would rather place the creature in Castle Dragonthorpe, replete with turrets, drawbridge, and a straw bed.
“Are you injured, madam?”
Catherine closed her eyes against Lord Somerton’s soft inquiry, her reluctant smile disappearing in an instant. It had been too much to hope that he would have turned a blind eye to her ignoble exit. Given his obvious desire to be quit of her presence the previous day, Catherine was rather surprised by his current solicitude. With reluctance, she turned to greet him, her gaze going first to the church’s entrance before settling on his handsome face.
“Do not fret, Mrs. Ashcroft,” Lord Somerton said. “No one else observed your near mishap.”
The news should have cheered her, it really should. But all she could think about was that he had observed her. “That is good to know, my lord. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“You didn’t.” He glanced back at the church. “In fact, you saved me from Mr. Foster’s well-intended but rather pointed sermon.”
His comment confirmed what she had already suspected. “You think the vicar was trying to mend the rift of Mr. Blake’s neglect?”
The right side of the earl’s mouth curled into a self-deprecating smile. “Without a doubt.”
She considered asking him to expound, but his expression hardened before her eyes.
“Your daughter’s hasty departure has proven fortuitous, however.”
A shot of chagrin heated Catherine’s cheeks. “My daughter is lively—”
“There’s no need to explain,” he said. “I’m sure neither one of us has forgotten what it was like to sit through church at such a restless age.”
His understanding acted as a balm, and the pressure around Catherine’s chest relented. So few days passed by that didn’t challenge her belief in her ability to raise her daughter without the anchoring presence of a husband. Was she being too strict about Sophie’s studies? Not strict enough? Was she giving her enough guidance? Too much? The questions revolved around her mind in limitless patterns, often painful, and generally without answers.
“Indeed, I have not, sir.” Catherine regarded the privy, wondering what was taking her daughter so long. Had she missed Sophie’s exit? She scanned the area for a mop of blond and red curls.
With most of Showbury attending Mr. Foster’s peacemaking sermon, the road and footpaths were deserted. Even the shops were closed up tight, the anomalies being Mr. Littleton, the general store owner, and Mr. Baggert, the butcher. Both men claimed to have their own connection to God, and didn’t need to sit through the vicar’s ramblings to know right from wrong. At times, Catherine agreed with them. And other times, she simply needed to hear Mr. Foster’s reassuring words.
Her search produced no little girl and the privy door remained closed.
Catherine’s stomach quivered with a familiar uneasiness. Ever since Cochran’s revelations about double spies and coded messages, she had experienced a strange compulsion to glance over her shoulder at odd moments. She also had difficulty letting Sophie out of her sight for any length of time—much to her daughter’s dismay.
Over the last year, she had often prayed for deliverance from her boring, well-ordered life. Had she known a perilous game of espionage would be the answer to her request, she would have kept her yearnings to herself. Her gaze bore into the privy’s weather-worn door. Sophie was safe, she told herself. The girl’s needs were simply taking longer than normal.
“Mrs. Ashcroft?” Lord Somerton prodded.
Startled from her introspection, she shot a quick glance at the earl. “Yes, my lord?”
“Is something wrong?” He looked toward the small outbuilding, where her daughter was taking her merry-sweet time.
She forced a nervous laugh. “I’m sure everything’s fine, sir. I fear my daughter might be delaying a tongue-lashing.”
“I found this on one of the church steps.” He held out a carved image of a destrier, a knight’s warhorse. “Does it belong to your daughter?”
“Yes, thank you.” She made to reach for it, but a movement on the opposite side of the street snagged her attention. Between the millinery and butcher shops, half-hidden by the building’s shadow, stood a man. A short man with a skeletal build eating something tucked inside wrapping used by Mr. Baggert.
Bile bubbled up inside her throat. There were few things that came out of the butcher’s shop that could be eaten right from the package. However, at that moment, Catherine could not think of a single one of them.
When the stranger noticed her scrutiny, he stopped chewing. His gaze locked with hers for a tension-filled moment. Then he began the slow mastication of whatever he had tucked inside the