Scandal And Miss Markham

The boy soon emerged, with a couple of men. He nodded at Vernon, who took that to mean the inn was acceptable. He slid to the ground, relieved he need ride no further.

‘I’m Joseph Deadly, constable here,’ the taller of the two men said. ‘What’s been a-happening?’

Vernon told Deadly how the two men had jumped him.

‘I’ll wager it’s them gipsies that set up camp by the woods. They often come through this time of year, picking up odd jobs, and we allus seem to get a spate of thievery and such like when they’re around.’

Vernon recalled Thea’s earlier remark, that Daniel had suspected former soldiers of local attacks rather than the gipsies commonly blamed. His immediate impression of his two attackers meant he was inclined to agree with Daniel.

‘I am not sure you are correct, Deadly,’ he said. ‘Whilst gipsies are not unknown for petty thieving, the ones I’ve met in the past have not struck me as violent men, unless they perceive themselves under threat. The men who attacked me appeared more like vagrants.’

Deadly shrugged. ‘One and the same thing, as far as I can see. You say one of them’s injured, sir?’

‘He is. I suspect my boot in his face will leave a visible clue to identify the culprit.’

Several men had by now joined them outside the inn, tankards in hand.

‘Any volunteers to come with me and pay them gipsies a visit?’ Deadly said.

A chorus of enthusiasm met his words and Vernon’s heart sank. He hoped he hadn’t been the instigator of a lynch mob. Still, that was for the constable to control.

‘Never fear, sir,’ Deadly added, clapping Vernon on the shoulder and making him wince, ‘we’ll go to the scene first and scout out from there. But, you mark my words, it’ll be them gipsies.’

‘Before you go...’ Vernon tossed his horse’s reins to the lad—who had shrunk back into the shadows—and then took the constable to one side to tell him about Daniel Markham’s disappearance. ‘Will you make a few enquiries, but discreetly, please? Mr Markham’s family do not wish his disappearance to become common knowledge. He was riding a light grey horse. I also need to know if you have any knowledge of Willingdale or of a man called Henry Mannington. You may attend me here in the morning, if you will, to let me know if you have any news for me and to tell me if you’ve had any luck in tracking down my attackers.’

Deadly touched the brim of his hat. ‘Very good, sir.’

Vernon was relieved to call a halt to his enquiries, even though his original intention had been to reach Birmingham and the Royal Hotel that night. He felt in his gut that the Royal Hotel would hold the clue he needed to unravel what had happened to Daniel Markham.

He turned back to Warrior. The lad who had been holding him had gone, leaving the horse’s reins weighted with a large stone. Vernon frowned. He had wanted to thank him properly. He looked along the street and there, in the distance, he could just make out the lad riding away on his black mare. His body screamed at him to let the lad go, but his suspicions about the quality of the horse, coupled with the lad’s reluctance to look Vernon in the eye and his lack of conversation, set warning bells jangling in Vernon’s head. Then he recalled the lad’s pistol. How many country lads like him would own a duelling pistol?

Is he a runaway?

And those few words decided him. His nephew, Alex—Leo’s youngest son—had run away only a few months previously, and Vernon remembered the worry and the grief of the entire family as they had imagined the worst. And then there was Thea—her anxiety over her brother’s disappearance had touched Vernon as he saw how bravely she tried to shield her parents from the knowledge. The thought of another family going through the same horror of not knowing what had become of their loved one made the decision for him: he could not allow the lad to ride off into the night without at least trying to discover his story.

Vernon clenched his teeth and, sweating with the effort, hauled himself into Warrior’s saddle. He put his hand to his side again, reaching inside his borrowed moleskin waistcoat, feeling the sticky warmth of blood. He inhaled—he should get it seen to, but then the boy would be long gone and, if he was a runaway, Vernon would have lost his only chance to help.

He set Warrior into a trot, biting back a gasp as the gait jolted him and pain scorched across his ribs.

‘Damn,’ he muttered, beneath his breath. ‘Let’s get this done,’ and he dug his heels in.

