Her fortnight would end in three days. Papa would send the carriage to Brennon Manor to collect her, but it would not find her there. She was no closer to Bristol and Calais than she had been a sennight ago.
She cared about this problem, very much. Two peculiar weeks on the road with a man she did not entirely understand, having an adventure she could never have imagined, had not dulled her desire to see her mother. Now she wanted that reunion even more than before. She needed to see her. To ask her. She needed to know.
But the desperation simmering in her had nothing to do with hurrying back to the road, instead all to do with this man she did not truly know but who at times felt as though she had known her whole life.
He finally seemed to sleep. She set about straightening the chamber, although in truth he’d barely lived in it. His coat, boots, and neck cloth were arranged neatly upon the coat horse. A shallow dish containing a bushy white brush, a bar of soap, and a remarkably lethal-looking blade were certainly his shaving gear and gave her a little frisson of nerves—as much because she had never before seen a man’s personal items and it seemed very daring to see his now, as because he clearly didn’t need the pistol if he wished to do himself or anybody else damage.
Dragging her gaze away, she neatened the packets of herbs atop the writing desk, sticking her nose into them one at a time to sniff. The Cayenne pepper made her eyes well up and she sneezed, but Wyn did not flinch.
She pulled the Holland cover off a side table, and another from a framed painting on the wall. It showed a black-haired lady settled atop a gray horse. But her eyes, which matched her mount’s coat, were somber—too somber for Diantha, and she covered the image again. Finally she steeled herself, went to the bed and drew back the curtain fully. A stack of folded linens sat at the foot of the mattress. With her heart beating fast she made up the bed.
Finished tidying, she went to her knees on the dusty floor. For the first time in four years she folded her hands and bent her head.
“Allow me this,” she whispered, the remnants of the pepper filling her eyes with tears again. “I pray you, allow me to do something with my life that matters.”
Chapter 16
Fellow Subjects of Britain,
Due to Unanticipated Circumstances my agent in Shropshire is once again detained in pursuing his Falcon Club quarry. In short, I begin to despair of this particular quest.
No—I shan’t cease seeking justice! Yes—I shall hound the members of this wasteful club until they are all discovered!
But, as I have fretfully awaited my agent’s communications, I have learned a valuable lesson: subterfuge is not my bailiwick. I would rather approach a man directly, accuse him of wrongdoing justifiably and without recourse to secrecy, and hear him defend himself with mine own ears than sit like an Eastern despot upon his throne who waits for his henchmen to perform Despicable Deeds in his name. My methods must remain pristine so that my victory is too.
I have not recalled my agent from the countryside; his troubles are sufficiently noisome to inhibit his progress without my intervention. But when he is again mobile I will inform him of my desire to quit this project. For now. For when this Falcon Club member returns to London, I will confront him and he will be obliged to answer to you, the People of Britain, for his criminal excess.
—Lady Justice
My dearest lady,
I breathe a sigh of profound relief. Quit your pursuit of my fellow club member, indeed. But know this: I am already in London. I entreat you, pursue me instead. If you should find me, I promise you a most satisfying Interrogation.
In eager anticipation,
Peregrine
Secretary, The Falcon Club
Chapter 17
Wyn did not recover that night, nor the following night, nor the day after that. Diantha’s fortnight came to a quiet close as she rolled dough in the fading light of evening for yet another batch of Mrs. Polley’s ingenious oat biscuits. She glanced at Owen pumping away at the old butter churn they’d found in the chicken shed. Somehow he had managed to milk the cow, lugging in a bucket of milk that tasted like sheer heaven. Her mouth watered anticipating butter. She thought of Glenhaven Hall and Cook’s seed biscuits and roast goose with drippings and lemonade and pork jelly and crumbly cheese with crisp apples and shepherd’s pie, and then, of course, the man abovestairs.
“The tarts I could make with a dozen apples, if I had them,” Mrs. Polley mumbled as though reading her mind.
“There’s apples, ma’am.” Owen’s narrow shoulders leaned into his work. “In the grove a ways past the stile.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that before, boy?”
Diantha could nearly taste them. “Tomorrow I will see what I can collect.”
The following morning she had excellent reason to escape the house and seek out the grove. Entering the kitchen for breakfast she discovered Wyn and Mrs. Polley at the table and her heart flew into her throat. Without a coat, in shirt and waistcoat, breeches and boots, he looked better. No fever darkened his cheeks, and the glimmer in his eyes as he turned to her was familiar.
“You are better!”
“To a degree.”
She expected him to smile. He did not. He stood up.
She thrust out a palm to stay him. “No! You’ve been so ill. You mustn’t stand merely because I have entered the room.”
“In fact I must.” He offered her a modest bow. “But I also happen to be leaving.”
Already? “Oh.”
Silence filled the kitchen. Mrs. Polley muttered beneath her breath and took up the dishes.
Diantha fought to recover her tongue. “To where?”
He paused, then said, “To the drawing room.”
It was too awkward. Nothing had ever been awkward between them before, not even those moments outside the inn in Knighton. Then he had been determined to do the right thing by her. Now he seemed cautious.
“Well, then.” She moved toward the table and around him as though passing him by so closely did not cause every one of her joints to turn to jelly. “I’m very glad you are feeling well enough to be up and about. We have worried.” She flicked a glance at him. “And, naturally, we are anxious to be on our way.”
Mrs. Polley harrumphed.
“We shall be soon.” A peculiar note in his voice turned her around.
“Not too soon,” she said hastily. “Not until you are ready.” Her heart beat ridiculously fast.
“Thank you.” He left.
She stared at the door. After a minute she could no longer bear the discomfort in her belly and the disapproving silence of her companion.
She set off along the canal toward the stile, carrying only a bucket and her confused thoughts. Her shoes sank deep into the sodden moss along the bank. The abbey was not so different from Glenhaven Hall where she busied herself with small tasks and spent the days with her young sister and servants. Her stepfather was a recluse, his scholarly books claiming most of his attention. When it came to his children, he cared most for his true daughters, Serena and Viola and little Faith. As a stepdaughter, Diantha had long understood that. But the people of Glen Village were always kind, and her weekly visits to Savege Park when Alex and Serena were in residence were happy occasions.
London would be different, she knew. There were museums and historical sites and shops in the hundreds. There would also be grand ladies like those she had sometimes encountered at Savege Park, but in much greater number. Grand, elegant, proper ladies. Slender, with porcelain complexions. Beautiful, like his friend Lady Constance Read.