Chapter 9

9

I t didn’t take the two men long to find the muddy hole in which the wagon had gotten stuck. The track had been half-frozen early yesterday morning, so the ground had broken raggedly around the footprints that circled what was now a large, ice-rimmed puddle. A long rut where a wheel had dragged through heavily was well preserved.

While movement in the winter wasn’t altogether unheard of, looking at their trail, Roland understood why the farmer had thought a wagon travelling in the dark on such a treacherous path seemed peculiar.

“He was lucky he didn’t break an axle in this,” Thorne commented, and Roland grunted.

“Or you could say we were unlucky. If he had gotten stuck a little harder, perhaps we would have more to go on. Or the kids could have escaped.”

They walked back to where they left Horse and Arion, who stood together, head to tail, scratching each other’s rumps with their teeth. Thorne slapped Horse’s side gently, indicating it was time to let them mount up, and the horse whickered a complaint.

“I can scratch your arse just as well as Arion can. Git over,” he said, rubbing the itchy place on the horse’s back.

The horses finally sidled apart a few steps, and both men got back on, turning them to follow the main wagon rut to the northeast. They picked their way slowly, as the ground had hardened considerably, and the path was not smooth. Neither one wanted to risk the horses foundering.

Before they had set out, with the rough bearing to guide them, the Colonel’s small group of searchers had decided to split their efforts. With nearly a day on them, the wagon was likely long gone. But given the farmer’s position, which had been northwest of Alnwick and not far from an area where the river wound like a backwards S, and also given the wagon’s easterly bearing, one might make a few assumptions about destinations.

This veritable sheep track of a path would eventually cross a road that took them east, southeast towards Denwick, and so some of the searchers had gone ahead there to ask questions. But the kidnapper could have also decided to head towards the main road. North and west from that point, there were a number of small areas one might want to bring a child for labour. South, the road went past the abbey as it headed to the bridge across the river. It wouldn’t be impossible for the villain to skirt along the west edge of Alnwick.

So Roland and Thorne had opted to follow the trail as long as they were able. Or perhaps as long as Thorne was able, since Roland had been almost too preoccupied to be useful.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Thorne said as they rode side by side, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf covering his mouth and nose. “I would be willing to wager double that it concerns your lady.”

“Are you wagering the same penny you plan to pay? I suppose that would make it a draw.” Roland said nothing more, not certain how to articulate the entirety of his thoughts on the whole matter.

“Grace does not seem to be acting much herself. Is she having nightmares? I could scarcely blame her if she was having bouts of melancholy after the incident on the Black Hawk, but she appeared well enough at your wedding.”

“A few times, early on, she had bad dreams—about Danforth holding the gun to my head,” Roland confessed, and Thorne closed his eyes briefly in sympathy. “But those tapered off months ago. Grace seems possessed of a hardy spirit, which is fortunate given her penchant to stumble into events of such mortal terror. So… I do not think that is what is troubling her. But on the other hand, I still have no answers, because she will not talk to me about them.”

“Ah. Then I understand why you are so vexed. Unlike her, you don’t seem to care for mysteries, and she is sitting upon one that she won’t discuss.”

“You have a knack for reading me, far better than I have for reading my own wife, then,” Roland said, jaw tightening.

“Of course. We’re men, and men are simple creatures,” Thorne jested. “But in seriousness, I do not believe Grace would be withholding something from you out of malice.”

“Agreed. I have no worries on that score. It’s just… Something is clearly the matter. Is it ridiculous that I am piqued because I know she is worried about something, and she will not trust me with what it is? However big or small it is.”

Ahead of them, they could see a marking post, and Thorne began to scan the ground to ensure he could still make out the trail. “No, I would feel much the same, if I were you. But have faith. I am sure she will confess the truth to you eventually.”

Roland wished he could be as certain.

