Chapter Seven

‘What the hell do you mean she didn't get in the carriage?'

‘I'm tellin' you she weren't there. The vicar and his missus got in, but she din't.'

Reinhardt swore. Had she somehow got wind of his plan? But how was that possible. He should never have talked to that damn priest. And his bloody arrogance in giving the pastor his real name could well come back to bite him.

‘Search these premises. I don't care what excuse you use, just do it. If she's hiding anywhere in this building, I expect you to find her. How long ago did the carriage leave?'

‘About ten minutes ago milord.'

‘And the others are already in place?'

His companion nodded. ‘All but me and Smiffy.'

‘Send Smith to give them a message. They should remain where they are, but they are to let the carriage pass without interference if I'm not there. They are to do nothing – is that clear?' Another nod.

Dismissing his companion, Reinhardt gritted his teeth. There was too much at stake to give up at the first hurdle. There was no way the chit could have learned about his intentions. He'd spoken to no one except his cohorts and the priest. Feverishly, he thought back to his actions over the last couple of days, and his mind flitted back to the conversation in the stable last evening. Frowning, he thought back, going over the short meeting in the minutest detail.

He'd believed the stable empty but recalled the restless stamping of one of the horses. He'd ignored it at the time, thinking the horse's agitation was due to their unexpected presence. But what if there had been someone else there? Someone hiding behind the beast?

They would have heard everything.

Reinhardt swore again and aimed a frustrated kick at the chamber pot sitting next to the bed. The pot smashed against the door scattering pieces across the bedchamber. Fortunately, the pot had been empty. The knowledge that he could have spread piss all over the floor stopped him in his tracks. He needed to get a bloody grip. Letting his temper get the better of him wouldn't do.

He went over to the small desk and poured himself a brandy from the bottle he'd had brought up the evening before. Swallowing it in one fiery mouthful, he felt immediately calmer. Pouring himself another, he sat down in the armchair. If someone had indeed overheard his conversation with Davy in the stable, then the cat was out of the bag and there was nothing he could do about that. Clearly, the carriage was on its way to Cottesmore, which meant its occupants believed their charge to be safe. Had they put her in another coach? Sending her to her father by a different route? Reinhardt narrowed his eyes, taking a sip of his brandy. Not alone certainly. He needed to question the stable hands as to whether any other carriages had left the inn either late last night or early this morning and if so, who they belonged to.

The priest would undoubtedly be desperate to inform Stanhope of what had transpired. Murdering all the occupants of the carriage would certainly prevent that, but unless he tortured the information out of them first, he wouldn't discover the chit's whereabouts. Not to mention the fact that trying to force the information out of them would likely take far too long. By the time they confessed, Mercedes Stanhope would have arrived back in the bosom of her loving father and if he was caught, he'd almost certainly hang.

At the moment, he doubted they had any proof of his intention other than an overheard conversation. It would take them the best part of the day to reach Cottesmore and the Earl, which meant he had the rest of the day to track the bitch down. If he failed to abduct the chit, it was a setback, nothing more.

Reinhardt finished his brandy and stood up. Christian Stanhope might be aware he was coming, but the bastard couldn't be on his guard twenty-four hours a day, and ultimately, it would simply make the outcome that much sweeter.

***

After stepping through the door, Mercy instinctively paused to wait until her eyes adjusted. The inside of the house was dark and smelled overwhelmingly of mildew. As the entrance hall became clearer, she saw it was large and square with an imposing staircase rising up into the shadows.

Abruptly realising her rescuer had continued on down the hall, she picked up her skirts and hurried after him.

She passed two doors on the left, both firmly closed, and resisted the urge to stop and peek - especially when her would-be defender suddenly vanished. Fighting a sudden panic, she increased her pace and came upon a narrow corridor not visible from the hall. She couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief as she saw him waiting for her halfway down, outside another door. As she entered the narrow passageway, he pushed open the door, flooding the dank corridor with sudden light.

Seconds later, she followed him into a large, cavernous and very empty kitchen. Stopping involuntarily, she gazed about her. To the left was what looked to be a larder and to the right some kind of laundry room. The only pieces of furniture was a large table that had clearly seen better days, surrounded by three rickety chairs.

‘How long have you lived here alone, Mr. Harding?' Mercy couldn't help asking. ‘With the size of the kitchen, this house must once have been lived in by a large family.' She waved a hand around the vast space.

‘It's a long story that has no bearing on the current situation,' was his short answer. ‘And it's Nate.'

Mercy frowned. Clearly, he was telling her to mind her own business, but while she was under his roof and his protection, she felt she deserved to know more about her self-proclaimed protector.

Without asking, she seated herself at the table, taking care on the chair lest she ended up on the floor. ‘I believe we have plenty of time on our hands … Nate . Clearly, you don't spend much of your time cleaning.'

‘You don't know anything about me,' he bit out, putting the panniers onto the table and her bag at her feet.