Warrior broke into a canter—a smoother pace but still agony to Vernon. He hooked his left hand under the pommel and forced his thoughts away from the pain and on to the lad. As they neared the black mare, the lad glanced back and, for a moment, it seemed as though he would take flight. He did not, however, but reined to a halt and waited, staring fixedly at his horse’s mane.

‘Why did you leave?’ Vernon said as he pulled his horse round in front of the mare.

‘Need to get home.’

There was something about that gruff voice...but it hovered just out of Vernon’s reach. He watched the boy as he studiously avoided meeting his gaze.

‘And where is that?’

A cough took Vernon unaware. Pain forked through him and he sucked an involuntary breath in through his teeth. The boy’s head jerked upright and he stared through the darkness at Vernon.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Merely a scratch,’ he gritted out. ‘You left before I could thank you properly.’ He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a half-sovereign. ‘Here. I am—’

Vernon bit off his words. The boy had reached out for the coin, muttering Thanks, and something about that disgruntled, near-sarcastic tone of voice jogged a memory. He did not stop to think about it...about how unlikely it was...he nudged his horse closer to the dainty black mare and took hold of her reins. The fresh scent of roses assailed his senses.

It cannot—

In one swift movement he snatched the cap from the boy’s head. Even though it was too dark to see the colour, there was no mistaking the spring of the curls that tumbled about her forehead, nor the delicate oval of her face, nor the plump softness of the lips that formed a silent Oh! of horror. Vernon lifted his gaze to meet a pair of large, startled eyes that he just knew were hazel in colour.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?’

Chapter Six

Thea shrank from the utter fury in Vernon’s voice, the blood stuttering through her veins. She said nothing. There was nothing she could say. The only sound was of the early stirrings of nocturnal wildlife rustling in the still evening air. She suppressed a shiver. She was unafraid of the dark, but she could not begin to guess how Lord Vernon Beauchamp might now react. She had not trusted him to concentrate on finding Daniel, but had never stopped to wonder about her own safety if...when...he discovered her presence.

A growl sounded, muted at first, as though contained deep within him, but it grew and grew until, with a hasty gesture that made Thea flinch, Vernon snatched his hat from his head, thrust his other hand through his hair and then, swinging his right leg over Warrior’s neck, he jumped to the ground and strode away. After a dozen paces, he stopped and then hunkered down, his head hanging.

Thea chewed her lip. It was too late to ride away. He knew it was she and therefore she had no choice but to face him. She dismounted and approached the still figure. His breath came in hoarse rasps and, with a flurry of concern, she recalled that fight and his earlier hissed intake of breath.

‘Are you injured?’ She dropped a timid hand on his shoulder.

‘I said it is but a scratch.’

He stood and Thea staggered back several paces as he towered over her. He held up his hands, palms facing her, in a gesture of peace.

‘It is all right.’ There was still a hard edge to his voice, but that raw anger had softened. ‘I might be furious, but I have never in my life offered violence to a woman and I am not about to start now, no matter how tempted I am to put you over my knee and spank you.’

Thea gasped, but shock soon gave way to her own anger. ‘You cannot dictate my movements, Lord Vernon. You are neither my father nor my brother—’

‘Thank God for that small mercy.’

‘And I do not answer to you.’

‘Again, thank God. I can think of nothing worse than being responsible for a little firebrand such as you.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Except, of course, I am now responsible for you.’

‘You are most certainly not responsible for me. I am a woman grown. An adult. And a perfectly capable one at that.’ Thea moved closer to him, stretching to her full height and thrusting her face as close to his as she could manage. ‘I am responsible for myself. It is nothing to do with you.’

He huffed a laugh of disbelief. ‘Then...’ he put his hat back on and started back towards the horses ‘...I shall leave you to it, Miss Markham.’ She heard him chuckle as he walked away. ‘Dorothea! Dotty is more like it. Yes, that is it.’ He spun to face her, continuing to move away, walking backwards. ‘Dotty by name, dotty by nature.’

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