The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,19

have done something dodgy with the mailbag.

Of course, people often looked at her suspiciously. Or perhaps that was her guilty conscience speaking, although she didn’t think so.

Even two months of successfully masquerading as a man had not served to ease her anxiety and boost her confidence.

Although her weeks as a lowly post boy had certainly served to put her new life into perspective.

Benna had always been active, but she had quickly discovered that a day spent hacking or hunting was nothing like a day spent mucking out stalls, riding twelve hours on bone-jarring nags, or—on two dreadful occasions—cleaning out hen houses in exchange for a bit of warm supper and a place to lay her head.

Yes, life had changed so fast that Benna’s head spun whenever she thought about it; so she tried not to.

She’d not had a decent night’s sleep since she’d fled from that spinney garbed in Tom’s coat and hat, her pocket stuffed with stolen money and Diggle’s repulsive rings, watch, and fobs.

Too terrified to buy a seat on the stage, Benna had walked for three days, taking only small side roads. Not until she’d reached the town of Otterburn had she risked accepting rides with carters or farmers.

Benna had stumbled into the post boy job on her first evening in Newcastle, even though the city was too close to Scotland for her comfort. But she’d decided to linger in the north to have access to newspapers that might contain some report of what happened that night in the spinney.

Thus far, she’d not read a word about Tom’s or Diggle’s deaths. And she knew—beyond a doubt—that both men had been dead when she left the spinney that night.

Michael must have covered up the deaths. Or perhaps he’d paid off some official to swear they’d died of natural causes. If he could engineer her brother’s accident—an accusation that had only gained more traction in her mind the more she’d thought of it—then hiding the deaths of two unimportant persons would present no challenge.

She had also scanned the papers for any mention of her cousin. Only once had she seen his name—in connection with hers. According to the newspaper report, the Earl of Norland had recently accompanied his young ward, the new Duchess of Wake, to an exclusive spa just outside Brighton, where she was expected to spend at least part of the winter, and possibly the spring, recuperating after the tragic death of her elder brother.

What Michael was up to, Benna could not guess.

As for her own situation and future, Benna had, after many nights spent alone cogitating on the matter, come to no conclusion as to what she should do. More and more she suspected that anyone she applied to for help—like Mr. Norris or somebody from his firm of solicitors—would be obliged to hand her over to her guardian.

She was increasingly of the terrifying opinion that she would have to wait until she was of legal age before she could take any action. Once she was twenty-one she would no longer be at the law’s mercy, at least.

That would mean that four long, lonely, cold, and desperate years loomed before her.

Benna would be surprised if she managed to survive the next four days.

She was seized by a sudden urge to crawl under some blankets—although she had none—and hide.

Her current predicament was all her fault. Because she’d been an ignorant looby and spent money too freely during her first weeks in Newcastle she was now pockets-to-let. Diggle’s jewelry—which she’d been saving until last to sell—had turned out to be cheap and of little value.

And her efforts at finding work in Durham had been less than—

“Another?”

Benna’s head jerked up at the sound of the barkeep’s rough voice. “Er, no,” she muttered.

He narrowed his eyes at her and then looked at her glass, which she’d been nursing and was still three-quarters full even after half an hour. “Summat wrong?” he demanded.

“No, it’s good.” She lifted the glass and took a small sip, trying not to grimace; no matter how much she tried, she could not like porter.

“Where you from?”

“Er, up north.”

“You sound funny.” His eyes, which had already been squinty, narrowed so much that Benna wondered how he could see. “You sound—”

“You drunken no-count lout!” somebody shouted outside the taproom. “This is the end for you. By the time I’m done noisin’ your name about you won’t be able to get a job muckin’ stalls in John o’ Groats.”

Loud, braying laughter met this threat. “You need me, Courtney,” another