Too Dangerous For a Lady (7 page)

People were staring at her.

An elderly couple sat at a small table, his clothing announcing him to be a clergyman. Two young women sat on a bench, shawls around their shoulders and bundles at their feet. Three sturdy workingmen stood between the kegs of ale and the fire with flagons in their hands.

The hard-faced woman stationed by the kegs asked, “Can I 'elp you, mam?”

“Can you tell me where I may post a letter?”

Before the woman could answer, the gray-haired innkeeper entered, all apologies. “I gather you have been discomforted, ma'am.”

“I was merely startled.”

“T'lady wants to know where to post a letter,” said the barmaid, as if that was deeply suspicious.

“The post office is but a short walk, ma'am,” the innkeeper said, “but I believe your party is ready to leave. May I have a letter taken there for you?”

Hermione stood pinned in indecision. She couldn't bring herself to burn the letter in her pocket, but handing it over to the innkeeper felt like a betrayal of trust.

“Ma'am?” the innkeeper prompted.

“I thought to write one,” she said, “but I see I don't have time.” No wonder the man looked as if he thought her deranged, and the barmaid as if she was sure of it.

Hermione hurried away to the carriage and endured Polly's scold. They were soon on their way, but she felt as if she carried danger in her right-hand pocket and dearly wished to have that decision back to do again. Stolen
papers. What if she was caught with them? Could she go to jail? Or worse?

If the papers were banknotes, theft of money was a hanging crime.

If that horrid brute had caught Thayne, it would serve him right. At the next stop she'd get the letter into the post if she could or burn it if she couldn't, and she'd allow no more foolish yearnings over a long-ago dream.

M
ark ran for his life, aware that he was insane because he was enjoying it. He had no doubt that Nathan Boothroyd would kill him if he caught him, for he'd have no chance against the man's brute strength short of a pistol, which he didn't have. In any case, he wasn't sure one pistol ball would stop a Boothroyd quickly enough.

All the same, he was grinning as he ran, because he was damned tired of skulking and conniving. He dodged through the laundry pegged to lines across the back lane, trying not to soil any of it, and down a narrow passage between high walls. He was probably faster than Nathan, but he didn't know this town or any hiding places. He might be safer in the high street, but he wasn't sure a Boothroyd would let a crowd stop him and innocent people could get hurt.

He twisted into a slightly wider lane that ran between the backyards of two rows of houses, but it was too long and without concealment. At any moment Nathan would turn into it and see him. Nothing for it. He scrambled over a head-high gate, hoping he managed it before Nathan glimpsed his disappearing boots.

He was in a small backyard that held no greenery except weeds and stank of slops thrown out of the back door. He stood still, listening for Nathan's footsteps on the other side of the brick wall.

A dog snarled.

Mark stifled a laugh.

He was facing a real beast this time—a bull terrier guarding its territory with bared fangs. It wasn't barking, but such a dog could attack without warning. He stayed still, silently urging the dog not to make a noise beyond the rumbling growl. He could hear Nathan crunching along the rough surface of the lane now, going slowly, trying to sniff out his prey. The footsteps passed the gate and moved on. Mark let out his breath.

Then the dog barked, once, twice, three times.

The back door opened and a woman said, “What's the matter with you now, Rowley? Here.” She threw out a knucklebone.

The dog whined its dilemma, but then clearly decided if the mistress was here, his job was done, and settled to gnawing the bone with excellent sharp teeth.

But out in the lane, Nathan's footsteps had stopped, and now the woman had seen the intruder. She was probably in her thirties, with loose, slovenly red hair but a decent enough green gown. She wasn't afraid. He tried last night's trick and put his finger to his lips.
Shush.

She looked at him as if he was crazy.

Aware of Nathan listening, Mark chose another route and dug out a coin—fortunately he found a five-shilling piece first—and showed it to her. She tilted her head to indicate he could enter the house. As he passed the dog, it gave a growl for honor's sake, but hardly stopped its work on the bone.

Mark paid his dues and entered a small kitchen where a crone stirred a cauldron over a fire. Had he stumbled upon a witches' coven? He went through a curtain into a front room and realized that, no, he'd found a bawdy house, and not one of the most salubrious in town.

Two thickly painted women lolled on a sagging sofa with their heavy tits hanging out of gaudy gowns. A third was
plying her trade, straddling an elderly customer on a wooden chair. Perhaps there were beds upstairs. Perhaps not. The two available whores smiled invitingly, one showing missing teeth.

