Too Dangerous For a Lady (10 page)

“There are more of them?” Braydon asked, climbing back into his seat.

“He has a brother. Two peas in a pod.”

“Struth. Odd to think someone might mourn him.”

“Seth Boothroyd will certainly want revenge.”

“If he undertakes investigations,” Braydon said, “the surviving Boothroyd might find a connection to my very distinctive rig.”

“You did ask me to make your life more interesting.”

“I should have remembered what that might mean around you. No sign of your lady's coach yet?”

“They needed to fix some part of the harness.”

“Then as we wait, why not tell me more of what you're involved in?” When Mark hesitated, he added, “I believe I've earned the right.”

“You have,” Mark agreed. “I'm working with Hawkinville, who's working for the government, but I'm a free agent. I've infiltrated a secret organization in order to prevent bloody revolution and terror.”

T
he ancient Selby coach trundled along beyond the trees. Mark managed not to watch it until it was out of sight. After five minutes Braydon turned the curricle, not without difficulty, and they traveled back toward the Chester toll road with Mark riding Nathan Boothroyd's hired horse. They tried to attract as little attention as possible, but probably failed when many people would never have seen such a fine curricle and team before. Fortunately fellow travelers were rare on the quiet road, and there were no nearby cottages.

Even so, when they passed a field where two men paused in their digging to stare, Mark said, “You see why I choose shabby.”

“I don't normally object to appreciation. If luck favors us, these people will remember us passing by without any sign of foul behavior.”

“We have to do something about Zeno.”

“It's an undistinguished beast,” Braydon said. “Someone might steal it if given the opportunity.”

“Set it loose without tack?”

“In a field. It could be undetected there for days.”

“And when noticed, disappear into someone's shed or stable.”

Fortune provided better. They passed a Gypsy encampment, so that when they found the access to a field grazed
by cows, and with no one in sight, they quickly unsaddled and unbridled the horse and sent it in there. The amiable beast relieved itself and settled to enjoying the grass.

“You must think you've literally ended up in clover,” Mark said to it. “I wish you well.”

They hid the tack on the far side of the hedge, hoping the Gypsies would find it, too. If so, Boothroyd's horse would be a mystery forever.

They went a little farther with Mark now in the groom's seat, encountering a few more travelers, including some geese walking to market, until the busier Chester road came into view. It was still far enough away that even someone traveling on the roof of a stagecoach wouldn't see details of what they did next.

Braydon drew up the curricle on the edge of the road. Mark got down and dragged out the corpse, then booted it to roll it into the ditch. “No one's going to spot him there.”

“Until flies, crows, and other carrion eaters signal it.”

“By which time we'll be far away and long forgotten.”

But then a one-horse cart trundled around the bend, heading toward the Chester road.

Mark considered ignoring the body, which was out of sight. He'd already dismissed the idea when Braydon called, “Ho! Where's the nearest magistrate, my good fellow?”

The cart came alongside and drew to a halt. The leathery driver said, “That'd likely be Sir Hugo Porter, sir. Birkenhead way. Is somethin' amiss?”

“Very much so. There's a body in the ditch.”

The driver climbed down and walked to stand beside Mark. “Gentleman, by the looks of it. Shot, I'd say.”

Braydon agreed with these insights. “Someone needs to take the body to the magistrates, but I'm in some haste for Warrington. Could you possibly oblige me, sir?”

The man scratched his bristles. “Not to Birkenhead, sir.
But I'm travelin' to Chester. Likely there's a magistrate there.”

“And you'll take the poor man there? Good man, good man. Much obliged. Baker, help get the body into the cart.”

Mark, indulging in the heavy sigh of a burdened servant, climbed into the ditch to haul up Nathan Boothroyd's corpse. For a blessing, the ditch was muddy only at the bottom and Nathan's clothing wasn't sodden. The carter climbed down to help hoist the corpse into the back. Braydon pulled the travel rug from the floor of the curricle. “Baker, cover the poor man with this.”

Mark did, smiling at Braydon's quick thinking. Any blood on it would be explained.

