another night under this roof.’
‘Understandable,’ Matthew said.
‘The magistrate and the constable were here, asking questions,’ Mr Tremayne said. ‘They want to speak with you.’
Matthew grimaced. ‘I don’t think I can tell them much to help. The rogue was masked. Do they know how he got in?’
‘A window at the back was open. There’s a lean-to roof just below. They think he was a thief and Jenny woke up at the wrong time. She doesn’t remember much. That’s probably for the best.’
‘Indeed. Is the magistrate still here?’
‘No, but he said he will come back later and asked that you remain here until then.’
Matthew quashed his frustration. The sooner he left, the sooner he could catch up with Eleanor and her party on the road and assure himself of her safety. Had she been the real target? If the attacker had meant to kill, he would know he had failed. And, if he was still in the town, he would soon discover he’d attacked the wrong girl anyway. Eleanor was still very much in danger.
* * *
It was mid-morning before the magistrate returned and Matthew could recount his version of events and answer his questions. At first, he seemed disposed to believe Matthew the culprit, until Matthew pointed out—with some vigour—that Mr Tremayne had also seen Jenny’s masked attacker. Finally, satisfied Matthew had given all the information he could, the magistrate gave Matthew leave to continue his journey. The interview had seemed to Matthew to last a lifetime and he had fretted throughout. All thought of returning to Ashton to attend the boxing match was forgotten. He was convinced Eleanor was in grave danger and his one thought was to protect her.
The minute he was free to leave, he leapt aboard his curricle—with Henry perched on the rumble seat behind—and whipped up the horses. It was almost noon already. Even though he doubted Eleanor would have set off early—bearing in mind she must arrange a suitable replacement for the damaged carriage first—her party must surely have passed through Stockport already, on their way to the capital.
Matthew drove south, worry gnawing at him as he wondered what further dangers Eleanor might face. He varied the pace, mindful of the need not to overtire his horses, but also needing enough speed to give him some chance of catching up with Eleanor’s party. He was conscious of Henry muttering behind his back and, upon hearing his man’s sharp intake of breath as they flew past a lumbering farm wagon with mere inches to spare, Matthew shot a quick glance over his shoulder.
‘You do know, I s’pose, that this is the wrong road for Ashton?’ Henry said, leaning forward to speak into Matthew’s ear.
‘Indeed.’
‘Can I ask where we’re headed?’
‘That,’ Matthew replied, setting his teeth as he narrowly avoided a stagecoach coming in the opposite direction, ‘is a very good question. I don’t precisely know. But we are following Lady Ashby and her party. They are heading for London. I need to find out where they will stop for the night.’
‘You think that attack was connected to them?’
Matthew tamped down the surge of fear as the image of Jenny, lying bloodied in her bed, rose in his mind. Her features rearranged themselves in his imagination until it was Eleanor’s face he saw and he knew, deep in his gut, that she might now be dead, had they not swapped accommodation.
‘I am certain of it,’ he replied. ‘We must enquire at the posting inns we pass, to find out if they have changed horses. We can ask if anyone knows where they plan to stop for the night. Whoever was responsible for the accident and the attack clearly knows the route she is taking and could try again.’
‘Last night brought it all back, didn’t it?’ Henry said. ‘You aren’t responsible. You weren’t responsible. You can’t protect the whole world and everyone in it.’
Matthew clenched his jaw. Henry had been with him since the early days in India, and was a trusted employee, taking on the roles of both servant and groom as required. He knew Henry referred to Uncle Percy’s death, but Matthew was still haunted by his insistence on going out that night. If only he had been at home... The guilt had near overwhelmed him at the time. His uncle’s death had spurred Matthew’s decision to return home. There was no one to anchor him to India now and he and Benedict could run their business equally well from England.
He was driven by the need to protect. It was in his nature, a part of him, but that did not fully explain why the thought of Eleanor being hurt made his stomach clench with such fear. Frustration flooded him as their progress was slowed by the need to enquire for the travellers at every likely-looking inn they passed, and the need to rest his own horses.
‘Where on earth can they be?’ he bit out, as they drew yet another blank. ‘They must have stopped for the night by now.’
‘Maybe they just had too much of a head start on us, sir. Now, don’t bite my head off, but them cattle are getting weary and you’ll be risking their tendons if we carry on much further.’
Matthew knew Henry was right. He cast a worried look at the sun, sinking to the horizon, then straightened in his seat as a milestone proclaimed they were one mile from Leek.
‘This must be it,’ he muttered. ‘They surely can’t have gone any further today. They have to be here.’
* * *
Shortly afterwards, they drew up in the yard of the George, situated right in the middle of the small market town, where the first person they saw was Timothy. Leaving Henry to see to the horses, Matthew strode into the inn, breathing easily—it seemed—for the first time that day.
‘William Brooke at your service, sir—landlord of this fine hostelry. How may I be of assistance?’
‘Good evening, Brooke. I understand Lady Ashby is a guest here tonight? I wish to see her.’
The innkeeper lowered his gaze. ‘Lady Ashby, sir? I’m sure I couldn’t say. Might I ask who is enquiring?’
Matthew resisted the urge to grab the fool by his neck. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down his nose at Brooke. ‘My good man,’ he announced haughtily, ‘I am Lord Ashby. Now, please be so good as to conduct me to my wife.’
The innkeeper bowed low, almost wringing his hands in his obsequiousness. ‘My humblest apologies, my lord, I wasn’t expecting you. Your lady is in the private parlour, if you would please follow me?’
Matthew followed Brooke along a passageway to the rear of the inn. The innkeeper paused outside a closed door and Matthew stayed him before he could announce Matthew’s presence.
‘Thank you, Brooke, that will be all. If you could see that we are not disturbed, I should be grateful.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ Brooke backed away, bowing as he retreated.
The fear that had plagued Matthew since before dawn that morning receded only to be replaced by a rush of anger, stoked by Brooke’s meek acceptance of his identity.
I could be anybody.
He hauled the door open and stepped inside