The woman who'd let him in said, “Suit yourself, sir. You've paid for them twice over.”

Fighting a wild bubble of laughter, Mark bowed to all of them. “My apologies, ladies, but I have pressing business elsewhere.”

“I can work quick, me 'andsome,” one of the whores called.

Mark sent her a regretful smile, opened the front door, and stepped out. He found himself on an alley so narrow two fat people couldn't walk abreast, with the high street visible nearby on his right and a green area to his left with houses beyond.

He had two pressing but conflicting imperatives: one, get out of Warrington in one piece and on his way to London with all that he knew; two, make sure Lady Hermione came to no harm through his impulsive recruitment. A third was to find out what had happened to the damn letter, but somehow he felt sure she'd have done as he asked and put it into the post.

When he'd escaped out the back of the Lamb, he'd seen an additional area there containing two private coaches. One had been ready to depart. A woman had been leaning out of the window looking for someone—a brunette who bore a marked resemblance to Lady Hermione. She must have been the married sister. Hermione would have posted the letter and entered the coach, and they'd already be on their way and safe.

Alas, his conscience wouldn't let him accept that without proof. When Nathan gave up the pursuit, he could well return to the Lamb to look for another trail. So Mark turned left and plotted a course that would bring him to the rear of the Lamb. He found the coach gone. Thank the gods for
that. Now he needed a safe haven for himself. He continued along the lane, alert for a Boothroyd on the prowl.

He'd run because he'd seen Solange arriving in Warrington in one of the outside seats of an overloaded coach. That meant she'd done the same as he and escaped the disruption to the Manchester-to-London road. A piece of bad luck, but he should have anticipated it. Isaac Inkman and Nathan Boothroyd had been with her, and at her word, Nathan had scrambled down off the coach while it was still in motion.

So he'd run.

He'd evaded Nathan for now, but Solange wouldn't give up the hunt. She knew now that Mark hadn't taken last night's London coach, so he'd be her prime suspect for the theft. He'd read through her papers. He didn't understand it all, but she'd be desperate to get such dangerous documents back. He'd booked a seat on the next London coach, which would stop for passengers at the Nag's Head, but it was the principal inn for London coaches. Solange would already be booking seats there, but also asking about him.

So there was another coach seat he couldn't claim. At this rate he'd run out of money.

Would she stay in Warrington to search for him, or would she take the first coach south? Her priority should be to reach London and plan destruction for when the Crusade arrived. If she believed that wouldn't happen, Isaac's destructive ideas wouldn't seem so important.

Mark weighed the situation and decided to gamble that she'd pursue her main plan and take the afternoon coach. He'd wait for the London mail, which arrived in Warrington at midnight, but in the meantime he needed to be out of sight.

As he passed the rear of a string of inns, he looked for a quiet, out-of-the-way place and settled on the Roebuck. It was too small to cater to public coaches or to tempt many who traveled in private ones. The only vehicle in sight was
a light sporting curricle, which no one would use for a long journey, so the owner must be local. As he walked by it, Mark admired the expensive toy with its gleaming paint and shining brass. He wasn't surprised to be glared at by a groom dressed in matching livery who was eating his meal while on guard. Clearly the local was a wealthy man, which promised a decent inn and a fine kitchen.

He went in at the back and followed a corridor to a flagstoned hall with a taproom off to the left and two doors on his right. A plain staircase led to an upper floor. The taproom was deserted and the whole place very quiet.

Perfect.

He went into the taproom and asked a massively bosomed woman for a tankard of ale. She might be a barmaid, but the high-necked dark gown, the voluminous cap, and an air of command suggested she was also the innkeeper. She drew the ale from a cask, but grudgingly. Would she allow him to linger here till midnight for the purchase of occasional tankards of ale? To take a room for the night would deplete his money to no purpose.

He sipped and tried to sweeten her. “An excellent brew, ma'am.”

Her only response was a cold stare.

He tried a smile. “The town seems busy.”

“'Appen it is,” she said, discouragingly.

He turned away and caught sight of himself in a dingy mirror. Gads! He was dressed shabbily, but he'd lost his hat and his unkempt hair was in disarray. He'd a dirt smudge on one cheek, and when he looked down, he saw evidence of his scramble over the gate, including a rip in his breeches. He couldn't go out to search for his hat and he'd never pass for respectable without one. He was tempted to laugh out loud, but in truth his appearance could make things difficult here, there, and everywhere.

“Faringay?”

