And once in London, she could go to her family’s town house. Cook wouldn’t be there, of course, nor any of the maids, but Papa left a butler in residence to see to any pressing matters that might come up and to keep the house at ready for any sudden visits he might make on business. That meant there would be a fire in the hearth and a supply of food in the kitchen. What more could she possibly need? Perhaps Wilton need not even discover that she was on the scene until she had worked out a precise scheme for helping him.
With that plan in mind, she felt quite a bit better about things. At last she felt free to enjoy the pleasant summer breeze, the cloudless blue sky, the stirring of excitement that no amount of worry about the eventual outcome of this day’s work could dampen. She found a shady spot, paused and ate the food she’d brought, then pressed on.
Astonishing, she thought after another hour had passed quite safely. She was well and truly on her own and it was delightfully exhilarating. It was no wonder men did not like to see their ladies indulge in such daring excursions. Women were quite likely to discover that there was nothing to equal it. They would be fleeing the country in droves.
She did wish, though, that the earl had been somewhat more forthcoming about this business with a crook at Wilton Shipping. She could have put her mind to work on the problem during the trip. She was quite certain she could have come up with a reasonable solution by the time they reached London. Surely there were plans that did not involve excessive danger or too many opportunities for mishap.
Even without any solid information, she could give the matter some thought. What sort of crooks might there be at a shipping company, for instance? A bookkeeper, possibly? He could juggle the figures in such a way that income could vanish without anyone being the wiser. She had heard of such things, particularly if the owner of the company was not as watchful as he should have been, which was certainly true in the case of the Earl of Wilton. Catching a bookkeeper fiddling with company figures, however, did not really stir much excitement, to Abby’s way of thinking. Unless, perhaps, there were very large sums involved.
Perhaps someone was making off with the cargo, forcing the earl to pay off on the missing goods. Certainly that would diminish the company’s profits and cause him to go dashing off to London. The challenge of catching such a thief would prove far more intriguing. She rather hoped that was the problem.
Right now, however, with daylight rapidly coming to an end, the prospect of riding much further was not nearly so pleasing. If she recalled correctly, there was an inn no more than a mile or two further on. Perhaps if she asked for the innkeeper’s wife at the kitchen door, the woman would agree to slip her quietly upstairs with no one else on the premises being the wiser. Abby would gladly give her an extra coin or two for her trouble and her silence.
By the time the inn finally came into view at least five miles later, Abby realized that her stamina was not nearly as great as she had assumed. She was exhausted and ready for a long night’s sleep in a warm bed.
Unfortunately, her carefully worked out plan quickly fell into a muddle. First, the glances she drew from the stable help when she turned over her mare for the night disconcerted her. Then the cook, an unpleasant harridan, regarded her with suspicion when she asked for the innkeeper’s wife. She informed Abby with a certain amount of questionable satisfaction that the woman had died a year or more ago.
“And we don’t allow no lightskirts in here,” the round-faced woman said bluntly. “This is a respectable place. You might’s well be on your way.”
Abby drew herself up and bestowed her haughtiest glare on the woman. “I am Lady Abigail of Briarcliff.”
“And I’m the bloody Queen of England,” the woman snapped right back, slamming the door in her face.
Thoroughly shocked by the rudeness, Abby could only stare at the closed door for several minutes before fury set her to pounding on it. It popped open.
“Quiet!” the cook ordered. “Or I will call the bailiff on ye.”
Abby saw that there was no reasoning with the woman. Perhaps by going to the kitchen door like a common beggar she had made the tiniest miscalculation. “Please, could you not fetch the innkeeper?”
“He will only throw you out on your ear,” the woman said, her double chin set stubbornly.
“I will speak to him,” Abby said just as stubbornly and pushed her way past. The aroma of food nearly felled her. She realized then that she was practically starved. The small amount of food she’d stolen from the pantry at home might have been enough to sustain her on a brief outing, but she had been riding hard for hours now. Only determination and the furious glint in the cook’s eyes kept her from lingering over the steak and kidney pies.
When the cook snatched up a butcher knife capable of carving a side of beef with a single blow, Abby let out a scream that could probably be heard all the way back at Briarcliff. She raced for the door leading to the inn’s dining room, the irate cook hard on her heels.
Naturally, given her ignominious entrance, the first person she encountered was the Earl
