back to Tinmore Hall. The first drops that splattered the dirt road quickly grew to a heavy downpour. Moments later it was as if the heavens had decided to tip over all their buckets at once. In mere minutes Tess’s cloak was soaked through. Even her purchases, wrapped in paper and string and held under her cloak, were becoming wet.
‘Genna, you are going to gloat,’ she muttered.
But it had been worth it. Tess discovered that Mr Welton had indeed left for London, but he knew about Lorene’s marriage. She told his aunt about her changed circumstances.
He would find her when Lord Tinmore took them all to town for the Season. Only a few more weeks.
Mud from the road stuck to Tess’s half-boots, and it became an effort merely to lift one foot in front of the other. Water poured from the drooping brim of her hat and the raindrops hit her face like needles of ice. She had at least two miles to go before she’d cross through the gatehouse of the estate.
The mud grabbed at her half-boots like some devious creature bent on stopping her. Trying to quicken her pace was futile, but at last she spied the bridge ahead through the thick sheets of rain.
But the stream now rushed over it.
‘No!’ Her protest was swallowed by the wind.
What now? She did not know of any other way to reach Tinmore Hall. There was no choice but to walk to the nearby village as she ought to have done in the first place. The rain was cutting into her like knives now, not needles.
She glanced at the wooded area next to the road. If this were home, she’d know precisely how to cut through the woods and cross the fields. She might be home already, sitting in front of a fire, letting the heat penetrate instead of this rain. Here she did not dare leave the road that she knew led to Tinmore Village.
Do not think, she told herself. Just put one foot in front of the other. Despair nudged at her resolve.
She walked and walked until she thought she saw a vague outline of the village church tower. She hurried on, but up ahead water was streaming across the road. She could not go forward. She could not go back.
But she could go home, home to Yardney, at least. Perhaps she would seek shelter at Mr Welton’s aunt’s house. Or knock at the door of Summerfield House.
She turned back, retracing her steps, passing the road leading to the blocked bridge. A short distance from there, the road was flooded. Turning back again, she walked until she found another road, not knowing where it would lead her.
If only she were closer to home. She would be able to turn in any direction and find someone’s house who would welcome her, but she no longer knew where she was or how to find her way to anywhere familiar. She was lost, wet and terribly cold.
Marc Glenville cursed the rain.
Why there must be a downpour while he was on horseback on his way to London was beyond him. Unless the gods of weather somehow caught his mood.
Returning to London was never a joy.
But there was nothing else for him to do. His business in Scotland was complete.
His horse faltered and his head dipped. A stream of water trickled down his back.
Business in Scotland. Ha!
That was the fiction he told his parents and would tell anyone else who questioned his whereabouts these last long months, but it was not the truth.
He’d been to France. Paris and the countryside, mixing with Bonapartists and others discontented with returning Louis XVIII to the throne, keeping an ear tuned to whether discontent was apt to erupt in insurrection.
All for king and country.
Unrest was not widespread. The French, like the British, were fatigued with war. Mark had made his reports. No more would be asked of him.
It was time to face more personal matters.
Time to face again the fact that his brother would never again grin at him from across the dinner table and his best friend would never again come to call. When he was pretending to be Monsieur Renard, citoyen ordinaire of France, he could almost forget that Lucien, his brother, had been gone for four years and Charles, not quite three. Whenever he returned, though, he half-expected to see them walk through the door when he was home.
Grief shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
Foolish Lucien. Reckless Charles. They’d died so needlessly.
Marc willed his emotions to cool, lifting his face to the rain that was already chilling his bones. Best to keep emotions in control. When deep in espionage, it could save his life; back in London, it might save his sanity.
Good God. Was the near-freezing rain begetting gloomy thoughts as well as soaking him to the bone? Concentrate on the road and on his poor horse. Slogging through muddy, rut-filled roads was a battle, even for the sturdy fellow.
The stallion blew out a breath.
‘Hard going, eh, Apollo?’ Marc patted the horse’s neck.
He’d hoped to reach Peterborough by nightfall, but that was not in the cards in this weather. He’d be lucky to make the next village, whatever that was, and hope its inn had a room with a clean bed.
The rain had forced him off the main route and he and Apollo were inching their way through any roads that remained passable.
The delay did not bother him overmuch. No one was expecting him. He’d not informed his parents he was coming to town. Let it be a surprise.
Marc dreaded the family visit, always, but it was time to take his place as heir, now that duty did not call him elsewhere. He’d call upon Doria Caldwell, Charles’s sister, and make official what had been implied between them since Charles was killed. He owed that much to Charles.
Besides, the Caldwell family, now consisting only of her and her father, was so ordinary and respectable—and rational—he would relish being a part of it.
Lightning flashed through the sky and thunder boomed. Was he now to be struck by real lightning, instead of being struck figuratively?
He must be near a village; he’d been riding long enough. Gazing up ahead, he hoped to see rooftops in the distance or a road sign or any indication that shelter might be near, but the rain formed a grey curtain that obscured all but a few feet in front of him. What’s more, the curtain seemed to move with him, keeping him engulfed in the gloom and making his eyelids grow heavy.
Lightning flashed again and he thought he’d seen someone in the road. He peered harder until through the curtain of rain a figure took form. It was a woman on foot, not yet hearing his horse coming up from behind.
‘Halloo, there!’ he called out. ‘Halloo!’
The woman, shrouded in a dark cloak, turned and waved her hands for him to stop.
As if any gentleman could