“Poor fellow,” Braydon said, observing from on high. “I hope the footpads responsible for this are hanged.” He gave the carter one of his cards. “My name is Braydon. Be so kind as to give this to whatever official takes the body. I will be willing to give any information I can, though I know no more than you do. Convey my regrets that my obligations mean I cannot linger hereabouts.” He offered some coins. “I know you'd do this duty out of Christian charity, sir, but I fear it will take you out of your way and you're sparing me the same plight. Do please take these.”

The carter did. “Very considerate of you, sir. I'll take care of 'im right enough.”

Mark joined Braydon on the front seat, and they set off at a brisk trot. They didn't speak until they were on the Chester road, traveling fast toward Warrington, the carter far behind.

“Quick thinking,” Mark said. “But a damned nuisance.”

“You're not the one whose name will be known to the coroner.”

“A situation when your fine style will play to your advantage. A less likely footpad is hard to imagine.”

“As long as the Selby party don't take a hand.”

“If the body goes to Chester, they might never know about it.”

There was nothing to be done and they both put the matter aside. “That was a neat shot,” Braydon said.

“Heart in my mouth. This damned coat's so tight I couldn't raise my arm fully.”

“All the more credit to you, then.”

“It was only a matter of yards.”

“But with a lady close.”

Mark would remember that moment all his life. A frozen moment of fear, but Nathan Boothroyd's gloved hand around Hermione's throat had given him no choice.

“What now?” Braydon asked.

“Back to Warrington as we said. I have a seat on the midnight mail to London and you can continue your journey.”

“You won't get rid of me so easily now. What do we do about the Frenchwoman? Won't she wait for her bullyboy to return with her papers?”

Mark was so used to working alone he wanted to protest, but only a fool rejects good help, and he knew he'd made misjudgments today. He could use someone to analyze his ideas.

“She'd want to have them back,” he said, “but she needs to get Isaac to London in case the Spenceans arrive and his devious explosions are of use. We can check in Warrington whether she left or not. She's not remarkable, but Isaac is.”

They went through the first toll gate and passed some slower travelers. “Why travel to London?” Braydon asked. “You'll be in danger now you're exposed as a traitor in their midst.”

“Not for long. These papers will bring them down. I want to be there.”

Braydon nodded, and they traveled on in comfortable silence with him clearly enjoying weaving around other vehicles and sometimes squeezing through an alarmingly
narrow space. For pride's sake Mark kept silent, but his grip was tight on the side rail.

Five miles out of Warrington they met a delay even Braydon couldn't overcome. Ten brown cows were being moved from field to field, heavy udders swaying, and in no hurry at all.

Braydon relaxed back. “I've been thinking.”

“You can think when driving like that?”

Braydon's lips twitched. “Stimulates my brain. How did the rabid beast know to pursue Lady Hermione and what direction to take?”

“I've been wondering about that, too,” Mark said, “during our relaxing cruise along the road. If Nathan returned to Solange and gave a clear report, he'd have mentioned seeing a woman in the innyard. Something about that must have caught her attention, sending her to the Lamb to investigate. She would have been desperate to get those incriminating documents back.”

“She picked up gossip about who the lady might be?”

“It's the only explanation.”

“Including the direction of travel of her party?” Braydon asked skeptically.

Traffic was backing up behind them and one of the riders they'd passed, a young man with pretensions, came alongside with intent to get ahead. Braydon gave him a cold look and he turned to go back in the line.

Once the young man was out of earshot, Mark said again, “It's the only explanation. The Lamb's a small place, so there wouldn't have been many parties. I saw only two coaches. I assume Sir William and Lady Selby talked to other guests and Solange found ways to get people to pass on what they knew.”

“To a stranger asking impertinent questions? A French stranger?”

“She's clever and can appear so very decent and unassuming. If opportunity arises, she tells a sorry tale of
escaping from the Terror and blesses Britain for giving her refuge.”

A cow veered toward the horses, which objected. Braydon had to work to steady them. “Damned beasts,” he said, not specifying. When all was calm again and the last cow was beginning to clear the road, he asked, “Could she have learned their precise destination?”

“How?” Mark asked. “But devil take it, you're right. It's possible. I should pursue the Selbys to warn them. Warn Hermione, at least . . .”

“But you need to get to London,” Braydon pointed out. “We'll make enquiries at the Lamb. When that final bedeviled cow moves.”

At last they could move forward, and Braydon put his team to alarming speed.

