"Nowhere near as sorry as my father was." Robin went to the open door of the shed and tossed his shaving water outside. "I look just like her, according to the pictures. He couldn't see me without flinching."
She wanted to weep for the child Robin had been. Instead, she asked softly, "Why are you telling me this?"
He was silent for the length of a dozen heartbeats, his profile as cool and remote as the gray sky. "I don't know, Kanawiosta. Perhaps because sometimes I weary of being obscure."
It made the back of her neck prickle to hear him use her private name. For the first time, he was voluntarily revealing something of what lay beneath his polished, impenetrable exterior. Perhaps it was because the night before, she had exposed so much of herself. Or perhaps sleeping in each other's arms had removed some of the barriers that had separated them.
She thought of the traits she had sensed when trying to teach him to listen to the wind, and the woman he had wanted to marry who had refused him. Like a ball of yarn, he was made of tangled strands of humor and evasion, intelligence and guile, consideration and cool detachment. Now he was handing her a loose end of the skein, to unwind if she chose.
If she did, what would she find at the heart of his mystery, when all the complex strands had been raveled away?
As soon as she formed the question, she knew the answer. At the heart of all that wit and easy charm lay loneliness.
Desdemona had been relieved when Lord Wolverton sent word to her after hearing reports of the runaways on the Rotherham road. At least the two were safe. However, the marquess had given her no other clues, and she had not seen him again. She would have to locate her quarry the hard way.
Heaving a sigh of weary exasperation, she climbed out of her carriage in the dusty high street of still another village. It seemed as if she had been crisscrossing the north Midlands forever, seeking traces of her niece and the unprincipled rogue who was taking advantage of her. Her opinion of Lord Robert Andreville was not improved by the fact that the pair was still traveling by foot. One would think that any selfrespecting rake would at least hire a post chaise. The fellow had no style.
She had become adept at asking questions. The tiny villages, where all strangers were noted, were the best places for hearing news, and the best people to ask were the elderly folk who clubbed together at the local public house. Shopkeepers were also good.
For the third time that day, Desdemona entered the only shop in a tiny village, Wingerford by name. As usual, the shop was a jumble of oddments such as needles and thread, bolts of plain fabric and cheap ribbons, pottery jugs, staple foods like salt and sugar, and jars of sweets for children. A ginger cat snored softly on a pile of used clothing, his nose covered by his tail.
At Desdemona's entrance, the stout proprietress hurried forward to greet her, eyes sharpening at the sight of the expensively dressed visitor. "How may I serve you, my lady?"
"I wonder if you might have seen my niece and her husband on this road within the few days," Desdemona replied. "She's dark and quite small, only about five feet tall, and dressed like a boy. He's about average height, very blond and goodlooking."
"Aye, they were in this very shop yesterday." The woman's gaze held shrewd appraisal. "The gent had torn his shirt and needed a new one." She gave a modest cough. "He bought a hat and some undergarments as well. I didn't have anything as fine as what he was wearing, but he seemed satisfied."
Desdemona went into her prepared story. "It is the greatest nonsense. My niece's husband made a silly wager about walking to London, and my niece decided to accompany him. They haven't been married long and she considered such a journey a great lark. I didn't approve, of course, but it wasn't my place to forbid it."
She gave a doleful sigh. "There would have been no harm in it, except that the girl's father has taken seriously ill. We are trying to find them in hopes that she can reach her father before it is too late." Desdemona's voice had a slight quaver; if she told this story many more times, she would believe it herself. "Did my niece or her husband mention anything about the route they were taking from here?"
"Indeed?" The proprietress raised her brows, her expression delicately conveying that she had grave doubts about the story but wouldn't dream of calling her distinguished visitor a liar.
The next move was Desdemona's. A respectable woman like this one might be offended by an outright bribe; something subtler was called for. She glanced around the crowded shop until she found an appropriate object. "Oh, what wonderful ribbon. I have been searching forever for just this shade of blue." She pulled a spindle from a mound of fabric trimmings. "Would you consider selling this to me for, oh, five pounds?"
"Five guineas and it's yours." The ironic gleam in the shopkeeper's eye left no doubt that she knew what the real transaction was.
"Splendid," Desdemona said heartily, as if she didn't know that the true value of the ribbon was less than a pound.
The shopkeeper wrapped the spindle in a length of creased paper. "Happen that when I was in the back of the shop I heard the young couple talking. Something about droving."
"Droving?" Desdemona said, perplexed.
"Aye, there's a big droveway west of here. Maybe they intend to travel along with the drovers. Wouldn't be the first time that gentry folk decided to travel that way as an adventure."
Desdemona pursed her lips. It made sense, while complicating her search still further. "Could you tell me exactly how to find the droveway?"
The proprietress' eye drifted to her customer's hand. Desdemona handed the money over, and received detailed instructions.
Before leaving, she asked one more question. "Were my niece and her husband getting on well?"
The shopkeeper shrugged. "Seemed to be on easy terms. Leastwise, they laughed a lot."
Desdemona gave a false smile. "So pleased to hear that. I was afraid the rigors of primitive travel might put them at odds with each other. That would be a pity when they are newly wed."
As Lady Ross's carriage rumbled off in a cloud of dust, the shopkeeper permitted herself a wide, gaptoothed grin of satisfaction. That pair of young rascals were the most profitable customers she had ever had.
The big Cockney, who claimed he was looking for two thieves, had been good for two pounds, but it was the nobleman with the crest on his carriage who had tipped her off that something strange was afoot. He was looking for two young cousins, off on a lark. That time the search was on behalf of a dying granny, not a father. His lordship been good for five quid. And now here was the lady, looking for her niece and nephewinlaw. Should have held out for ten pounds.
As she lifted her skirt to tuck the five guineas into a purse slung around her waist, she wondered if anyone else would be along. More than that, she wondered what would happen to the fugitives when their pursuers caught up with them.
She gave a cackle of laughter. She'd put her money on the blond gent. With a tongue as gilded as his hair, that young fellow could talk his way out of anything.
Chapter 12
They heard the lowing before they saw the small, windswept stone building. Aptly called the Drover Inn, it stood on the crest of a hill overlooking an expanse of rolling green hills. Soon they were close enough to see a vast herd of black cattle grazing in the meadow beyond the inn.
"We're in luck," Robin said. "A good thing it's Sunday."
She looked at him askance. "Why?"
"Those are Welsh Black cattle. Good Welsh Methodist drovers won't travel on Sunday, which is why they are here and not some miles down the track."
"I see." She gazed longingly at the inn. "Robin, do you think the treasury could stretch to getting a room for the night, and a hot bath with it?"