Page 46 of A Lady's Past
Preston rolled his eyes and Jacques shared the sentiment. They were so close.
It took a few minutes, and in the meantime, Jacques and Preston stayed out of the fray. When the barman returned, he stank almost as bad as the pub. “Sorry, you wanted to know where Caron and Farmer were headed?”
“That’s right. We want to put the husband off the path.” Preston was more adept at lying that Jacques would have thought.
He poured several ales and handed them across the bar to a lush-figured serving girl. “I heard Caron say he needed to use a less traveled road out of London. Must be avoiding that husband. They were going east before they took Farmer’s cart to his place. Strange thing, though, I was sure Farmer lived north of London. I guess they really want to steer clear of that tart’s husband.”
Preston left a shilling on the bar and they traversed the throng of revelers out of the Bull and Maid.
As soon as they were in the alley, Jacques asked, “So, do we go east or north?”
“East, I think. We have to find his path. It’s getting late. The Horsemen will start their journey with the ladies tomorrow at first light. We need to know where Victor is and keep him as far away from them as possible.” Preston waved and tossed a shilling at the boy who held their horses.
“If we go north, we might head him off.” Jacques mounted his horse.
“I still say we follow directly. We’ll never track him down if we don’t start in the same direction.”
They trotted out of London to the east. The man Alex had watching the road had seen Farmer’s cart, but there had been only one man, and he hauled only empty bushel baskets.
Jacques was sure Victor had been in that cart. Somehow, he had hidden from sight, but he had been there and was now outside London. Since Diana was still in London, it gave Jacques some comfort.
They were fifteen miles outside of London when the rain started, and they hadn’t seen any sign of Victor or his conspirator. The chill in the air meant that the rain might very well turn to snow or ice. Jacques searched the edges of the woods for where two men in a cart might have left the road for shelter, but found nothing.
“Jacques, there’s an inn up ahead. We’ll not find them in this, not tonight. We can start out at first light and continue our search.” Preston tugged his hat down, shielding his eyes from the driving rain.
“We’ll lose the scent,” Jacques protested.
“My friend, you know as well as I that we have seen nor heard any hint of him. Perhaps a new day will bring us better luck.”
Unable to argue the point, Jacques nodded.
Preston urged his horse forward and they took a fast trot to the Wastrel Inn. A boy took their horses. Jacques gave him an extra shilling to see they were well fed and rubbed down.
Inside, the common room was full of men and women enjoying ale and food. A rotund man in a soiled apron and grinning from ear to ear waddled across the room. He made his way around tables and chairs as if he’d navigated the path a thousand times. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, welcome. Will you be needing rooms for the night? I’m afraid I only have one left, but it has two sturdy beds. I can offer you a warm fire, good food and fine brandy.”
It was easy to like this innkeeper. Jacques shook his hand. “The room would be much appreciated, as would all the rest. I am Jacques Laurent, and this is my friend Preston Knowles.”
Eyes wide as saucers, the innkeeper stared at Preston. “The Duke of Middleton, in my establishment. I’m honored, Your Grace. I am John Innis, and the Wastrel has been in my family for three generations. If you need anything at all, just say so, and I will do all in my power to grant it.”
Jacques exchanged a look with Preston. It was possible Mr. Innis might be of help. Preston smiled. “We are searching for a Mr. Caron. Would you happen to have seen him today?”
Mr. Innis shook his head. “Never heard of him, but we’ve had a busy day, and now that the weather has turned bad, everyone is coming in for a pint.”
“Of course. Some soup and that brandy you spoke of would be most welcome.” Preston shook out his overcoat and hung it on the peg near the door before walking to a table near a large fireplace.
Jacques followed, but his mind was on where they would search in the morning. Had Victor gone east to escape England, or had he gone north with some other plan in mind? Once they were seated on a bench near the fire, Jacques said, “Perhaps we are looking for the wrong man, Pres.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have been asking travelers and Mr. Innis if they’ve seen Caron, but perhaps this Mr. Farmer would be better known in such circles. If he carries his wares into London regularly, he might run into the same people each week or month. We have to assume Caron is still with Farmer.”
Accepting his brandy from the server, Preston sighed. “It is our only clue. You make a good point. Let’s eat and rest a few hours, then I’ll ask after Mr. Farmer and his cart. I don’t know how you look so wide awake. It’s been a long day.”
Jacques didn’t bother to savor the mediocre brandy, drinking it down in one gulp. He endured the burn, then called for the bottle. “I am as tired as you, but I will not rest until Diana is safe. I cannot.”
“I can see that you are smitten with her, but does the lady share your feelings? I would hate to see you brokenhearted again.” Preston downed his brandy and poured them each another.
Scoffing, Jacques began feeling the effects of an empty stomach and two glasses of brandy in quick succession. He put his glass down. “Monique did not break my heart, though she did abuse my good faith.”
