Page 86 of Her Duke in Shining Armor
Eleanor sat up as the carriage trundled into the Brisdane’s dukedom. Memories came crashing down on her then. She remembered the sweetshop her mother would stop at for an ice when they were in the town square and the stationery shop where her mother had ordered her writing supplies. The post office, the constabulary post, the town hall…they were all coming back to her like a flood.
She sat back and scanned the streets for the physician’s office. If she remembered correctly, he had a roadside office off Sturgent’s Street but she did not see his swinging sign at all.
“Stop the carriage,” she ordered and Mr. Wilcox tapped the roof immediately. “He’s not here.” Eleanor nearly cried as her head whipped from side to side. “His office should be there—” she pointed to store just across from them, “but his sign is gone.”
“Perhaps not,” Mr. Wilcox suggested, “Stay here.”
He was out of the carriage in a flash and secured the door behind him. Eleanor watched as he ducked his head and crossed the street to a shop that boasted flowers as its main good. She felt despair rising in her system as the moments ticked by.
Is the doctor dead?she feared.
Mr. Wilcox hurried back, and she reached out to push the door open. He had barely hopped in when she demanded, “Well?”
“Mr. Nithercott is alive, but he has retired to Handell village,” Mr. Wilcox said. He stuck his head out the window and ordered the driver to go to the village.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “We’ll get what we need.”
They arrived at the small hamlet just as afternoon was reaching its zenith. The doctor’s house was a small, quaint cottage with grey slate roofing and rosebushes in the yard. Eleanor was hesitant as she approached the door and visibly lingered as Mr. Wilcox knocked on the door.
She hung back as the door opened and curious grey eyes scanned the both of them. “May I help you, gentlemen?”
“You can help me,” Eleanor said as she stepped in front of Mr. Wilcox and tugged off her cap. “Doctor, I am Lady Eleanor Stanley and I need you to tell me how my mother truly died.”
* * *
Aaron was amused. Inside the bank, men of the peerage were skittering away from him like scared ants. He did not care about them as he had a mission to complete.
As Julius was off with Eleanor, he needed a man to track down Eleanor’s grandfather in France. He was set on sinking Brisdane under a mountain of evidence that he could not lift his head without it being broken.
Julius had told him about a man, a bounty hunter named McGowan, who frequented a pub named Boarshead.
“He’s a little rough around the edges but there is no one better than him, Oberton. He’ll track down the man, I guarantee it.”
Aaron did not need to draw any more attention to himself, and before leaving the carriage, he lost his top hat, greatcoat, and timepiece. The finery of his waistcoat might pull attention but he could deal with that. The satchel with his money and his pistol was all he took inside.
The first thing that met his nose was the savory aromas of baking bread, coffee, and grilled meat. Aaron’s eyebrows ticked up. This was not what he had expected for a workman pub.
The medium-sized room was packed with gentry, merchants mostly, with newspapers in front of them. They sipped drinks while those who were in parties of two and three were conversing in earnest tones over generous platters of food.
Aaron had to double check. Was he in the right place? Hogshead. With a name like that, shouldn’t he be walking into place where he should be avoiding shattering glass and loud roars and have to meander around drunken brawls?
Apparently not. The interior was plain but clean, and a woman, balancing drinks on a tray peered at him. “You lost, guv?”
“No,” Aaron cleared his throat, “Where’s McGowan?”
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, “Back o’ the pub, guv. Nearly sauced like the louse he is too.”
Damnit, Wilcox, I hope you’re right on this man.
He walked farther in and spotted a man hunched over his glass with a scruffy head of hair and a ragged beard. His coat was patchwork and as he neared, Aaron was beginning to doubt himself.
“McGowan?”
Bleared blue eyes looked up, ran over him with an encompassing gaze and sighed, “Gonna need more scotch to deal with you, Yer Grace.”
Gesturing for someone to attend to them, Aaron asked, “How do you know my station?”
“It ain’t that hard,” McGowan’s Irish brogue was thick as his eye ran over Aaron once again. “You have that born-an’-bred-under-old-money look, not the blunt of merchants or stealing solicitors. So what d’you need from me?”
