Mrs. Penter was accompanied by her nephew Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson lived in the little village nearby, and his aunt had come from London to visit him a few months ago after the death of Mr. Penter. She was staying at the inn and near her dear nephew until a suitable ladies’ companion might be engaged to live with her in her flat in Cheapside.
“Cheapside?” A tingle of pleasure raced through Eliza. “My sister and I also live in Cheapside. On what street do you reside? Perhaps we are neighbors.”
Mrs. Penter was overcome by a coughing fit that rendered her unable to speak for the next few minutes. In the meantime, Eliza’s dinner arrived. She had cut into her mutton when the gentleman on her left leaned closer.
“I overheard you say you’re from London, Miss Qwillen.”
Eliza paused in her carving. “Why, yes.”
“I’m George Langrick.” He nodded to his companion. “This is Henry Barber.”
She inclined her head. “Mr. Langrick. Mr. Barber.” The two men were both stout and low-browed with dark hair and eyes. She would have put them at the top of her list as the highwayman, but they’d been loitering in the yard when Dowell had given the report. She could not, however, recall Mr. Wilson having been in the yard.
“I know it’s not my business, but I wanted to make sure you knew that the village and the inn are safe, Miss Qwillen,” Langrick said. “With all the talk of highwaymen, poor Wattles is afraid the mail coach will no longer stop at The Duke’s Arms.”
“I am sure that would be a hardship for him.”
“It would indeed,” Barber said, his voice low and rough. “For all of us. Wattles serves the best mutton pies in these parts. You’ll see.” He nodded to her dinner, which she had quite forgotten.
“I hope I’m not presuming,” Langrick added, “but has word of our troubles reached London?”
Eliza could hardly say what the ordinary Londoner was or was not discussing from day to day, but she had not taken note of the highwayman until Baron had brought him to her attention. “No, Mr. Langrick. The crime in London is such that one highwayman in Nottinghamshire is not of paramount concern. Indeed, there was only a little talk of your Sheriff on the coach I occupied here.”
“Thank you, miss. That is good to know,” Langrick said, returning his attention to his mutton.
Eliza cut another slice of meat then risked a peek at Moneypence. Their gazes met, and he quickly resumed a conversation he had been engaged in with a fellow seated beside him. That man was not one she recognized from the yard earlier.
Moneypence had been watching her. Why? Jealousy? Because of the mission? Because he still cared for her? No, she could not harbor those sorts of thoughts. He had made himself clear that night in his bedroom. Her face heated when she remembered how they’d spent that night and how he’d made his offer of marriage while they were both in a state of dishabille. He hadn’t asked her to be his wife because he loved her. He’d asked her out of obligation. He felt it was his duty to marry her after he had ruined her.
Eliza had not wasted time telling him that one could not ruin something no one wanted. She was thirty-five and past the debutante years when men cared about chastity and such. She’d thought she might go to the grave never knowing the touch of a man. When the opportunity to share a night with Moneypence—Pierce—had arisen, she had known what she was doing.
She did not regret it, except perhaps that it had ended so badly with that ridiculous proposal. But even without the proposal, Eliza had been disappointed. Her experience with Moneypence had been awkward, uncomfortable, and the pleasure short and one-sided.
Eliza had checked that item off her list and was ready to move on to other, more edifying, experiences. Why then, did she still think about kissing Moneypence? About touching him? Why did she still feel warm when his gaze rested on her?
She placed a forkful of mutton in her mouth. Perhaps she had been wrong to insist they not work together. That suggestion had been due to her need to stay away from him, to avoid those still-simmering feelings. But by working together they could discover more information and generate suspects more quickly. She would have to arrange to speak to him in private.
She wasn’t going to go back out into the cold. It was dark now and snowing harder. She felt a twinge of guilt for making Moneypence sleep in those conditions but quickly put it aside. He would have to come to her room.
The Barbican group had developed several universal symbols. They were secret, known only to those employed by the elite spy group. Moneypence and Eliza knew them as well as all of the field agents. She hadn’t ever used one, but that was beside the point.
What was the symbol for meet me? She thought for a moment then rose, turned around, and sat back down.
The numbskull wasn’t even looking at her. Annoying man! Eliza waited until he had ceased speaking to the man near him, rose, turned in a circle, and sat.
Thank heavens! He’d seen her this time, but he was looking at her as though he thought her daft. She probably was daft to be considering working with him. He nodded to the serving girl, who served him a pear tart, and cut into it.
One last time, and if he didn’t understand this time then he was beyond hope. Eliza rose and turned, but as she was sitting, Mr. Langrick said, “Are you well, Miss Qwillen?”
Truth be told, she was a bit dizzy. “Yes, perfectly. Why?”
“No reason.”
Moneypence was finally paying attention. He raised his brows, and she looked at the ceiling. My room. He