Mark turned, shocked and on guard to hear his title. He
saw a man who could be his opposite in all respects. Beau Braydon was blond, fine-featured, and turned out to perfection from complex cravat to gleaming Hessian boots. He was hatless, but surely only for the moment, and his hair was perfectly arranged in what was doubtless the latest style.

No point in denying who he was. “Braydon. What are you doing here?”

“It's forbidden?” Braydon said, strolling forward. “I'm on my way south from a family place near Lancaster. I do trust you're not in as dire straits as your appearance suggests.”

“Yes and no,” Mark said, glancing to see what effect this conversation had on the innkeeper. She resembled the bull terrier—confused, but still inclined to growl.

“You know this man, sir?”

Braydon's lips twitched. “Well enough, Mrs. Upshaw. Clearly I should feed him. Lay another place in my parlor, if you please.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mark said humbly, and followed through one of the doors off the hall into a private parlor. It was a simple room with whitewashed walls, but a fire burned in the grate and the table was set for a meal.

He and Beau Braydon had known each other in the army. They'd never been close friends, but they'd worked together a couple of times, and passing a few hours in his company would be useful—as long as he could come up with a tale to cover the situation.

A young serving maid hurried in with plate, cutlery, and glassware. Despite looking only fifteen or so, she dallied at Braydon's side in hopes of flirtation. Braydon gave her smiling thanks and she had to leave.

He poured wine for them both. “Don't strain for a lie, Faringay. I can be remarkably incurious when necessary.”

Mark toasted him with a smile. “Noble of you. Believe it
or not, mayhem isn't my daily style, but today I had to run from a hunting dog.”

“And lived to tell the tale?”

“By scaling a gate and escaping through a whorehouse.”

“Unscathed again?”

“Untempted.”

“Ah, one of those.”

Yes, spending a few hours with Braydon would be no sacrifice, and with such sponsorship, perhaps the gorgon of the taproom wouldn't quibble at him lurking here until midnight. The afternoon coach would soon leave the Nag's Head and chances were good that Solange would be on it. She needed to get Isaac to London to do his evil work, and she'd take Nathan Boothroyd, because she liked to have a bodyguard. What a quivering conscience she must have.

The maid returned with an aromatic tureen of soup and Mark, safe for the moment, settled to enjoy it.

W
hen Nathan Boothroyd came into Solange's parlor in the Nag's Head, she glared at him. “You failed.”

“It weren't him, ma'am! Bloody Granger left on the London coach afore you were attacked, so he can't have been here.”

“I
saw
him. If you'd not delayed to argue with me before pursuing, you would have caught him.”

The loss of the papers infuriated her. Waite had gone so far as to scold her for putting the details in writing, as if she were in truth a meek wife. To him, she'd scoffed at the danger, but her notes about Isaac's explosive intentions could provide an excuse for arrests, which would threaten her grand design. She would plunge Britain into chaos, take over through Waite, and then turn the new republic's might to conquer France.

She could easily murder Boothroyd in her fury, but he might still be of use. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Despite her calm voice he was wary, which showed his animal instincts were intact. “I went into that innyard where you said he'd gone, but it was deserted except for a woman who said she'd seen no one pass.”

“What sort of woman?”

“Ordinary.”

“A servant?”

He scowled in thought. “No, but not fancy-dressed.
Brown gown, straw bonnet. Ordinary. She had a package in her hand.”

“A package?” she echoed.

The Boothroyds weren't entirely stupid. “Not your
letter, ma'am. Silvery thing tied with pink ribbon.”

All very well, but how could this woman not have seen Granger only moments before? Therefore she'd lied. Why?

Would Granger have disguised the papers in silver and pink in order to pass them to a woman? It implied a devious plan, but she'd been involved in devious plans.

Anxious to please, the Boothroyd said, “I scared her well, ma'am.”

“Did she scream?”

“Would have, but I saw Granger out the back of the inn and took off after him.”

“So it was Granger.”

“I saw the man you'd seen, I meant. Dressed a bit like him. Low hat.”

“And he ran.”

“People run from me whether they've reason or not, ma'am. I chased him through a bunch of plaguey laundry and down a lane, but he must have gone into one of the houses. So it can't have been him, see? Granger'd have no hidey-hole here any more than I would.”

Nevertheless, it had been Granger. Her eyesight wasn't as good as it had been, but it was good enough for that. She had tickets on a coach as far as Worcester, where they'd stop for the night before proceeding on to London. She needed to be in London in case the Spencean Crusade made it there, but she also needed to retrieve those papers. Had he passed them on to that woman, wrapped in silver paper tied with pink ribbon?

