‘That shouldn’t have happened.’
He was still standing close to her, his breathing ragged and his voice rough. He seemed furious with himself.
‘After yesterday I vowed I’d never again touch you.’
Distractedly, she smoothed her tumbled hair and then began to pack the last of the spillikins in their box.
‘Forgive me if I’ve distressed you.’ His harsh tones grated, breaking through her silence.
‘It’s of no importance. I don’t wish to talk of it,’ she managed. Her outward calm belied the turmoil within. ‘It must be time for nuncheon,’ she continued smoothly. ‘I’ll fetch some refreshment from the kitchen.’
She glanced fleetingly out of the window, as she turned to leave. A carriage had pulled up outside. In itself this was unusual but this was not any carriage. It was a lightly built curricle drawn by four high-stepping greys and the curricle door had a well-known crest on its panel. It had to be Rufus Glyde. He had traced her after all. He was here. She turned sheet-white and the box dropped from her suddenly lifeless hand.
‘Excuse me,’ she gasped, ‘I have to go.’
And with that she dashed from the room, leaving Gareth baffled and infuriated.
Rufus Glyde was in no pleasant mood. He’d been driving almost continuously for days without once ever sighting his quarry. In addition he’d had to endure the sharp tongue of Brielle St Clair when he’d dared to enquire for her granddaughter at the Bath house. It had been a terse encounter on both sides, but he’d definitely come off worse, told in no uncertain terms that his intervention in family affairs was not welcome. It had been the first intimation for Brielle that all was not well with her granddaughter. She was furious that Lord Silverdale had not come himself to tell her of Amelie’s flight, but instead left it to this sneering and patronising stranger to break the news. Most of all she was desperately worried. She felt sick when she thought of what might have befallen the young girl. Her dread fuelled a naturally acerbic tongue and Glyde was still smarting from his dismissal.
As he entered the George the idea that he was on a wild goose chase became insistent. For a while he’d thought that he might be on Amelie’s trail. At Reading where he’d stopped for the night, he’d overheard a conversation between two travellers that gave him pause. One of them had told the strange story of a stage held up on the Bath road, not for jewellery or money, but for a young woman travelling in the coach. It had caused something of a sensation when the passengers had disembarked at Bath and begun to tell their tale.
He’d been sufficiently intrigued by the news to abandon his return to London and head once more in the direction of Bath. By dint of questioning everyone he met—and most of these he castigated as ignorant bumpkins—he’d managed to discover the district in which the hold-up had occurred and then begun to cast around at various inns for news of the errant Amelie. So far it had proved a fruitless task and the George looked no more promising.
Entering the taproom, he was greeted by drab, outmoded furnishings and the stale odour of old beer and tobacco. He turned round full circle. The afternoon sunlight in its attempt to pierce the dirty windows only served to emphasise the dilapidation within. Surely Amelie Silverdale would not be residing here. The inhabitants, if there were any, were either dead or asleep. Nothing stirred. Irritably, he rang the bell on the counter and when there was no response, rang it again more loudly. Mrs Skinner appeared from the top of the cellar steps and scowled at him.
‘Did you want somethin’?’
Her voice was not encouraging. Glyde looked the woman up and down. She was gaunt, badly dressed and with a face marked by ill temper.
‘It would appear so since I rang the bell,’ he countered acidly.
‘Well, what is it, then? I’m busy.’
He tried to keep the rising anger from his voice; he needed this woman’s help. He told the same story as he’d told at the other dozen inns he’d visited. He’d been travelling with a friend, but they’d become separated. He carefully avoided mentioning the sex of his companion. His friend had not appeared at the rendezvous they’d agreed on and he, Glyde, feared that his comrade had met with an accident. Did the good lady have anyone staying at the inn who might be his friend?
‘Nobody you’d know,’ she sniffed.
‘But you do have someone staying?’ he persisted.
Mrs Skinner grudgingly admitted the fact but added, “E ain’t your friend, ‘e ain’t a top-lofty gent like you.’
‘My friend is hardly top-lofty. May I ask who this person is?’
‘You can arsk, but mebbe I ain’t of a mind to tell you.’
Again he had visibly to control his anger. ‘I’m sure we can remedy your lack of memory.’
A sneer slashed his thin white face as he took out his bill folder and extracted a note of some considerable value. Mrs Skinner blinked at this unexpected largesse and thought of extending her prize curtains to the rooms above.
“Is name’s Wendover and I’ve told you ‘e ain’t a gent, not with ‘is scruffy clothes.’
Glyde’s hopes withered. For a moment he’d thought he might finally be close to success, but a male resident who wore scruffy clothes and wasn’t a ‘gent’ as Mrs Skinner put it, was not someone who could be of any interest.
‘And he is your only guest?’
‘You’re a nosy one, ain’t you?’ Mrs Skinner’s hand closed over the tantalising money bill. ‘As it ‘appens, ‘Is sister’s staying with him. They ‘ad an accident, too. Funny, the number of accidents round ‘ere these days.’
Glyde ignored the witticism, but his mind was working rapidly. A sister of Mr Wendover might mean a young woman, and this young woman could just be the prey he sought. It was a chance in a thousand, but he had to know. He cast around for a way of distracting Mrs Skinner, who appeared to have taken root in front of her benefactor. His luck suddenly took a turn for the better. Will, who had been working in the cellar alongside his mistress, appeared at that moment at the top of the stairs.
‘Mrs Skinner, ma’am, where d’you want the new barrels put?’
‘Where d’you think, you numbskull?’ was Mrs Skinner’s pleasant reply.
‘There’s not enough room behind the old barrels,’ Will bravely continued.
‘Dratted men,’ she muttered, ‘can’t be relied on to do anythin’.’ Giving Glyde a last withering glance, she disappeared back down the cellar steps.
Her head had hardly faded from view before he made his move. In a few seconds he’d reached the stairway leading to the top of the house and made ready to search out Mr Wendover and his mysterious sister for himself.
Gareth stared blankly through the window at the curricle as it disappeared towards the stables. From