When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,54

private dining room ee-meed-jately.

“Have a seat,” Parker said, having taken John Coachman into his confidence of necessity. “We won’t be overheard as long as that farce is unfolding at the front desk. What did you learn?”

The coachman spared a pointed look at Parker’s half-finished ale, which was what came from borrowing a marquess’s equipage. Parker was a tolerated burden, rather than a respected employer. Because Parker had dealt with many a posturing general and pouting lieutenant, he pushed the tankard to the coachman’s elbow.

“The stables are busy,” the coachman replied, sampling the drink, “with half the local gentry heading north for some foxhunting, and the other half coming and going from London. This is good ale.”

“It’s tolerable, but then, this is a proper inn.” A properly expensive inn, in other words. His lordship the marquess stayed at this establishment on the way to visit family in Bristol, which was why Parker had chosen to make camp here.

“No word of any young ladies fallen on hard times,” the coachman said, downing the remaining ale. “The ducal properties are numerous.”

“One gathered as much.” Parker was haunted by the possibility that he’d already missed the ducal property he needed to find. Worse, Wakefield might have mis-remembered whose home had been memorialized in that landscape or mistaken a duke for an earl.

Or purposely sent Parker off in the wrong direction, except Parker had already combed most of Kent, Surrey, and Sussex looking for Matilda.

“Might I ask a question, sir?”

“You may.”

“If we’re looking for a female without means, one seeking to avoid notice, why are we looking at only the best inns and raising questions with only the innkeepers or grooms? A woman in trouble would ask other ladies for aid and avoid drawing any attention from men.”

The three dandies had taken over a table and were making rapid progress through a pitcher of beer.

A bolt of irritation shot through Parker to think of Matilda risking her safety among such as that lot. Those three probably considered themselves gentlemen, though by the time they’d swilled another pitcher, they’d pinch the bum of any woman foolish enough to come near them.

“You raise a valid point,” Parker said. “What do you propose we, as a company of men, do about it?” Subordinates with any intelligence knew better than to bring up a problem without also having a solution in mind.

“Gentzel is a handsome lad, sir. He could chat up the ladies.”

“He’s one of our footmen?”

“A good man, though a Devonshire accent makes him hard to understand. Might I raise another thought, sir?”

No. No more thoughts, questions, or problems. Find Matilda or shut your gob. My career and possibly my life depend upon it. Except that Parker could ill afford to offend his brother’s second coachman. In truth, this westward gambit was the most promising development Parker had pursued since Matilda had disappeared.

She was in more danger than she knew, if she was still alive. “Say on, man.”

“We should be asking the local parsons about recent funerals of young women answering to the missing lady’s description. Accidents happen, women despair, rogues abound.”

The coachman was fairly young, but, like most of his kind, his countenance was weathered. He offered his observations gently, for Parker was the young lady’s heartbroken fiancé, as far as anybody knew.

“As much as I’d like to, I cannot disagree with you,” Parker said slowly. Matilda’s death would be lamentable, very lamentable. Parker still hoped to make her see reason and go through with the marriage. He’d resume the duties of a senior officer, leaving Thomas Wakefield to deal with the consequences of his folly.

Parker would marry Matilda out of pity, because the daughter of a traitor could not expect to find any better source of protection than an unassailably loyal military officer. She’d be grateful to Parker for honoring their betrothal, and contrite for having shown such infernally awful judgment by running off.

And Parker’s superior officers would commend him for discreetly managing a very delicate business.

“I can have Fitzsimmons inquire of the clergy,” the coachman said, lifting the empty tankard a few inches in the direction of the serving maid.

“Thank you,” Parker said. “When we quit this establishment, we’ll find humbler lodgings to the west and continue our search.”

The door to the private dining room opened, and a finely dressed older couple emerged. The maid curtsied, and the white-haired fellow passed her a coin.

“I believe my meal will soon be served,” Parker said. “Would you care to join me?” Loyalty should be rewarded, as should