“To a place where Manning’s men won’t find us. Now he’s told you the truth, he’ll kill us both, and so our only hope is to flee to France.”
“France?”
“We’ll be safe there. I’ll protect you. We can get back to how things used to be after Margaret died.” He spoke as if he had not committed a heinous crime. Not murdered her father in cold blood.
En route, there’d be many opportunities to slip away. But the carriage creaked to a halt at an inn further along the road—the Nelson’s Head.
“Why have we stopped?”
Two men in aprons, their shirt-sleeves rolled to their elbows despite it being late autumn, approached along the lane and entered the inn. It would be easy to attract their attention once inside.
“I hired a post-chaise in Rochester to bring me to London. Paid the driver to wait here for my return. He’ll take us home and then on to Dover. I paid O’Shea a ridiculous sum to ferry me around town these last two days, but his duties end here.”
Two days? Then he had followed them to London after the meeting at the Falstaff inn. Indeed, she realised he wore the same clothes, not the same arrogant grin.
He waved the pistol at her. “Wait inside the coach until I return. O’Shea’s been instructed to shoot you if you attempt to leave.” He alighted, left her alone with her thoughts.
What a shame she didn’t have her pocket pistol, but she had left it with Mr Bower. Weapons were not allowed through the doors of Newgate. Still, for Dante’s sake, she would test O’Shea’s mettle. The fool wouldn’t risk the noose to kill a stranger.
Would he?
Chapter 20
Bower’s note had arrived thirty minutes after Miss Trimble had given her emotional statement, brought by a boy in a hackney who’d been promised a sovereign if he delivered it safely. Bower’s instructions were clear. Cross London Bridge, take the Kent Road and head towards Rochester.
Rochester? John Sands was a damn fool. That’s the firs
t place anyone would look. Which meant he was stopping for supplies—clean clothes and money—before heading south to Dover. Good. Being an hour behind, they would catch him at the house.
During the agonising wait in Hart Street, Miss Trimble repeated Manning’s words verbatim. Dante couldn’t believe Beatrice had taken it upon herself to confront the moneylender. He should have been livid, but he understood the clawing need to uncover the truth. Daventry had expressed his own fury, a fury directed at Sir Malcolm for putting the case against Manning before the life of an agent.
And so they’d commanded the use of Sloane’s carriage, were rattling at breakneck speed along the muddy thoroughfare, had made ground by taking Waterloo Bridge and meeting the Kent Road in Walworth. By Dante’s calculation, they were now only thirty minutes behind Bower. Assuming he hadn’t stopped or taken a detour.
Dante glanced at the passing fields while seized by a sense of foreboding. The sun had dipped just below the horizon. Vibrant streaks of gold and red lit the sky. But soon darkness would swamp his world—just like it had on that lonely road in Hampshire.
Ashwood, Cole and Sloane sat in silence, their large frames squashed inside the conveyance. Daventry sat atop the box with Turton. He’d sworn never to lose an agent again. Swore no man or woman would ever die on his watch.
“We’ll find her,” Sloane said, “alive and well.”
Dante glanced at Sloane. “Shoot me if we don’t.”
The panic, the pain, must have been evident in his eyes.
“You’re in love with her,” Ashwood stated, his sigh tinged with relief.
“I cannot bear the thought of living without her,” he choked. “I cannot bear the thought of going home to an empty house, of not seeing her wearing her ridiculous trousers, swigging foul brandy.”
When Cole frowned, Sloane said, “Miss Sands uses various tactics to pull our friend out of the doldrums. Vinegar posing as brandy being one of them.”
“She’s clearly in love with you,” Ashwood said. “She’s done everything in her power to help you find the devil who shot your parents.”
“She’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.” Dante covered his eyes with his hand for a moment before sucking in a sharp breath and letting anger overcome his fear. “I’ll kill that bastard if he’s hurt her.”
Based on Miss Trimble’s account, John Sands was the fox in the warren. No doubt he feared Manning had told Beatrice the truth, hence why he’d kidnapped her outside Newgate. Silencing her had to be his motive. And yet the clod had left Miss Trimble behind.
They stopped at the turnpike. Dante lowered the window, tried to ignore the foul stench emanating from the tannery some distance behind the tollhouse, and listened to Daventry’s conversation with the collector.
“Have you seen anything unusual?” Daventry continued sharply. “The woman is being held against her will.”