Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

G eorge finished his ale with a sigh of contentment, looking around the smoky little room of the tavern. It was crowded with bare-knuckle boxing enthusiasts like himself, and they were all enjoying discussing the fights they'd seen on Magna Midcombe green today.

Unfortunately the Dorking Destroyer had been knocked out after fifteen minutes and refused to rejoin the fray, but it didn't matter in the end. They had a new hero, and George had been the first to raise his tankard to the Midcombe Mauler.

Now he looked into the bottom of his tankard and hesitated. Did he have time for another before he set off for home, or should he go before it began to grow dark? Surely he'd still reach Abbey Thorne Manor before the long summer evening turned to night even if he lingered another ten minutes?

George was just getting to his feet when he saw someone he recognized moving toward the doorway.

At first he doubted his own eyes, because what would Baron Von Hautt be doing here in the Magna Midcombe tavern? He must be mistaken. But as the man reached the doorway he turned and looked straight at George, and he knew with a chill in his blood that he wasn't mistaken. The gray hair and youthful face, those icy blue eyes. It was Von Hautt all right.

He stumbled to his feet, almost knocking over his chair, apologizing as he shoved through the crowd in pursuit of the Prussian. It didn't occur to him to wonder why Von Hautt would be showing himself like this. He felt no sense of anxiety or danger, only an urgent need not to allow the man to escape him.

George reached the door and burst out into the warm, calm evening. He stood, taking gulps of air, trying to clear his head. The village street was empty . . . or was it? Something caught his eye and he turned just in time to see Von Hautt vanishing around a corner. With a grin of triumph, George hurried after him.

Had Von Hautt come to Magna Midcombe to find what remained of the Fortescues? Well, he was going to have to explain himself to George. Maybe, George thought, he could capture the Prussian and take him back to Abbey Thorne Manor and hand him over to Valentine and Jasper. Wouldn't that make their eyes pop!

He turned the corner, full of confidence, and his heart leaped into his throat. Von Hautt was standing right in front of him, a big grin on his face.

"Ah, it is the little brother," he said cheerfully. "How are you, little brother George?"

George stopped himself from taking a step back—just. "What do you want?" he said, in his best imitation of Valentine's growl. "What are you doing following us about?"

Von Hautt didn't bother to answer. His strange pale eyes were searching George's face, and then he shook his head in mock despair. "You have been drinking," he said. "The only way to find the Crusader's Rose is to reject all such crass temptations. Your brother knows that. You should ask him what he has given up in his quest for the prize."

"You know nothing about my brother!" George shouted, but the chill in his blood was back again. This man was dangerous and all of a sudden he was wondering why he'd followed him out here. Alone.

"I know a great deal about your brother," Von Hautt said in a voice as cold as snow.

"Then you'll know he doesn't want you following him around and shooting his friends," George retorted.

"His friend deserved to be shot." He dismissed the incident.

George opened his mouth, closed it again. His sense that this man was unpredictable and dangerous was growing, and any dreams he'd had of capturing him were gone. All he wanted to do now was to get away from him in one piece.

"Valentine will not find the rose in Magna Midcombe," Von Hautt said with a sneer. "Unless he believes it is hidden under Miss Rotherhild's skirts." He smirked. "She is a very beautiful woman."

"What has Miss Rotherhild to do with you?" George shouted. "Have you been spying? You damned filthy coward . . ." Rage overcame self-preservation and he tried to grasp the other man's shirtfront, meaning to shake him like a dog. But Von Hautt was too quick for him, or perhaps George was more affected than he thought by the amount of ale he'd imbibed.

The man loomed over him, those icy blue eyes staring into his. "It will be I who finds the rose," he said softly, "and you will all be very sorry that you turned your backs on me and my mother."

He was gone.

George swallowed, leaning back against the brick wall and trying not to sag to the ground. The fellow was completely bonkers. He made no sense at all.

But that didn't mean he was any less dangerous.

George straightened up. He needed to get home to Abbey Thorne Manor and talk to Valentine. Turning, he made his way back to the tavern. One more drink, he thought. He deserved another ale after what he'd just been through. Yes, a drink to bolster his spirits. And then he'd fetch his horse from the stable and go home.