“She can't know,” Mark said, clinging on, wishing he believed his own words. When Braydon slowed the team, however, he said, “Carry on. I'll gamble London is still her priority, but I'll confirm at the Nag's Head that she left when she should. And I'll put these papers in the post. They'll be safer there and reach London at the same time that I do.”

When they arrived in Warrington, they paused outside the post office while Mark went in. The letter would leave Warrington on the same midnight mail coach he planned to take, but lost amid the rest of the mail, it would be as safe as if in a vault.

That taken care of, they went on to the Nag's Head, from which most of the London coaches departed. Mark was still in livery, so Braydon asked the questions. Solange and Isaac were a distinctive couple and had definitely left on a coach heading south.

“Only as far as Worcester, sir,” the ticket clerk said, and thanked Braydon for the shilling received.

“Any news of the disturbance in Ardwick?” Braydon asked the man.

“All came to nothing, sir, God be praised. Riot Act read and most dispersed. Those who resisted are in irons awaiting trial.”

“All's well so far,” Braydon said as he took the reins again.

A stagecoach rolled in and the clerk announced it to be from Manchester to Liverpool. It was not overloaded. The coachman, in his many-caped greatcoat and woolen muffler, climbed down and received a steaming tankard from a cheerful maid. After the brief flirtation, the man merely observed as some of his passengers climbed out and claimed luggage, and others saw their bags and boxes stored and climbed aboard.

Braydon steered the curricle nearby and asked again for news.

“All over when I passed through, sir, but I hear it looked touchy for a while. The magistrates had the roads into town blocked, but people joined the gathering anyway and plenty were in a mood for trouble. The Riot Act was read and the soldiers moved in.”

“Many hurt?” Braydon asked.

“Shots were fired, that's for sure, sir. And from what I heard tell, from both directions. Wicked, that, and sent honest folk scurrying for safety, which put an end to the whole. Some of those with weapons were caught and taken to Manchester in chains.”

As they left the innyard, Braydon said, “Looks as if your Solange will be disappointed.”

“Thank God for that. On to the Lamb.”

Again Braydon did the questioning, arrogantly summoning the innkeeper out to talk to him.

“I come from visiting Lady Sophinisbe Ecclestall, my good man, and she requested me to leave a small gift here for Lady Selby.”

Lady Sophonisbe's name seemed to be magical. In
association with the curricle, the innkeeper seemed in danger of prostrating himself.

“Alas, sir, alas. The Selby party left many hours ago!”

Fortunately he was too dazzled to wonder how the lady had known where the Selbys would stop.

“No matter,” Braydon said with a lazy waft of his hand. “I hope Sir William and his family are well and traveling smoothly?”

“I'd say so, sir.” Then the innkeeper added, “There was another enquiry about them, sir, and one that's left me uneasy. A Frenchwoman, you see.”

“A
Frenchwoman
?” Braydon echoed with suitable astonishment.

“Aye, sir, who said as she'd recognized one of the ladies in the Selby party as an old friend, a Miss Wellingborough. The thing that's been bothering me, sir, is that the lady in question was about half the age of the Frenchwoman. I'm not saying such a friendship is impossible, sir, but she was nosy about it. Very nosy.”

“Very astute of you, sir. There is no Wellingborough connected to the Selby family.”

“I thought so, sir! But she did seem to know things. She said they had family in Liverpool, which was almost correct.”

Clever Solange.
This inn sat on the Manchester side of Warrington. Unlikely that anyone traveling to Manchester would halt here. Much more likely that they were traveling west and Liverpool would be the major destination.

“I assume you set her right,” Braydon said.

“I wasn't of a mind to tell her anything, sir, but a clergyman who'd conversed with Sir William said as how they were going to Tranmere. I hope they make their destination before dark today, sir, but Sir William was set upon the shorter route even though I told him it would be faster in the end to go by Chester.”

“An odd incident,” Braydon said. “Did the Frenchwoman give a name?”

“I don't believe as she did, sir. I hope she's not up to anything.” He lowered his voice. “I've been thinking about invasion, sir. I know the French have signed for peace and we trounced them soundly, but with the Froggies you never know. If they tried again, happen it'd be through Ireland, and the coast near here is a likely place.”

Braydon nodded. “Be alert, sir, be alert. I feel sure our old enemy is cowed for now, but we must all be vigilant.”