Thorne leaned backwards in the stirrups as they drew up to the fork, and Horse, sensing the change in position, came to a stop. Roland drew up his reins. Though the gelding was of no special breeding, Horse had turned out to be a sensitive and solid choice when they had purchased their mounts. Thorne was also a natural at training. The pair barely needed a bridle at all, Thorne signalling the horse more often with light touches on the neck and sides, or his position in the seat.

It only took a moment to discern that if Denwick was the eventual destination, it was not a direct one. They followed the ruts as they meandered towards the southeast, a course that would take them to the road.

“Denwick would have been too easy, I suppose,” his brother murmured under his breath as they carried on. “If you will not let it rest, then what seems to have been on your lady’s mind? Perhaps that would give you some clue.”

Roland grunted. “My grandfather. Being lady of the house. The cold. Half-truths, at best.”

“Or perhaps the fallen crumbs around the bigger piece of cheese that so far she’s unhappy here in Alnwick. She’s struggling to find her footing. Give her some leeway to find her place. I could see Lady Grace being reluctant to add to your burdens while you’re learning from the duke. Is the Breaker giving her a great deal of trouble?”

“The opposite, actually,” Roland said shortly. “Which, perhaps ironically, somehow adds to my burdens even more, because now I have to find the time to contemplate the small possibility that the duke may be unwell. So…”

They rode in silence for a few heartbeats, and then Thorne drew a breath to say something more. Roland waved his hand to cut him off.

“Honestly, brother. I do not wish to speak about it anymore. Not unless you want to drive me into losing my temper.” His voice was a touch too loud in the wintry silence, and Roland cursed as Thorne flinched slightly. He tried to put more humour into his words as he apologised. “I am sorry. But, you see? My nerves are already shot.”

“Truly,” Thorne said dryly. “Perhaps it’s just as well I packed this to ward against the cold.” He reached into the breast pocket of his coat to withdraw a leather-wrapped silver flask, and offered it to Roland, who seized it like a starving man offered food.

Uncapping the flask, Roland pulled down his scarf and tipped it back, expecting brandy. Instead, a sharp, peaty liquid burned his throat as he swallowed, eyes watering. “Oh, it’s whisky,” he said hoarsely, coughing briefly before pulling the cloth back over his face, and Thorne grinned sunnily at him. Not that Roland could see his brother’s mouth underneath the scarf, but Thorne’s blue eyes crinkled in that way they always did when giving him a mocking grin. “You could have warned me.”

“And miss out on your surprise? Never.”

“You could at least cultivate a taste for the lowland stuff,” Roland took another long swig, figuring it would serve him right if he drained the flask, and expected Thorne to protest. But his canny brother simply pulled a second flask out of his other jacket pocket, taking his own swig. “I am sick of swimming in the swamps of my own thoughts. Tell me something else.” For there was another nagging worry on his mind, one that he had not voiced even to Grace. “Did you get back to London after the wedding?”

“Only for a brief stop to inspect the house,” Thorne admitted. “They did not want me travelling much until they were certain the arm was well on its way to mending.”

“That would have only taken a month, and here we are in December. What did you get up to in the other months between? I also notice that your valet—who has been causing me no end of grief, thank you very much—has not been replaced.”

Thorne was silent for a long moment—so long that, in the end, Roland voiced his suspicion. Thorne’s new title was weighing on his shoulders. “Grace and I thought we were giving you a gift by raising your status, but instead, it is a burden.”

“No,” Thorne’s answer was immediate. “No. That isn’t it.”

“Are you quite sure?” Because Roland had read and burned the brief, badly written letter from Dolly Thorne, his father’s once mistress, and had been plagued by doubt ever since.

I have learned the truth of what you have done. You wish to do well by him, but the only way you can is to let him be. Your world is not ours, and it is improper to aspire to greatness. We who have been born to the lower classes need to remember our place. Let my son live a life of his own choosing. You will only harm him if you force him to rise above it.

Thorne let his brother see his whole face. “Tell me, brother. How did you feel when you were pulled from the front and thrust so directly into polite society?”

Blinking, Roland let the corner of his mouth curl in unhappiness. “Like a pig dressed up in fine clothing and paraded in front of a bunch of dandies.”

