“Shall we discuss suspects?” he asked.
“By all means. I have Mr. Langrick and Mr. Barber in the clear column. I saw them in front of the inn when Mr. Dowell announced the highwayman’s attack last night. Likewise, Mr. Wilson is a local, and his aunt, the widow Mrs. Penter, seems far too invalid to be a suspect.”
“I agree about Langrick and Barber, but I am not willing to clear Wilson quite yet. Did you see him yesterday when Dowell arrived?”
Her pace slowed. “I cannot remember.”
“Neither can I. Dowell is a suspect.”
“Of course. He might be attempting to deflect suspicion by acting as the messenger. Who else have you met?” she asked.
This sort of conversation was familiar, the sort of dialogue spies conducted all the time. They fell into it easily, and he told her his list of suspects included a Mr. Freeland, who was a local, a Mr. Cardy whom he had not yet spoken to, and a Mr. Goodman, who was a guest at the inn and rarely left his rooms.
“Wattles and Peg were also present when the last attack occurred,” Eliza said.
“The serving girl?” He dismissed her with a flick of his wrist. “Do you really think a woman could be the highwayman?”
She gave him a look that shot daggers. “Have you met Bonde, Butterfly, Saint?”
Female spies, all of them. “You are, as usual, correct. Put Peg on the list for form’s sake. While we are discussing women, add the perpetually young and pretty Mrs. Wattles. I haven’t yet seen her about.”
“She’s probably confined to the kitchen, but we will add her just the same.”
“Mrs. Penter must be added.”
Eliza paused to shake her head at him. “As I said, she’s old and invalid.”
“It could be a disguise. How long has she been in the county?”
“A few months.” She paused under a barren oak tree, whose large branches all but swept the ground. “Interesting timing as that is when the highwayman began his attacks. But, in all honesty, I am much more interested in Cardy, Goodman, and Freeland. Goodman, in particular, concerns me. Why is he such a recluse? We should attempt to find a way to converse with him.”
“Perhaps we divide and conquer,” Pierce suggested. “You seek out Mrs. Wattles, attend to Mrs. Penter, and keep an eye on Peg. I will investigate Goodman and the other men.”
“Yes, sir.” She tossed him a mock salute. “Shall we convene in my room to discuss our findings tonight after dinner?”
The branches on the oak tree must have been exceptionally interesting, because she kept her gaze locked on them.
“Excellent plan,” Pierce agreed. “I will see you tonight.” He offered his arm. When Eliza took it, her breast brushed against his bicep. He would have known the feel of those soft mounds anywhere, so he knew it was not his imagination. But was he wrong in thinking that she’d touched him on purpose? Was it possible she wanted to be seduced?
Pierce stalked across the dark coach yard, cursing the Sheriff for taking a holiday. If only the man—or woman—had acted, Pierce would certainly have caught the highwayman. He’d studied his targets assiduously all day and would have known if any of them had disappeared without good reason.
He’d gathered information about recent attacks, including that of a Miss Weston. He’d also questioned a Mr. Thomas, a Mr. Quinn, and a Mr. Pembleton, area locals, as to what they knew of the Sherriff.
Pierce had even gained access to Mr. Goodman. He’d asked Mr. Wattles if the man might like company for tea. Wattles had inquired, and Pierce had been obliged to take tea with the gentleman. He claimed to be a solicitor for the Duke of Oxthorpe, and he was staying at the inn until he finished his business at Killhope Castle. It seemed a reasonable excuse and easy enough to verify. Being in the duke’s employ also gave Goodman a reason to leave the inn whenever he pleased. He might claim an appointment with the duke or arrange to be summoned in order to hide clandestine activities.
Goodman wasn’t the only one possibly engaged in clandestine activities. Pierce slipped into the darkened inn, pausing to be certain all was quiet. It was after eleven, which was later than he’d wanted to visit Eliza, but he’d had to wait until the grooms grew quiet, and they had been playing vingt-et-un for several hours.
He’d taken the servants’ stairs the night before, and he found them again, ascending quietly and carefully, as he didn’t have a lamp. The door opened into the hallway a few steps from Eliza’s room—his former room. The light under her door still glowed, and he tapped quietly.
She opened immediately, and he stepped inside. He almost stepped directly out again. She wore her nightgown. He’d seen it before, seen the muslin wrapper she wore over it as well. It was perfectly proper, not scandalous in the least, but he could remember ruching it up to reveal those shapely thighs and the dark curls at their junction.
He forced his gaze to rest on her face, not that thin wrapper.
“I didn’t want to risk you being seen by the maidservant who might be about, waiting for me to call, so I already rang for her.”
That explained her state of dress—or rather, undress. He’d been hoping she’d dressed thus to seduce him. She stepped aside, revealing the fire. He was an idiot, as usual.
“You must be cold. Please warm yourself. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you—”
“Eliza.” The use of her name was enough to quell her rambling. She was nervous. Because they were alone together, and she feared passion might flare between them? Or perhaps she hoped passion might flare between them?
He took his time warming himself by the fire, lifting the poker to stoke it for her. “I don’t have much to report. Goodman is a solicitor for the Duke of Oxthorpe. He has not been here long and will not stay
