He hadn’t bothered to waste so much as a minute trying to leave her behind; he’d understood, and accepted, and bowed to her right to go with him after Ben. Most men, especially gentlemen, would have argued, and been grumpy when they lost. Instead, he’d done everything possible to ease her way, to support her in her quest…no, their mutual quest. That felt odd in one way, but strangely right. He’d earned the right by his behavior, his understanding, to stand by her side.
Closing her eyes, she swallowed. Took a moment to savor that truth, one moment to acknowledge it. And what it meant, what it portended.
Loving him was one thing, accepting him into her life quite another. Had she already let him in, unconsciously, without, until now, being aware of it?
Regardless, now was not the time for thinking of such things. She breathed in, let the subject sink deeper into her mind, refocusing instead on Ben, and their chase.
Normally a fast, well-sprung carriage would take two full days of traveling to reach London; even with good horses, the journey meant well over twenty-four hours on the road, even in summer. But most carriages didn’t drive through the night; they, however, were. It was risky, more because of the state of the roads than due to any corporeal threat, but that was why Gervase had insisted on Falmouth’s best coachman, and he’d hired his mate as well, so they could spell each other through the night, and then on through the following day.
The rhythmic rocking of the carriage, the swift, regular thud of the horses’ hooves, reassured her; they were doing all they could. Gervase’s hand remained locked about hers, his shoulder beside hers, there for her to lean on—something she’d never imagined she would ever do—his hard thigh solid and warm alongside hers. Every touch, every nuance of his presence calmed and steadied her.
They were on the villain’s heels and traveling as hard and as fast as it was possible to go. All that remained was to wait, to exist in a sort of limbo of heightened but restrained expectation, until the other carriage slowed and they caught it—or, better yet, it stopped.
The carriage they were chasing didn’t halt for the night. They didn’t, either.
They got confirmation of its passing at numerous post-houses. They would stop and Gervase would get out to make inquiries; usually within minutes he would be back and they’d be on the road once more.
The night waned; dawn came and the sun rose, and they continued on at their near breakneck pace. The day wore on; Madeline felt cramped, limbs and muscles protesting the unaccustomed inactivity, but she wasn’t about to quibble, let alone complain.
Despite their unrelenting pace, Gervase was assiduous in insisting she, and the coachmen, too, got down to stretch their legs at regular intervals, usually while they were changing horses. While the coachmen oversaw the ostlers, he’d escort her into whichever inn they’d stopped at, order something light and quick for them both, sending ale and sandwiches out to the coachmen.
Breakfast and lunch were taken in that fashion.
Although the breaks were kept to a minimum, they were another example of Gervase’s protectiveness, an all-but-instinctive habit of ensuring the welfare of those in his care. Even if those people tried to argue, as, on the first occasion, Madeline had. She’d been overruled in a tone one degree away from dictatorial…she’d noted it, but, subsequently, when she’d realized the wisdom behind his actions, she’d inwardly shrugged and the next time complied without caviling. There was, it seemed, a time and place for authoritative men.
They rattled into Amesbury in midafternoon. The coachman’s mate blew on the yard of tin; when they swung under the arch of the Blue Gun & Pistols, the ostlers were already leading out fresh horses, others waiting ready to unbuckle the harness and lead their current four animals away.
Madeline got down, but remained in the yard watching the activity while Gervase circulated, questioning the head ostler, then, at his direction, climbing onto the inn’s front porch to speak with an old man in a rocking chair.
He returned as the final buckles on the harness were being tightened; the coachmen were already on the box, reins in hand.
His face grim and set, Gervase nodded curtly to them. “On to London.” Gripping Madeline’s arm, he helped her up the steps into the carriage, then followed.
She waited until they were bowling along again before asking, “What is it? What did you learn?”
He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Nothing new. It’s just that…” Frowning, he paused, staring, she suspected unseeing, across the carriage.
She waited. Eventually he went on, “They passed this way a few hours ago. The old man on the porch used to be the head ostler here—his eyesight’s excellent, and he knows carriages and horses. He saw the carriage we’re after go past.”
Black, relatively new, with a green blaze on the door; they’d got the description from the first posting inn beyond Falmouth.
“He recognized the carriage’s marking—he said it’s from one of the major London posting inns. But it was the horses that caught his eye. Prime ’uns, he said, hired nags but the b
est to be had, which explains why we haven’t caught up with them. They’re using the same quality of post-horses we are, which means there’s money behind this. The plan and its execution are the work of someone other than a London flash cove.”
Madeline studied his face. “You thought some gentleman, some man of our class, was involved—someone who could have seen the brooch at Lady Felgate’s ball, or known someone who had.”
He sighed and sat back. “Indeed. That’s what’s worrying me. If he—the man behind this—was in Cornwall, where his wrecked cargo also presumably is, and I do think we’re on sound ground assuming only he would have recognized the brooch, then why is he taking Ben to London? Why not question him in Cornwall, and then go straight after the lost cargo?”
She didn’t even try to think it through. “Why do you think?”
He drew a long breath, let it out with, “I think he’s leading us away.” He paused, then went on, “I think all this is part of his plan—not just the flight to London but us following as well. That’s the reason he’s spending money so freely to keep his carriage ahead of ours—he intended all along for us to follow. He can’t know we are, but he’s assumed we are.”
She grimaced. “He’s right.”
“Indeed. He chose to kidnap Ben—or at least one of your brothers—not solely to learn where they found the brooch, but also because any of them would be the perfect pawn to draw us—you and me—away from the peninsula. He doesn’t know Charles is there in our stead. With us gone, he’ll assume the peninsula itself will be largely rudderless, at least in terms of dealing with the likes of him.”
Cold fear had welled; it clutched her heart. “What will he do with Ben when he reaches London?”