“Exactly.” She poked him again, and this time he caught her finger and held it.
“Eliza—”
“Miss Qwillen.”
“I tried to explain. If you’d only listen.”
“No, because no matter how often you explain, you will never understand what I am trying to explain.”
He waved the blanket, a green flag of surrender. “You don’t want to give up your work. I don’t want you to. If that is all—”
“No, that’s not all. That’s not even the beginning.”
She yanked her hand, and he released it. The woman was a ridiculous amount of trouble and confusing as the devil. He really should put her out of his mind. He had a mission, and her presence here need not interfere. He’d find the highwaymen terrorizing this area of Nottinghamshire and return to London with the capture of the man or men who’d adopted the sobriquet of the New Sheriff of Nottingham to his credit. Then he would begin the Switzerland appointment with not only experience as a clerk but also agent credentials.
“Very well then,” he said, stepping back into his cold, dark stall. “You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”
“That suits me.” She stalked out of the box and then, perhaps thinking better of her behavior, stepped back into sight. “Good luck.”
“Good luck to you,” he said.
“Thank you for the room.”
He was reminded of the sad state of his cot and made another futile attempt to right it. “It was nothing, seeing as I had no choice.”
“Yes, well, thank you anyway.”
Why was she postponing her leave-taking? Did she feel some sense of guilt for relegating him to sleeping in the stable? Why did she not go so he could pull out his files and decide where best to begin his search for the highwayman?
She started away, and he kicked the cot in frustration. Now where was that file? He’d opened his satchel to search for the documents when hoofbeats thundered.
“The coach! The coach!”
Pierce ran, almost knocking Eliza over when he dashed from the stable. Cursing, he paused to steady her. She shrugged off his assistance, and without speaking, they walked quickly toward the rider. The innkeeper and several men had exited the inn.
“What’s wrong?” called Mr. Wattles.
“It’s the New Sheriff of Nottingham,” the rider said, his breath coming out in great puffs. “He just held up the mail coach!”
Two
Eliza’s pulse jumped. The highwayman was nearby and growing braver. He’d attacked the coach in daylight, fleeting as it was with the gray sky and the fat snowflakes falling from the heavy clouds. Still, this was her chance to intercept the man. If she’d had a horse, her task would have been made easier.
She hadn’t thought she would need a horse here. From all accounts, the Sheriff was always on foot. The speculation was that he lived in or near Hopewell-on-Lyft and did not want to risk his mount being recognized. She could walk and investigate the site of the robbery. By the time she reached the scene of the crime, the thief would be well away. Nightfall approached, and any sort of investigation of the scene would have to wait until morning.
That evening she’d gather a different sort of information.
The inn’s patrons streamed out of the common to hear the news.
“Was anyone hurt, Mr. Dowell?” Wattles called.
“All are well, Mr. Wattles. A bit lighter in the purse.”
Peg, the serving girl and Wattles’s daughter, whispered something to her father. Their whereabouts during the robbery were accounted for. Eliza could not vouch for Dowell. He might have acted the highwayman and then come to report the theft to deflect suspicion. Other men stood about in the yard. She did not yet know their names, but when she did, she could take them off the list of suspects.
“I know that look,” Moneypence said. He watched her, his expression speculative.
“I’m merely making note of those men. They have been here since I arrived, which means they cannot be the Sheriff. However—” She’d grown accustomed to confiding in him, to sharing her thoughts. That was necessarily at an end.
“However?”
She drew away from him and the feel of his warm breath on her ear. “However, you must make your own deductions. Good evening, Mr. Moneypence.”
She started for the inn, making her way to her small but clean room, and freshening herself before dinner. Under normal circumstances she would have dined alone in her room, having no coin for the private rooms below. Tonight she would linger in the common to learn the names and faces of the regular patrons. If she’d been able to gather that information earlier, she might have been able to note who had been at The Duke’s Arms when the coach had arrived and who had been suspiciously absent during the time of the robbery. The quicker she learned the names of the locals, the quicker she could make such observations.
Eliza entered the dining room and took the seat Peg offered her, close to the warmth of the hearth. She turned so she might face the room and found herself staring at Moneypence, seated across the room and facing her. He inclined his head, but she ignored him. Eliza busied her restless hands, plucking at the wrinkles in her skirt. The only other woman in the room was an elderly lady who appeared to be in frail health. She was seated close to the hearth as well, and Eliza nodded at her and the two exchanged pleasantries.
The vaunted agents of the Barbican group had to blend in everywhere, from London’s underworld to Paris high society. How did they manage it? She was so much more at home in her little laboratory, designing new weapons. If she was frustrated, a large explosion always made her feel better. She couldn’t very well explode anything here.
Her one consolation was that Moneypence looked as out of place as she. He probably wished he were back at his desk in the offices on Piccadilly. Neither of them was going home until the Sheriff