‘I am very well aware of my precarious position,' she answered, equally curtly. ‘Which is why I am asking you questions. I am not requesting your life story, Mr. Hard… Nate. I simply wish to know a little more about you to put my mind at ease…' She paused before adding, ‘And to reassure my father of your good intentions once he gets here.'

Nate's eyes narrowed as he stared at her. She stared right back. After a few seconds, he muttered something under his breath and began to remove the food he'd purchased from the two panniers. Pulling out a loaf of bread and a block of cheese, he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a pocketknife. Mercy's heart suddenly constricted at the sight of him unfolding the blade.

Using the knife, he hacked off a lump of bread and a piece of cheese, handing both to her. ‘Eat, you must be hungry.' Mercy frowned, realising the kitchen did not contain either a fire or a stove. Nothing to cook on at all. Hesitantly, she took the bread and cheese off him, abruptly realising she was ravenous.

‘Making an effort to chew slowly, since she thought it likely that once the bread and cheese were finished, there would be nothing else, Mercy waited for him to speak. His absorption in his own food spoke volumes. As she waited, Ruby laid her head in her lap. Evidently, the terrier wasn't averse to a nonmeat diet.

‘I've lived here since my father left it to me nearly ten years ago.' Nate declared abruptly. ‘Since then, the house has been crumbling around my ears – exactly as he intended.'

‘There was no money for renovation?' Mercy asked, intrigued, despite her avowal not to ask for his life story.

‘Not a farthing,' Nate answered glibly. ‘The bastard spent every last penny on the tables right up until the moment he drank himself to death.' He didn't apologise for his language, and in truth, being part of such a large family, Mercedes had heard much worse.

‘It sounds as though he was a very unhappy man,' Mercy commented carefully.

Nate shrugged. ‘He couldn't avoid leaving me the house and title, but he made sure the coffers were completely empty.'

‘You have a title?' Mercy couldn't keep the incredulity out of her voice. Her companion gave a harsh laugh.

‘Hard to believe, isn't it.' He gave a short mocking bow. ‘Viscount Carlingford at your service, my lady.'

Mercy frowned. ‘But why did he not wish to leave you anything if you were his son?'

‘As I said, it's a long and boring story,' he returned, clearly putting an end to the conversation. ‘If you've eaten your fill, I suggest you get some rest. I suspect it's going to be a long two days for you.' He indicated the bread and cheese left on the table. ‘While the weather remains as it is, the fare is not going to improve, I'm afraid.'

Resisting the urge to ask when he'd last eaten a hot meal, Mercy, broke her last piece of cheese in half and popping one half into her mouth, she handed the other to Ruby, who gulped it down happily. Then rising to her feet, she brushed off her skirt and waved him to precede her.

By eight a.m., she was ensconced fully clothed in a bed that looked and felt as though it had last been slept in during the Wars of the Roses. After a couple of experimental bounces, she felt as though she might never close her eyes again. Seconds later, she was asleep.

***

Reverend Shackleford was a worried man. And on this occasion, chatting with the Almighty really wasn't coming up to snuff. Signs and portents were all very well, but sometimes he needed a human audience. In truth, one particular human. He needed Percy.

They had passed the supposed kidnapping spot nearly an hour ago, and thankfully, nothing untoward had happened. Were they being followed? If Harding had not been feeding them a bag of moonshine, then it seemed likely.

They'd left the inn an hour before that, with their three footmen protectors as well as the two coach drivers carefully surveying their surroundings, pistols in hand. Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when they'd come into the next village after Corsham. Hopefully, it meant they'd successfully foiled Reinhardt's plot.

The Reverend wished his curate was here something fierce. As a confidante, Agnes was about as much use as Flossy. She'd spent the whole of the journey so far, gripping her salts and sniffing into her handkerchief, while Flossy snored in the corner. Somehow, Percy's presence gave added clarity to his thinking. He always came up with his best ideas when passing them by Percy first. Not that he needed the curate to actually do anything. Indeed, for the most part, Percy had about as much backbone as a dish of syllabub, but it had to be said his oldest friend was a deuced good listener.

In truth, Augustus Shackleford was dreading having to tell the Earl of Cottesmore that he'd mislaid his daughter. The fact that it had been Mercy herself who'd decided to abscond with a perfect stranger in the middle of the night was not going to hold water, no matter which way he looked at it.

He'd spent the better part of the last hour thinking of ways he could make the story a little more palatable, but so far, he'd come up with precisely nothing. And then of course, there was the added worry that Mercy had actually absconded with a perfect stranger in the middle of the night . Was she safe? What the devil would Stanhope do when he finally tracked Mercy down. Would he call Harding out? Force him to marry the chit? Had that been the scoundrel's plan all along? Had the whole kidnap story been a complete Canterbury tale?

The Reverend's thoughts were in danger of running away with him – indeed he'd actually been contemplating throwing himself out of the carriage - until he remembered his own conversation with Reinhardt and his conviction from the start that the fellow was involved in some havey cavey business.

No, whatever Harding was, he was honourable. The Reverend would stake his life on it. In truth, he might have to once the Earl got hold of him…