Thorne smiled faintly and took another swig before he pulled up his scarf. “Aye, just so. It is too much change. Too fast. But… hopefully I will eventually find my place in it. Just as your lady will find her place in Alnwick.”

But he didn’t sound much convinced, and Roland leaned over from the saddle to grab his brother’s arm. “I may have disdained polite society, but I never once doubted I belonged to it. And what right should I have had to that certainty? My blood is not what should make a man fine. Just like the knights of old, one’s character is where greatness and nobility shows. Make no mistake, brother— you are worthy of this .”

Startled blue eyes stared back at him, and sensing his rider’s confusion, Horse came to a halt. Roland let his arm fall so he wouldn’t be pulled from the saddle, and he took up the reins to wheel Arion around after his horse kept plodding forward.

“You believe it, Roland, but not everyone does.”

Including, apparently, his brother. That was when he understood what must have happened. When Thorne had gone back to take care of his mother, Dolly had spent her efforts trying to drag him back to where she thought he belonged. And perhaps his brother had even more than half believed she had the right of it.

Even water, over time, would wear a stone down.

But that influence was limited. Dolly Thorne was dying. She had consumption—a long and lingering case of it. And even though Thorne could not be formally recognised as a Percy, the members of the ton would neither overlook the Regent’s favour nor the truth of his bloodline. Thorne didn’t have to rise above his station—he only needed to have the confidence to reach out to claim what was already his by right.

“That is their burden. It should not be yours.” The atmosphere between them now felt strange, and Roland regretted taking this particular moment to say the words, no matter how much Thorne apparently needed to be told them. He rubbed the back of his neck, and then sat straighter in realisation. “You foisted your valet on me because you were afraid to have him with you when you went to see your mother.”

Thorne ducked his head, and Roland scoffed.

It said much that he had felt his elevation would cause enough strife. He had met Thorne’s mother twice, and she had refused any support or charity from the Percy family out of hand. His misbegotten sense of duty had extended to ensuring that, even when his grandfather had kept his hand closed tight around the purse strings, Roland managed to find a way to support Thorne well enough that his bastard brother could send his wages on.

But this was intolerable. Roland would have to make sure to orchestrate something so that Briggs ended up back in Thorne’s employ right before he needed to pay another visit. The cheeky servant would handle her spectacularly.

“Aye. I leased a small place for her in Swanage and contracted a charwoman to do her laundry and cleaning. It seemed like it might be easier to manage her without an entourage.”

“Swanage? I thought you would move her to your own estate.”

Thorne hitched his shoulder uncomfortably looking down at the ground again. “Besides the use of Danforth’s London house, the Regent gave me lands in Dumfriesshire and Cumberland. I will have to build a place of my own eventually. In the meantime, none of them are good for someone ailing with her condition. The weather on the south shore is better for her. I did try to talk her into Weymouth, but Swanage is… less grand...”

Roland began to open his mouth again but paused as Thorne began circling Horse, looking for something.

“The wheel track,” Thorne shouted over his shoulder. “We lost sight of it!”

Roland set his heels to Arion’s sides, kicking the horse forward into a canter to catch up, and as he glanced around, he spotted their quarry. “There!”

They had passed a place on the trail where a thick copse of trees grew tall, almost entirely obscuring the banks of one of the small nameless creeks that fed into the larger river. Where the edges of the embankments were fairly steep, a small cart had been abandoned there among the trees, no sign remaining of the horse that had pulled it.

The creek was fast enough to have kept from freezing yet, though ice glazed the rocks somewhat and frosted the edges. A deep furrow in the mud of the bank, and one small footprint still untouched in the dirt, told them everything.

“They took to the water. Probably to get past Alnwick quickly, without being noticed,” Roland murmured. “There’s a few villages right along the bank of the River Aln east of here.”

Thorne nodded. “And we know the two children are together. It should help with questioning. We can ride out and inquire if anyone has seen a man and two children come in from the river.”