The fireball in his stomach danced an impatient jig. In present company he could not ask her meaning. He could not inquire of her direction, her intention, her program, or who exactly Annie was. He could not even speak her name. And he hoped dearly for her sake that she did not choose to provide him with any of this information voluntarily while sharing the coach with four strangers. But at the next posting house he would take her aside and learn what he must. Then he would return her to her family.
It was clear that Miss Lucas had run away from home. Fortunately for her, he was something of a specialist at returning runaway girls. The specialist in the crown’s hire, the member of the Falcon Club—a small, secret organization dedicated to returning lost persons of distinction to their homes—with a special knack for corralling girls exactly like this one. Spoiled, willful, naïve, confident of their charms. Girls who could wrap people around their fingers through the sheer, mesmerizing force of their smiles.
She returned her attention to the babe in her arms. Wyn closed his eyes, sinking again into the gin lethargy, but discontent grated at him now. The filly must take second place to the girl. The Duke of Yarmouth must wait.
But there was no rush. No one would suspect anything amiss if he delayed. This assignment was obviously meant as a prelude to his mandatory retirement, a silent message that the crown no longer required his services. A final reprimand. The head agent of the Falcon Club, Viscount Colin Gray, had warned him: their director was concerned. Gray thought it was because of the brandy. Wyn knew the truth. The director had not trusted him for five years, and it hadn’t anything to do with brandy.
Now he would return Miss Lucas home, then the horse to its master, and his current existence would end in a blaze of ignominy. He folded his arms over his chest. The infant wailed. The coach bumped. Forgetful sleep came slowly.
Chapter 3
Mr. Yale awoke again only as the coach entered the posting inn’s yard. He was the first to go out into the rain.
Diantha needed an enormous tea, a vigorous stretch, and then a good stroll. Her arms and shoulders ached fiercely from holding the babe.
Its mother pressed her hand. “Miss, you saved me today. You’ll be in my prayers tonight.”
“You would have done the same for me, I suspect.” She smiled and upon wobbly knees pushed herself toward the door.
Standing by the step in the lowering light of the rainy evening, Mr. Yale offered his hand. It was perfectly silly that a tingle zigzagged about her stomach. But since she had only thrice in her life encountered a man who caused those sorts of tingles, and all three times they were him, it wasn’t to be wondered at. A true hero was bound to have that sort of effect upon a lady.
She placed her gloved fingers on his palm and came down the two steps to the drive awash in puddles, then looked up at him.
More tingles.
“Madam,” he said quietly as she drew the hood of her cloak over her hair, “while I beg pardon for asking it of you, I hope you will accompany me now to the stable briefly while I see to my cattle.” He gestured to a pair of horses tied to the rear of the coach. “In the absence of Annie, perhaps you will see the wisdom of not entering the inn without suitable escort.” His gaze flickered to the coach’s door where Mr. Sausage Fingers loomed.
“I do, sir. And I shan’t mind accompanying you to the stable in the least.”
“Excellent.” He bowed, and now his gray eyes seemed to sparkle.
Really, his eyes were silvery. Black-haired and square-jawed, he was ridiculously handsome, even rather lean-cheeked as he was now. But from the first time she had seen him at a wedding at Savege Park, she had liked his silver eyes most of all. They rested upon a girl as though her every word and desire were his first concern, as though, in fact, he wished to read her mind to discover her desires rather than require her to make even the slightest effort to express them in words.
He’d done that the night of that wedding. He had read her thoughts and rescued her. He had been her hero.
He untethered the horses from the rear of the coach and drew them toward the archway leading behind the inn. A ragged little dog stood in the rain outside the stable door, watching as they passed inside.
“Look at that poor thing, all skin and bones, and favoring its forepaw. I think it is injured.” She craned her neck but the stable hand pulled the door shut.
“Only a mongrel, miss.”
“Someone ought to feed it. It’s starving.”
Mr. Yale cast her a curious glance, then turned to his task. He did not relinquish the horses into the hands of the stable hand, but saw to them himself then returned to her at the door.
“Thank you for your patience, Miss Lucas. How do you do?” He bowed so beautifully, as though he were encountering her in an elegant drawing room.
She curtsied. “Well, sir. Especially now.”
“Have you luggage aboard the coach?”
“A traveling trunk and bandbox. Why?”
“Then our first order of business must be to retrieve it.”
“Oh, I don’t think that is necessary. The coach is bound to leave again shortly. It is only a dinner break and to change out the horses, I think.”
“You will no doubt wish to dine?” He came forward and gestured her toward the door into the inn.
“I will. I am famished! I never quite realized how traveling the public coach encourages the appetite.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Oh, no. I hadn’t planned on being so hungry at all, or I would have instructed Annie to pack a cold dinner before we left Brennon Manor.” She walked before him through the door into warm air scented with roast and ale. The taprooms meandered over several attached chambers, all wood paneling and cozy crackling fires, a mix of farmers and villagers and the people from the coach clustered about the bar and at tables. Her stomach rumbled.
Mr. Yale took her cloak then pulled out for her a chair at a small table. A man wearing a starched apron appeared.
“What can I serve you, sir?”
“The lady will have whatever she desires, and I shall have a pint, an empty glass, and a bottle of Hennessy.”
“Miss?”
“Whatever is best tonight, thank you.” She smiled. “It smells wonderful!”
“My wife’s roast and pudding, miss. Finest in the village.”
“Well it isn’t a very large village,” she whispered when he’d left, “but no doubt I shall enjoy it. I could eat a horse at present. Not one of yours, of course. What beautiful animals you have, Mr. Yale!”
“Thank you, Miss Lucas.” He did not sit. “I will return in a moment.” He looked at her quite directly. “If you will remain at this table while I am gone, that would be best.”
“I am so hungry, the farthest I would go is the kitchen.”
He bowed and disappeared out the rear door again. She glanced at the bar where Mr. Sausage Fingers was again staring at her, then out the window at the rain.
By the time Mr. Yale returned, her food had arrived, and his drinks.
“Aren’t you eating?”
“Not at this time.” He poured from the bottle into a glass and drank the contents in one swallow. “But please do enjoy your dinner.” He lifted his ale glass.
“Thank you.” She tucked in. “It tastes even better than it smells. I barely ate a bite the entire fortnight I was at Brennon Manor, I was so excited about my journey.”
“May I be so bold, Miss Lucas, as to inquire how you come to be traveling alone?”
“Teresa’s maid Annie deserted me. We thought she would be terribly clever to have along, but we never expected her to decamp so swiftly, or frankly at all.”
“I see. Teresa . . . ?”
“Finch-Freeworth. We attended the Bailey Academy for Young Ladies together for three years when my stepfather sent me there after the dismissal of my fourth governess. Miss Yarley, Head Mistress of the Bailey Academy, however, was splendid, so I never gave her trouble. Good heavens, this pudding is simply divine. Is the food at all posting inns so delicious?”