She must investigate this woman and the Lamb. She didn't like to leave Isaac alone with a Boothroyd, but needs must. First, in case anything went amiss, she must write a
coded letter to Waite to inform him that Granger was the traitor.

She composed it, sealed it, and said, “I go to put this in the post.”

The Boothroyd sat down. “Very well, ma'am.”

How peculiar it was that both Boothroyds could sit without occupation for so long. Isaac did the same, but he was thinking and produced brilliant results. The Boothroyds seemed to go into a waking sleep, but they would spring to action if needed, and were generally useful if given clear commands.

She put on her black bonnet and gloves and went downstairs to give the letter into the care of the innkeeper. She left the Nag's Head the perfect image, she knew, of decent, middle-aged womanhood. The only flaw was her accent. After a long war, many in England distrusted a French accent, but not enough to turn away a customer.

She could soon observe the Lamb. It was a simple place, so people here would remember guests and incidents. She entered by the front door and found herself directly in the beer-stinking taproom. It seemed to also serve as a waiting room for various forms of transport. An elderly churchman and his wife sat at a table with a valise and a small trunk, and two rather mousy young women sat together on a bench in cheap clothing and insecure demeanor, with bundles by their feet. A brawny workingman was finishing a pot of ale.

A rough-faced fat woman asked if she could help her.

Solange put on a meek smile. “I have just arrived in Warrington, ma'am, and as we passed this inn, I thought I saw an acquaintance of mine enter here. A younger lady in brown with a straw bonnet.”

At the accent, the woman's lip curled. “You'll 'ave to ask the innkeeper. Mr. Johnson!”

An elderly, gray-haired man came in and Solange repeated her request.

“The lady's name?” he asked, but behind the bland face and smile he, too, distrusted anyone French. She cared nothing for that. He'd revealed that he knew whom she meant.

“Miss Wellingborough,” Solange said, for she had to produce a name.

She saw her prompt answer reassure him, but he said, “We've no guest here of that name, ma'am.”

“Perhaps she is only pausing for refreshment. I would very much like to speak to her if she's still here.”

He shrugged, pleased to disoblige.

But one of the mousy young women spoke up. “I know who you mean, ma'am! Her party ate in the common room at the same time as we did. Looked like a poor relation to a couple with two little boys.”

That didn't sound like a conspirator.

Solange was about to leave, but the other mouse, competing for importance, said to the innkeeper, “You must remember her, sir. She was here not long ago, talking about posting a letter.”

Solange turned to him, smiling. “That is so like my dear Miss Wellingborough. She is always writing letters. In fact, it is chiefly how we keep in contact, for our paths rarely cross.”

The innkeeper wasn't pleased with the chatter. “I doubt that lady was your friend, ma'am, for her party's name was Selby.”

“Then it is she! She is unmarried, you see, and the Selbys are her in-laws.”

The innkeeper practically growled. “She's left now, ma'am, so you won't be talking to her.”

But did she post a letter, or entrust it to you?

Solange spoke at random, fishing for more information. “I believe the Selbys have family near Liverpool. That will be where they are going.”

“Not Liverpool,” said the clergyman with pinched
precision. “I spoke briefly with Sir William Selby and he imparted that their destination was Tranmere in the Wirral to visit a relative there.”

“But,” said the workingman, perhaps feeling left out, “they could be goin' to Liverpool, then crossin' by ferry, seein' as Tranmere's a ferry 'ouse.”

Solange cursed his thick accent. The woman with her papers was going to a place called Tranmere and could be pursued. But which route had she taken?

The innkeeper took command. “Sir William has taken the Chester road,” he stated, “though against my advice he intends to turn off early toward Picton. I told him that shorter doesn't always mean faster, but he paid no heed.”

How delightful that people loved to be “in the know,” as the English put it.

“And they are definitely gone?” she asked. “There is no hope?”

“That is so, ma'am,” said the innkeeper with finality.

As if to conclude the discussion, a groom entered to say he'd come to collect Reverend Portercombe and his lady. Attention turned to getting the elderly couple and their luggage on their way.

Was there any more to be learned? Solange sighed, and said to the young women, “So sad to have missed my friend by so little.”

“'Appen you could follow her, mum,” one said.

“Alas, my coach to London leaves soon. Did Miss Wellingborough have a letter to post? I suspect it will have been to me. Such a shame.”

“Only a package, mum, and not to post. Ever so pretty. Pink wi' silver ribbons. I caught a whiff. Fancy soap, I reckon. Rose.”

