Gervase glanced at her, met her eyes. “We’ve been assuming he’s with Ben in the carriage, but on reflection I don’t think he is. He’s too canny, too clever. He’ll have had his henchmen seize Ben. He’s probably already in London, waiting for them to deliver him there.” He paused, imagining it—imagining what he would do were he in the villain’s shoes.
“He’ll speak with Ben and ask about the brooch—he may try to disguise his purpose but he will, eventually, ask. The circumstances of that meeting will make it impossible for Ben to identify him later—he’s too clever to take that risk.”
He drew in a long breath. “And for the same reason, I think, once Ben gives him an answer, that he’ll order his henchmen to release Ben somewhere in London. He knows we’ll be searching, and he has no reason to be party to murder—as long as Ben can’t identify him, he has nothing to fear.”
Madeline had been following his reasoning; she nodded. “And leaving us quartering London, of all places, trying to locate one ten-year-old boy…that will keep us fixed there for the foreseeable future.”
“Leaving the peninsula, as far as he knows, open territory, undefended.” Gervase studied her face; the afternoon sunshine lit the hollows and planes, showed the strain of the past twenty-four hours, but he could see nothing in her features or her eyes, when they met his, to suggest she’d followed where his mind had ultimately led.
Summoning a smile, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed, then lowered his arm and faced forward. “We’re doing all we can to catch that carriage—at the moment, that’s all we can do.”
He felt reasonably certain the villain would order Ben’s release somewhere in London—most likely in the stews. What he wasn’t anywhere near as confident over was whether the man’s unsavory henchmen would follow his orders to the letter, or instead decide to make what they could off a gentry-bred ten-year-old boy.
That was the stuff of nightmares, but every bit as bad was the thought of what might transpire should the henchmen obey—and leave Ben wandering the slums of London. With no protector, alone—helpless.
Evening was closing in when they reached the outskirts of Basingstoke. The nearer they’d drawn to the capital, the more other carriages, carts, mail coaches and drays had thronged the road; their pace had fallen significantly.
Madeline bore the frustration by silently repeating Gervase’s observation that the traffic would slow their quarry just as much.
Neither of them had slept the night before, just short naps, unsettled, no real rest; tiredness was now a real burden, dragging at her mind.
The horn blared; a minute later they turned under the arch of the Five Bells, one of the town’s major posting inns. The instant the carriage rocked to a halt, Gervase opened the door and got down, shutting it behind him. Madeline leaned across the carriage and watched as he spoke with the head ostler, whose team was wrestling the big post-horses out of their harness.
Gervase asked questions, the head ostler answered, then Gervase nodded curtly; he paused for a second, then turned and strode back to the carriage. Face grim, he opened the door, and held out his hand, beckoning for her to take it and descend.
Grasping his fingers, she did; looking into his face, she asked, “What is it?”
He met her eyes. “They stopped here to change horses. The head ostler got a chance to glance into the carriage. He saw a young lad—Ben—asleep on the seat, wrapped up tight in a blanket. Ben might have been tied up, restrained in some fashion, but the ostler didn’t see any bonds. However, from his description of the two men in the carriage, we were right in thinking they’re just henchmen—the reason the ostler glanced in was because he couldn’t imagine where such men got the coin to travel in such style.”
“So…” Madeline glanced at the front of the carriage, at the shafts propped on blocks as the horses were led away. Not seeing fresh horses being led out, she frowned. “I assume we’ll be off as soon as possible…?”
Brows rising, she glanced at Gervase; he met her eyes.
“Their carriage is more than an hour ahead of us. We’ve caught up significantly, but we’re four to five hours from the capital—even racing as we are, we can’t catch them in that time, over that distance.”
The fear she’d held at bay throughout the day clutched at her heart. She kept her eyes on his, held to the contact as she prompted, “So…?”
He didn’t look away. “So we’re going to have to accept that they’ll reach London ahead of us and disappear into its streets—and we’re going to have to search for Ben there, when they let him ago. The one point in all that in our favor is that it won’t be immediately. The villain will need to meet him first, so the earliest they’ll release Ben will be tomorrow afternoon.”
She searched his amber eyes, read in them a steadfast, rock-solid promise that they would find Ben. She eased out the breath tangled in her throat. “So what now? What do you suggest?”
“We’ll continue to London, but there’s no longer any sense in pushing ourselves or the horses.” He glanced around. “We’ll take a break here—have dinner, a short rest—before taking to the road again. This is an excellent inn—their table is highly regarded.”
She didn’t think she could eat, or if she did, all food would be tasteless, but she’d lectured her brothers often enough over recklessly taking unnecessary risks.
Gervase’s lips eased as if he read her mind. “You’ll be little use to Ben when we find him if you’re fainting with hunger.”
She humphed. “I never faint. But perhaps dinner would be wise.” Now she thought of it, she hadn’t eaten anything substantial since a light lunch the day before.
Gervase took charge, leading her into the inn, sending the coachman and his mate into the main taproom to eat and refresh themselves, then commanding rooms in which he and she could wash away the dust of the road and the day, before retreating to a private parlor where a substantial dinner would be served as soon as they were ready. While it felt odd to have someone else organizing things for her, giving orders for her comfort, he was efficient and effective, and seemed to know precisely how not to step on her toes, how to make it feel perfectly natural for her to metaphorically lean on him, to allow him to care for her. Seductive support—that’s what it was—but in this instance she let it wrap about her.
Shown to a pretty bedchamber, she glanced into the mirror, sighed, and set to work to repair the depredations of the journey. A quick wash revived her; the maid shook out her gown, frankly scandalized at the trousers she still wore beneath.
Redonning her gown, she removed the trousers; arriving in London in such attire definitely qualified as another unnecessary risk. Letting down her hair, she combed her fingers through it, subduing it as best she could, then she twisted the mass back into a knot and secured it, more or less, with her remaining pins.
Returning downstairs to the private parlor, she found Gervase, similarly refreshed, waiting. They sat down at the table and the food was brought in; contrary to her expectations she could taste the game pie well enough, and she was indeed famished.
Between them they accounted for most of what the beaming innwife set before them. Nevertheless she felt a spurt of relief when, as the innkeeper cleared away their plates, Gervase gave the order for their coachman to make ready and the fresh horses to be put to.