter, but cold and welcome after the day’s ride. “We’re English strangers in a village that’s probably learned to fear strangers or fear talking to them because of Penharrow.”
They ate in relative silence, but Oliver was listening.
The conversations around them were in Welsh, he struggled to keep up but tone also carried meaning.
He caught Penharrow’s name twice, both times spoken in voices that dropped to whispers.
He heard laughter cut short, saw men glance at the door nervously as if expecting the Earl himself to materialize.
After the meal, Oliver approached the bar where the serving girl’s mother was wiping down the counter. She looked up, her expression guarded.
“We’re looking for a place to stay,” Oliver said slowly, enunciating clearly. “A room for a few nights while we survey the area.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Survey?” She spoke English.
“Land survey. We represent interests in England looking to invest in Welsh property.”
It was a thin story, but it was the one they’d agreed upon. Surveyors had reason to be anywhere, to ask questions about the land, to observe without being observed.
The woman studied him for a long moment, then jerked her head toward the stairs. “One shilling a night. Each. Includes breakfast.”
It was highway robbery, but Oliver paid without argument. Money bought privacy, and privacy bought time to gather information.
Their room was barely large enough for two narrow beds, but it had a window overlooking the village square and, more importantly, a view of the road leading north that, according to Webb’s information, led to Penharrow’s hunting lodge.
Oliver stood at that window as darkness fell, watching the village settle into night. Lamps were extinguished early here. No waste of expensive oil or candles. By nine o’clock, the only light came from the tavern below and the church across the square.
“Tomorrow,” Oliver said, still watching the darkened street, “we start asking about the lodge. See if anyone here works at the lodge. People talk to each other, especially in small villages. If we can find someone who works there, or knows someone who does—”
“We might learn the layout,” Webb finished. “Guard rotations. Penharrow’s schedule.”
“Exactly. But I suspect it’s not going to be easy. The people are afraid of the Earl.”
The next morning brought their first real intelligence, and it came from an unexpected source.
Oliver was in the stable, checking on their horses, when he heard an old woman speaking Welsh to the stable hand. He recognized one word—Megan.
He turned casually, as if he’d just finished with his horse, and saw her in a worn cloak, her face deeply lined, her hands gnarled with age. She was gesturing toward the north road, speaking rapidly to the younger man who was shaking his head, looking uncomfortable.
Oliver approached slowly. “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”
Both of them turned, startled. The stable hand’s face closed off immediately, but the old woman studied Oliver with shrewd eyes.
“Some,” she said finally, her accent thick. “You are the English surveyors, yes?”
Word traveled fast. “Yes, ma’am. Oliver Somerset, at your service.” He gave her a small bow, the kind of respectful gesture that transcended language and class.
She smiled slightly, appreciating the courtesy. “Mrs. Griffiths. I keep house at the Earl’s hunting lodge.” She said it without pride, just a statement of fact.
Oliver’s pulse quickened, but he kept his expression politely interested. “The Earl of Penharrow? We’ve heard his name. Quite a prominent landowner in these parts, I understand. Perhaps I should beg an introduction as he owns much of the land around here.”
“Prominent.” Mrs. Griffiths made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been something darker. “Yes. That is a word for it.”
She studied him carefully, and Oliver had the uncomfortable sense of being assessed, weighed, judged. This was no simple housekeeper. There was intelligence in those old eyes, and wariness, and something else. Desperation, perhaps?
“I was just telling young David here,” she continued, gesturing to the stable hand, “that I need to send a message to my sister in Welshpool. I must get back to my charge, Miss Megan. The Earl doesn’t like his staff to be away from the lodge for long.”
The implication hung in the air. She wanted something from him.
“I’m sure we’ll be passing through Welshpool on our survey,” Oliver said carefully. “If you’d like us to carry a message to your sister, we’d be happy to oblige.”
Mrs. Griffiths’s eyes glittered. “Would you? How kind.” She reached into her cloak and withdrew a sealed letter. “I would be very grateful. My sister worries about me, you see. Working in such an isolated place.”
Oliver took the letter, noting it was sealed but not with Penharrow’s crest. A personal letter, then. Or at least, meant to appear so.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Griffiths. Though I confess, I’m surprised the Earl keeps staff at a hunting lodge so far from London. Surely, he’s in Cardiff at this time of year given the threat of snow?”
“His Lordship is in London. Then he will likely go to his castle in Cardiff. But the lodge must be maintained, of course. And there is the young lady to care for.”
She said it carefully, watching his reaction.
Oliver kept his face neutral. “Young lady?”
“His Lordship’s ward, Miss Megan.” Mrs. Griffiths’s voice dropped slightly. “Poor lamb, has been with His Lordship since she was a child. Quite devoted to her, he is. Never lets her out of his sight when he’s in residence. When he’s away, she’s left with us for safekeeping.”
The words were carefully chosen. Devoted. Safekeeping. But the tone suggested something else entirely.
“That must be lonely for her,” Oliver ventured. “Isolated in a hunting lodge with no company her own age.”
“Oh, she has her gardens. His Lordship ensures she wants for nothing.” Mrs. Griffiths paused. “Materially speaking.”
There. The crack in the facade. Mrs. Griffiths might work for Penharrow, might depend on him for her livelihood, but she didn’t approve of what he’d done to Megan, and she was willing to speak, however obliquely, to a stranger who might listen.
Oliver decided. “Mrs. Griffiths, might I buy you a cup of tea? My assistant and I have been on the road for days, and I confess I’d welcome conversation with someone who knows the area well.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think that would be acceptable, but I can’t be long.”
