Mistress at Midnight(33)

The inn came into view after about forty minutes of fast riding.  Hawkhurst had checked every stopping place between London and here on  the road north and had found no sign of those he sought. The carriage in  the stables to one side of the rickety eating house was newly in, the  horses being rubbed down by a lad who looked no older than ten.

He flipped the boy a coin. 'Who arrived in this?'

'Two men, sir, and a woman. They are eating inside.'

Another coin followed the first. 'Feed and water my horse and find me another ride.'

'There's only Geordie left, sir.' He pointed to a rundown hack waiting in one end of the barn.

'Then he will have to do. I will be back for my own ride in a few days.  Keep him safe.' This time he made sure to offer gold and as the lad bit  into it his eyes widened.                       
       
           



       

'I'll guard your horseflesh with me life, guv. I promise you that.'

Outside, Hawkhurst edged across the yard to look into a door where a  number of men were gathered. His eyes searched the room for Delsarte and  Aurelia and he saw them almost instantly, an innkeeper leaning over her  to look at a document unfurled across the table.

Swearing, he slipped into the shadow of a window that was open, thin and dirty torn lace moving in the rising breeze.

Three others who appeared to be of the same ilk were lined up at the  bar. Five opponents. There had been many a time he had battled against  more.

Aurelia's back was ramrod straight, the bruise on her cheek today  deeper. She had been boxed in against the wall; he saw that immediately  and he could only thank God he had found her.

As if she had some premonition that he was somewhere near, her glance  swept the room and when he allowed her to find him her mismatched eyes  opened wider, both blue and brown not quite believing what they were  seeing. He saw her face crumple into fear as he stepped out into the  chamber.

Hawkhurst was here, in this very room, and he no longer looked like the  man all of society knew, with his careful charm and lofty title. Gone  was the lord of manners and means and in his place stood another, the  dangerous edge of him magnified by a pure and utter menace, the knife  fitting his fist as if he had been born with it and a stillness that was  wild and fierce. She couldn't take her eyes from the mesmerising  transformation and she knew instinctively he had been in situations  where he had not only saved lives, but taken them.

He was over at their table before she had blinked, his fists downing the  first man who tried to stop him in one blow. The second man was more  difficult and he gave fight, the knife in his hand drawn. Hawkhurst  circled around, crouched, his own weapon held in a downward fashion,  complete concentration marking every movement. The grace of a big man  who was neither clumsy nor awkward, his actions measured in the sort of  purpose only few might achieve. The shadows in him even at this distance  were marked and she wondered how life had made a lord born to every  luxury such a warrior. When Hawkhurst arched his knife straight into the  neck of her hapless kidnapper she looked away.

Death had a face that was all of its own making and the blank visage of  her husband as he took his final breath came to mind. Charles had cursed  her with the venom she was so used to in his life, but as the blood  slowed in his veins she had felt … nothing.

Unlike now, when the quick edge of living had her heart beating with  abandon. There were still at least four opponents left. She had no idea  how he might stop that many.

Henry Kerslake pulled out a pistol, but Hawkhurst was too quick, the  weapon snatched out of his opponent's hand with barely a movement and  the butt cracking down upon him. He lay as still as death. Delsarte  simply ran, disappearing through the door like a rat down a hole, though  the innkeeper looked incensed, the lethal sharpness of a poker from the  fire in hand as he advanced upon Hawkhurst.

Scrambling from her seat, Aurelia grabbed the only thing she could find:  a large wooden bellows hanging on the wall behind her, its shape edged  in steel. she had absolutely no practice in such a defence, but with  Hawkhurst's life on the line she was willing to try. The wood crunched  down on the skull of the man nearest her.

And then it was over as quickly as it had begun, bodies groaning all  over the room as Hawkhurst turned the innkeeper and Kerslake over to  bind them with rope from his pocket. Any sign of the knife was gone,  wiped off and secreted away, but as he stood she caught a small grimace  of pain. She hoped he was not hurt and her eyes scoured his clothes for a  wound, glad when she saw nothing untoward. He had made victory look so  very easy she could barely believe any of it had happened, the work of a  man who had long been trained in the art of warfare.

Gathering up the papers, Hawkhurst crossed to open the door where a  group had formed in the corridor. Other guests, she supposed by their  attire, their eyes widened. She heard the whispers of shock as Hawkhurst  took the heavy bellows from her and ordered an older man to get a  constable.

With her legs wobbling, she sat down upon the nearest seat, fingers  threading through the fabric of a cushion. An ancient organza-wrap  thread from Italy, she reasoned, given its sheen, and as out of place  here as she was. Already she could see questions in Lord Hawkhurst's  eyes.

She wanted to get away, wanted to be out into the open and far from a  place Delsarte used as a stop-off point. If she had guessed right, there  would be some sort of sentry stationed. The innkeeper was one such  suspect, his belligerence inciting other questions. The danger of it all  was overwhelming.                       
       
           



       

Forty minutes later they were well on the road, the horse that carried them as run-down as the inn itself.

'We'll need to find some shelter before the storm comes.' Hawkhurst  tucked a scratchy grey blanket borrowed from the stables around them  both in an effort to generate some warmth as he made this observation,  though now that they were out of the range of others Aurelia felt  worried for different reasons. He had not spoken at all and she knew  that when they stopped there would be things he wished to ask.

The first spots of rain had him pulling the horse off the pathway to  gain the cover of heavy bushes and immediately a small open barn not  visible from the road could be seen.

He did not push through the shrubs, however, but circled the horse  around the edge of them so that twigs were not broken within sight of  the highway. Nothing left to chance, no easy clue of their whereabouts.  In silence he dismounted and placed his palm flat against the dust of  the earth, listening. To vibration, she supposed, the wind lifting his  hair away from the tanned nape at his neck, a man completely in his  element amidst nature.

'Do you think anyone will follow?' She kept her voice soft just in case.

'I hope they think us well gone. If we leave before first light and  strike north, it will be safer because they will seek us out on the  London road.'

'And we won't be there?'

Standing, he reached up to help her off the horse. 'In my experience it  is often prudent to do exactly the opposite of what is expected,  Aurelia.'

With his hands around her waist he slipped her downwards, the close  warmth of contact after fright, beguiling. But there were questions  behind the green of his eyes and she knew it was time to be honest with  him.

She was pleased, therefore, when he let her go and stood back, for she  might not have been able to be so forthcoming had he still touched her.

'Delsarte and Kerslake were at the warehouse when I got there this  morning.' Stopping, she breathed, once and then twice before continuing.  'My mother is French, as you know, but there are other things I have  not said.'

He waited.

Aurelia wished her voice did not waver as it did, and she swallowed  hard. 'I told you once before that I went to visit Mama after Charles  had died. I think people got the wrong impression about what I was doing  there.'

'How?'

'They thought I was wealthy and blackmailed me to send money for the protection of my mother.'

'And what of the letters you delivered to Dr Touillon?'

She hated the way she blushed, for she could feel the colour washing across her cheeks in a red bloom of shame.

'You know about those?' So it was true, all that they said of Stephen  Hawkhurst. He was a part of the British Service and she had been caught  like a small mouse in a very large trap. Her heart began to hammer, fast  and then faster.

'Intelligence has its own channels. With just a little effort you could  be thrown into gaol and after taking into account your history … ' He let  the rest slide.

'I did not know what was inside the letters.'

This time his laughter had an edge to it that was more distant. 'The law  cares not a jot for perceived innocence, Aurelia, for it deals only in  cold hard facts. You delivered information from France to one known in  England for sedition and libel and good people will have suffered.'