“She said as she'd been
thinkin'
of writin' a letter,” the other said.

“And wouldn't 'ave time. That's right, Hattie!”

“Ah well,” Solange said. “What's done is done.”

She left before she roused too much suspicion and hurried back to the Nag's Head, putting the scraps together. It was possible that the young woman was a coincidence, she and her package of soap. It seemed unlikely that Granger would have gone to the trouble of including a scent in his disguise. He couldn't have had much time.

On the other hand, the woman had enquired about the post office and then claimed not to have a letter ready to post. Odd, very odd, when her party was waiting to depart.

A letter could easily be concealed in a pocket.

If the straw-bonneted woman was an agent working with Granger, she was an inept one. Or did she act that way to throw off suspicion, as Solange herself acted the dowdy matron? Most people would assume a muddle-minded woman traveling with a family could not possibly be dangerous, yet this muddle-minded, ordinary woman had been in the yard of the Lamb a minute or so after Granger had entered it, and had claimed not to have seen anyone of his description.

What was more, Nathan Boothroyd had focused on her. The Boothroyds had limited brains but were doglike even to their instincts. The woman wasn't his quarry, so he should have ignored her, but he hadn't. He'd been going after her until Granger had shown himself.

As Solange approached the Nag's Head, she spotted the key point: Granger shouldn't have shown himself. He knew the sort of danger a Boothroyd presented, and he'd had time to put distance between himself and death. But he hadn't. He'd hovered out of concern for the woman, and when she'd been threatened, he'd shown himself to draw Nathan off.

Solange nodded.

Granger had stolen her papers and missed the London coach from Ardwick. He had come to Warrington to take a coach south, thinking himself out of danger, but had seen her arriving. Whether by prior plan or on impulse, he'd passed the papers to the woman in the straw bonnet,
probably already packaged as a letter. She hadn't posted the letter at the Lamb, so she had taken it with her.

Solange returned to her parlor smiling. She would soon have her papers back.

She found Isaac and the Boothroyd exactly as she'd left them, like a tableau.

“Never moves,” Boothroyd said. “Hardly ever blinks.”

“Never mind that. You are to hire a horse and follow a coach going toward Chester, which will turn off toward a place called Picton to go on side roads to a place called Tranmere. The name of the party is Selby.”

“Why?”

“Because the man you chased was Granger and he passed the papers to the lady you encountered in the innyard. She is part of the Selby party. You will follow and retrieve them.”

He didn't like being so thoroughly in the wrong. “I should stay with you and him, ma'am. I'm to guard you both.”

“The letter presents more danger than anything else. Follow the Selby party and get it back.”

“How? I'm no high toby.”

It was a fair point, and attempting to hold up a coach full of people in broad daylight would be a challenge to even a clever highwayman. “I gather the side road will be slow and little used. Keep them in sight until they turn off, then watch for them to stop for rest or new horses. The woman in the straw bonnet will leave the coach. You seize her.”

“With her family looking on?”

“If you do it quickly, they won't have time to react. You need only carry her far enough to search her. Search her thoroughly. Cut off her clothes if necessary.” His small eyes sparked at that. “When you've retrieved the letter, break her neck or she'll describe you to the magistrates.”

He chewed it over. She watched for any recognition that the family might provide a description of him. It would be
inconvenient to lose him, but that was a risk she was willing to take. As it was, he should have time to get clear away.

He came up with a different, and surprisingly pertinent, objection. “She's seen me. I won't get close to her without a screech.”

Solange found a brown muffler she'd knitted for Isaac. “The day is chilly—you have a toothache. Wrap that around the lower part of your face.”

He took the scarf. “What do I do with the letter?”

“Burn it. Down to ash. Then you return the horse here and take the next coach to London to join us.”

She gave him some money. He put it in a pocket, directed a scowl at Isaac, and left. She could only pray that he be up to the task.

Too late she realized that if he was arrested for murder, he might talk. Did the British government use torture? If not, they were weak fools. If he talked, he'd name her and tell what he knew of the Crimson Band. He knew little of importance, but the possible risk made the next step clear. Enough of Waite's caution. The time to act was now.

She packed and then gently stirred Isaac out of his trance. Soon they were downstairs waiting for the coach that would take them to Worcester. The next day they'd go on to London, where the angry poor and the tumultuous mob needed only a spark to explode into revolution. With or without the Spencean Crusade, she'd give them a spark.

More than a spark.

A conflagration.