and not render assistance?
Old Sir Reginald had seen it as female megrims, but that was too out of character for Mrs Falkner. Could someone have come across the accident, thought to rob the carriage and been deterred by the sound of him coming along the road? Or could it be something more sinister, such as someone hoping to cause Tonbridge harm? Someone who had been surprised by the presence of a woman in his carriage and taken off. Or was it simply a case of the door latch letting go as the carriage twisted and settled on its broken axle as Sir Reginald thought? Blade might have thought so, too, if not for the one unaccounted-for boot print in the mud beside the carriage door.
Nevertheless, whichever it was, Mrs Falkner had been lucky she wasn’t more seriously hurt.
Fortunately, like Sir Reginald, she seemed to have no suspicion that it might be anything other than an accident. And since he did not want her frightened out of her wits any more than she had been already, he planned to leave it that way. He still couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t simply taken to her bed after such a scare.
His unruly mind wandered back to the scene of her drowsing in the chair when he had come to warn her of Sir Reginald’s imminent arrival. Asleep, her face relaxed, she had looked younger, prettier, more like the girl he had been smitten with that long-ago spring. A memory she clearly did not want to acknowledge any more than he did. She was the daughter of a vicar and he was the bastard son of a prostitute who’d kicked him out at the age of ten. ‘I don’t need you hanging around. You are just another mouth for me to feed.’ The pain of those words stabbed him behind the breastbone. Less sharp than when spoken, but still there. While he hadn’t thought so at the time, he’d been fortunate his father had agreed to recognise him as his son or he’d likely have died on the streets of London. Or been hanged for a criminal.
He heard her soft tread on the stairs outside the parlour and opened the door.
She looked startled. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘By your step.’ He led her to the chair by the hearth. The table was set, but the food had not yet appeared.
He stood at ease, wrist crossed over his forearm behind him. A trick he’d perfected to make the missing hand less noticeable.
‘Please, Mr Read,’ she said sharply. ‘Be seated, before I get a crick in my neck.’
He was tempted to resist what was clearly an order. That had always been his trouble. Rebelling at stupid orders. She suffered from a similar affliction, he recalled, and he wanted to smile.
Her expression carved in stone, her hands folded in her lap, she waited for him to do as she bid.
He picked up the poker, raked around in the fire for a moment or two as a sop to his pride, before he sat in the chair recently occupied by Sir Reginald. ‘Why do you pretend we did not meet before?’
Hell, why had that been blurted out of his mouth? Why the devil did it matter?
Her lush lips parted. Her eyes widened in shock before her gaze lowered to her clasped fingers. ‘You gave no sign of remembering me either,’ she said in a low voice.
At seventeen, and a newly minted ensign, he’d thought her akin to an angel. He’d been far too tongue-tied seeing how pretty she was, how very different from the women he’d known when living with his mother, or those in his adoptive parents’ house, to do more than stutter a greeting.
She was also the reason for his first reprimand. He’d gone for Carothers’s throat when he’d called her a round-heeled wench in the officers’ mess the morning after the local assembly, where they’d been invited to make up the numbers of gentlemen. For that, he’d received a tongue-lashing from his commanding officer and a black mark on his record. Only his father’s name had kept him from being thrown out of the regiment.
‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. Too long ago for it to be of any relevance.
‘Yes.’ She raised her gaze to meet his, clearly glad to put the recollection behind her. ‘Much has occurred since then.’
‘Indeed.’ She had been married and widowed. He had been as good as discharged from the career he loved.
‘I assume Sir Reginald has finished his investigations?’ she asked, clearly anxious to change an awkward subject.
He gave a brief nod. ‘Apparently it is not the first fatality to occur on that particular corner.’
‘I hope he did not blame Josiah Garge. I am sure he did his best.’
‘No. No blame.’
‘His wife will take some comfort from that, and I know Lord Tonbridge will make a generous settlement. Still, it is a very sad day for the Garge family. What are the next steps?’
‘The jury will be called by the coroner tomorrow. They will meet below.’
‘Will I need to appear?’ She sounded surprisingly anxious. Was there something she knew that she had not told him? Something she wanted to hide? He wanted to question her further, but she looked so pale, so tired, he decided to leave it. For now.
‘I believe not. My word and that of the constable will be enough. Once a verdict is reached we can leave for Skepton. Lane will bring the remains there for the appropriate rites and services.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your help and support in this matter.’
If he’d been truly helpful, instead of standing on his dignity, he would have insisted on escorting her and none of this would have happened. He frowned at her. ‘You said you were going to hire outriders.’
She made a face. ‘There were none available at such short notice.’
He had no way of knowing whether or not that was the truth, but it was water under the bridge. One thing he did know—as soon as he got to Skepton, he would write to Tonbridge and see if he had any thoughts on whether someone might have accosted his carriage and, if so, who.
Then he’d do a bit of investigating of his own. In the meantime, he would enjoy a meal with a pretty woman who, it seemed, was prepared to admit she recalled him.
Despite his assurances that all was well in hand, Caro sensed an underlying concern in Mr Read’s manner as he gestured to a side table. ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry?’
She shook her head. ‘Thank you, no.’
His gaze cut longingly to the tray of drinks.
‘Please, do not let my abstinence prevent you from partaking.’
He strode to the table and poured himself a brandy. He tossed it off and poured another. Dutch courage? Was she really so formidable to a man who had faced the guns at Waterloo?
An awkward silence ensued, fortunately broken by the entry of Mrs Lane with supper dishes. The young woman with her, a dark-haired lass of about sixteen, eyed Mr Read with obvious interest. Caro narrowed her eyes at the girl, who blushed and giggled before she left the room with a dip of a curtsy.
Mrs Lane, elbows akimbo, gazed from one to the other
