When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,106
constitutional?” Wakefield asked when the maid had scurried away.
“Tomas has indulged his fascination for wildlife,” Petras replied. “He found many trails in the Brightwell home wood, some of them made by a woman, others by a child. The majority, though, were created by men. A day old, no more.”
“A party searching for game?” Carlu asked, frowning at his tankard.
“Gamekeepers wouldn’t stick to the well-worn trails,” Wakefield said, “nor would poachers in search of game. A man intent on poaching game would move deliberately and quietly, not march around making a racket. Any dog tracks?”
Petras waited until the maid had set his ale on the table and then moved away before he replied.
“No dogs. The woman’s boots were made by Hoby.”
Hoby, the most successful bootmaker in London, said to have several hundred cobblers and cordwainers in his employ.
Matilda had worn Hoby boots. “She wasn’t here,” Wakefield said, though that fact was no cause for rejoicing. He’d been certain Matilda had at least come this way if not bided in the area.
“Parker was here at this very inn,” Petras said, in the same tones he might have used to observe that rain was on the way. “He made a pest of himself with the maids.”
“A ditch,” Carlu muttered. “A cold, muddy ditch beside a lonely, dark road. Why do you never listen to me, sir?”
“We’re here, aren’t we?” Wakefield replied. “Empty handed, as usual. If Parker passed through here a week ago, then what does that matter to us?”
A pressing need to shake some answers from the fools at Horse Guards had Wakefield nearly bolting from the room. That would cause talk, though, and at all costs, he must move about in as unremarkable a fashion as possible.
“Parker was here last night,” Petras said. “We missed him by hours.”
Carlu’s glower should have left a circle of flames around Wakefield’s chair.
Tomas strutted in—Tomas had perfected the strut, and the dark-eyed stare that made a lady’s knees go weak, to hear him tell it. He took the fourth seat at the table and appropriated a sip of Petras’s drink.
“The ducal driveway tells a tale,” Tomas said in the most unremarkable tones. “Two large coaches, traveling at the same time. The tracks go up, the tracks go to the carriage house, the tracks go right back down the drive, all within the space of—I’d say—several hours, no more than a day or two ago, based on the melting and the mud. Fresh teams put to, footmen, grooms, or stable lads hopping about. Big horses in both directions, not puny nags from the last coaching inn. An outrider on another big horse.”
“Private teams,” Carlu observed. “Parker’s titled brother travels out to Bristol frequently. The marquess might have private teams in the area.”
“Parker did not pay a call on Brightwell,” Wakefield retorted, “much less abscond with Matilda, and depart without causing gossip.”
The serving maid came by again. “Ale for you, sir?” she asked Tomas.
“Please, fair maiden. And one of your smiles would illuminate the rest of my day.”
The maid did smile, and blush, and curtsy before she backed away from the table.
Both Petras and Carlu kicked Tomas under the table. “Now is no time for one of your performances,” Carlu hissed.
Tomas shrugged. “If a man as well favored as I did not attempt harmless flirtation, the maid would remark it and be needlessly offended. I owe it to her and to our attempts at discretion to make her smile.”
“The Portuguese are a peculiar race,” Petras observed philosophically. “All that hot sun.”
“And the wine they consume,” Carlu suggested. “Inferior vintages in great quantities. Curdles small brains faster than those with greater endowments.”
“No talk of endowments,” Wakefield said, because this lot could turn crude innuendo into an art form. “Where did Parker go?”
“London. He left no vales, he was traveling with liveried servants, and the crests on his vehicle were turned, which only proves he’s an idiot. What good is it to turn the crests if you have half a dozen self-important buffoons swarming about in livery? He left yesterday about midday.”
Carlu, Petras, and Tomas did humble work, mucking stalls, fetching the post, minding the front door. They were also professionals at a game more complicated than chess could ever be, and they were watching Wakefield with a casual regard that suggested his life was in danger.
As Matilda’s life had been in danger for months. The queasiness Wakefield had lived with since her disappearance escalated to dread, if not terror. For her, and for himself.