Five minutes later, they sat in a corner of the tavern’s empty common room—empty because Oliver had paid the innkeeper handsomely for privacy. Webb stood by the door, ostensibly on guard but really preventing interruptions.
Mrs. Griffiths wrapped her gnarled hands around her teacup and looked at Oliver with those shrewd old eyes.
“You’re not really surveyors, are you?”
Oliver considered lying, then decided against it. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. You move like a soldier. Him too.” She nodded toward Webb. “I’ve seen enough soldiers to know the way they carry themselves.”
“I was cavalry. Peninsular War.”
“And now you’re here, in Wales, asking questions about the Earl of Penharrow.” It wasn’t a question. “Did he kill someone you cared about?”
The bluntness shocked him. “What makes you think—”
“Because that’s the only reason a man like you would come to a place like this.” Mrs. Griffiths took a sip of her tea. “His Lordship is a very dangerous man. Especially this side of the border, Mr. Somerset. Or whatever your real name is. Men who oppose him have a habit of meeting with accidents.”
He didn’t enlighten her about his title. The smaller number of people who knew the better. “I’m aware.”
“Are you?” She leaned forward. “My cousin worked for His Lordship. Ten years ago. He saw something he shouldn’t have—a man beaten to death. My cousin tried to go to the magistrate. They found him in the river a week later. Drowned, they said. But my cousin was a strong swimmer.”
Oliver felt the cold rage that had been his companion since James’s death solidify further. “Why do you stay? Why work for him if you know what he is?”
“Because I’m sixty-five-years old with no family but my sister, and the Earl pays well.
Because if I left, he’d find someone else to keep house, and that someone might not care what happens to Miss Megan.
” Mrs. Griffith’s voice hardened. “Someone needs to look after that poor girl. God knows no one else will.”
“Tell me about her.”
Mrs. Griffiths was silent for a long moment, her eyes distant.
“She came to the lodge when I was first employed. I was told she was His Lordship’s ward, a distant relation orphaned young.
She was just a child then. Six, maybe seven years old.
Pretty little thing with the strangest eyes. Green like spring leaves.”
Oliver’s hands tightened on his own cup.
“His Lordship doted on her, had a governess brought in for deportment and music, and dressed her in fine clothes, gave her toys and trinkets. I thought...” Mrs. Griffiths’s voice cracked slightly.
“I thought he meant to raise her as a daughter. To give her a good life but when he refused to allow her to read and write I had my suspicions.”
“But he didn’t give her a good life?”
“No.” The single word was heavy with regret. “When she turned sixteen, the tutors stopped coming. And His Lordship...” She couldn’t finish.
Oliver didn’t need her to. He understood perfectly.
“She tried to run away. Four times, I think. Maybe five. Each time, he found her. The last time...” Mrs. Griffiths closed her eyes.
“There was a groom. Daniel. Young man, kind heart. He tried to help her get a message out. His Lordship had him hanged in the stable yard. Made us all watch. Made her watch.”
The room seemed to grow colder. Webb, from his position by the door, met Oliver’s eyes. They’d known Penharrow was a monster, but hearing it confirmed, hearing the details...
“Where is she kept?” Oliver asked quietly.
Mrs. Griffiths opened her eyes. “She’s not kept locked in a cell, if that’s what you mean.
She has rooms. Beautiful rooms, but the windows are barred.
The guards watch her constantly. She’s allowed to walk in the garden during the day, but only the kitchen walled garden. The rest of the grounds are forbidden.”
“How many guards?”
“Four at the lodge, plus two groundskeepers who report to His Lordship. Inside, there’s myself, two maids, a cook, and the butler. Eight servants total.”
“Are they loyal to Penharrow?”
“The guards are. He pays them well and they’re ex-soldiers. They know which side benefits them.” Mrs. Griffiths paused. “The servants... we do what we’re told. We’re afraid. But that doesn’t mean we approve.”
Oliver leaned forward. “Mrs. Griffiths, why are you telling me this?”
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Because this is not the first young girl he’s taken.
I learned that when they get to a certain age they are sent away.
I don’t know what Penharrow does with them, but I can imagine.
Then shortly afterwards another young child or young woman arrives.
I don’t want that happening to Miss. Megan. ”
“Do you want us to rescue her?”
“Someone needs to help her, because I’m too old and too afraid to do it myself, and it eats at me every night. When I saw you in the stable, asking questions, looking north toward the lodge... I thought maybe, just maybe, God had finally sent someone who could save that poor girl.”
“What will happen to you and the staff though?”
“We will have to look after ourselves.” Mrs. Griffiths’s laugh was bitter. “I suspect he’ll keep us if we say we were overpowered, as he’ll want to use the lodge again and he’ll not want to find staff again.”
Oliver sat back, his mind racing. This was more than he’d hoped for; inside information, detailed intelligence about the lodge’s security, and most importantly, an ally within Penharrow’s household.
“The guards. Their routine. When are they most vulnerable?”
Mrs. Griffiths described the daily schedule—the changing of the watch, the times when the servants were occupied with meals, the small window between midnight and two in the morning when only one guard was awake, making rounds.
Oliver committed every detail to memory. When Mrs. Griffiths finally left, pressing his hand with her gnarled fingers and whispering, “God bless you,” he felt the weight of her hope settle on his shoulders like a physical thing.
Webb approached after she’d gone. “Do you trust her, my lord?”
“I don’t know, but everything she said aligns with what we already knew. She has no reason to help us unless she’s telling the truth about wanting Megan freed.”
“Or unless Penharrow put her up to it. Set a trap.”
Oliver had considered that. “Possible. But if it’s a trap, we’ll spring it on our terms. Tomorrow, we ride north. I want to see this hunting lodge for myself.”