She pulled the pillow over her head.
Dare she say it?
She had loved him. She loved him still.
She wanted him to love her too. She wanted him to value the sacrifice she was willing to make. Last night had proved one thing to her—he cared about her. He cared enough to read books about lovemaking and to give her pleasure and not take any of his own. But was that love?
Pierce thought love might come in time.
What if it didn’t?
She would not waste time dwelling on tonight and what might happen when he came to her rooms again. Perhaps they would catch the highwayman today. Then there would be no need for a midnight rendezvous.
The thought made her unaccountably sad. She should have been eager to return to London, basking in the mission’s success. She shouldn’t want it to drag on another night. But she did...
Eliza rang for the maid to help her to dress and breakfasted in her room, although that was not conducive to her purpose, which was spying on the patrons in an effort to discover the highwayman’s identity. After breakfast she spent an hour staring out her window and turning pages in her tattered copy of Animadversions of Warre. Finally, she had to admit she was avoiding Pierce, and she tucked her ancient book back in her valise and started for the common room.
She arrived just as the coach did, which was truly fortuitous timing. She had a moment to observe which patrons were in the common room right before the coach passengers bustled inside to crowd the inn. Eliza felt warmth tingling on the back of her neck. Pierce watched her from a table in the corner. Situated in the back and well away from the hearth, what it lacked in warmth it made up for in location. He had a perfect view of the room.
“Care to join me, Miss Qwillen?”
“Thank you, Mr. Moneypence. The room does appear a bit crowded,” she added, in case anyone should be listening. She sat with him, ordered tea from Peg before the poor girl was besieged by travelers.
“Peg and Mrs. Penter are accounted for.” The elderly woman was sitting hunched by the fire. “Although I do not see her nephew, Mr. Wilson.”
Pierce lowered his tea cup. “Mrs. Wattles will likewise be difficult to locate, although we might ask Peg if she is in the kitchen. As to our other suspects, I noted Cardy and Langrick. No sign of Freeland or Barber. Mr. Goodman left earlier, supposedly in answer to a summons from the duke.”
“Barber is not a suspect,” she reminded him. “He was present when Mr. Dowell brought news of the last attack. Speaking of whom, where is Dowell?”
Pierce nodded to a table on the other side of the room. “He came in with the passengers from the coach. Regaling them with tales of the New Sheriff of Nottingham, no doubt.”
Eliza crossed off suspects and added others to the list she kept in her mind. “Very well. If there is an attack on this coach, and if no one mysteriously disappears between now and then, our suspects remain Mrs. Wattles, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Freeland, and Mr. Goodman.”
She reached for the tea cup and bumped his hand. Mortified, she pulled her own back. “Your tea. Pardon.”
Where was her damn tea? And why were her cheeks heating? She was a woman of five and thirty. She should not be embarrassed to think those same brown eyes that studied her now had studied a far more intimate part of her last night.
“I concur,” he said. “It’s a simple matter to ascertain whether or not Mrs. Wattles is truly in the kitchen.” He paused when Peg returned to their table with Eliza’s tea. “Give my regards to your mother for the delicious breakfast,” he said. “She is the one who cooked it?”
Peg bobbed her head. “She does most of the cooking, although we have an undercook who helps a bit. Anything else, sir?”
“No. I—”
But she was already away, weaving between tables and taking orders.
Eliza rose. “I will wander into the back, pretending I became lost. I want to be certain Mrs. Wattles is there before we remove her from the list.”
Peg was busy enough serving tea to the coach’s passengers that Eliza was relatively certain she had a few minutes before the girl would return to the kitchen. The coach would not stop long, and the girl had to hurry in order to serve all of the passengers before they were off again. Mr. Wattles was in the front room, assisting where he could, so Eliza followed the noise of clinking spoons and pots until she reached a small room behind the dining room.
The door was closed, but she eased it open and peered inside. The room was hot, although cool air blew in from the door opposite, which opened into the yard. Plenty of windows allowed light to penetrate, and the two women inside moved almost in tandem from hearth to stove and chopping block. One woman was quite young, probably not yet twenty. The other was older and stouter. That must be Mrs. Wattles. The innkeeper must have loved his wife dearly to think she was still pretty as the day they wed. Her arms were red and chafed and thick as the trunk of an oak. Sweat poured from her temples and pooled at her armpits.
She pointed a sausage-like finger at a large black pot. “Stir that now. Don’t let it burn.”
“Yes, missus.” The young woman was respectful to Mrs. Wattles, though she had already moved to stir the contents of the pot before being told.
Eliza was about to ease the door closed again when a figure moved through the yard, where the grooms were busy changing the horses on the coach. Eliza removed her spectacles, wiping the moist air fogging them, and replaced them. It was Mr. Wilson. Why would he be in the stable yard? Was he perhaps observing the coach and planning
