Page 68 of Scandalous Nights With the Earl

A cold shiver went down Phillip’s back and he stood up. ‘Then I need to find her, ladies, and I will let you all know the minute that I do. Thank you. You have been most helpful.’

Once back on his horse he made for the tavern he had been staying in on the main street. He had seen a book of maps in the public room there and remarked upon the quality of the drawings in it, and the publican had said it was of the areas around Royal Tunbridge Wells down to the southern coast. Recalling his last conversation with Willa at his London town house, he wondered if she’d really meant it when she’d mentioned travelling to Europe? Praying she’d yet to secure any sort of passage to France, he tied his horse up outside the tavern.

The publican fetched the book of maps and sat down with him, listening as Phillip began to explain.

‘I am trying to find a stone house on a river port which has hills of woodlands behind. It is somewhere near a village or a town and reachable by road from here.’

‘Are you thinking of buying land around those parts, my lord?’

‘No, I am trying to locate an old friend with whom I have lost touch. They wrote in a letter about the place but I cannot for the life of me remember the name.’

Phillip did not want to make this public. He wanted to make a quiet search without any news of it getting back to anyone. At first at least. If he could not find Wilhelmina by doing it this way, he would widen his parameters and get whoever he needed to be involved.

‘You might try the outskirts of Hastings or even Winchelsea on Rye Bay. From memory there were houses there near the port with wooded hills behind. My father used to take us down there on his dray for a day or two before the hay making, you see, anda prettier place than that would be hard to find. Not too many people, mind, and not like them places near Brighton, full of the city folks at any time of the year.’

Which was why Wilhelmina would not have travelled west, he thought, and his eyes found Winchelsea settled on a large bay before a point.

Could this be at least a start? He looked further east and wondered if Willa had instead made for Folkestone or Dover. Perhaps she had intended to cross to Calais and escape entirely. If she had done that he would never find her, so he had to believe she was still in England.

But this was all conjecture. Closing the book, he thanked the publican and ordered a meal and a drink. He would get up early and begin his search, and he just had to pray that the dream the sister with the glasses had related to him was neither foolish nor fantasy.

Hastings was a busy town, a market stretching down the aptly named Market Street all along the road and selling every article of food, clothing, tools and home-ware possible.

After making his way to George Street Phillip paid for a room in the Royal Albion public house and left his baggage there. He would have a quick look around before he left for Winchelsea, for, with no true river port here in Hastings, he was eager to move along. The McAllistair sister had stated it was a river port she had seen in her dream, with wooded hills behind, and that did not fit the description of this place at all.

For a second he frowned because he could never have imagined himself chasing down dream houses with such a sincerity and putting so much hope on a fantasy.

‘Please let me find her,’ he said to himself over and over again. ‘Please let her come safely home.’

It was all he could think of, Willa’s fear, and her crazy notion that she might protect him by fleeing.

With Simon St Claire being dealt with by the constabulary up in Hampshire he at least had that worry off his mind. The man would never come near Wilhelmina again, Phillip swore on that soundly.

Two and a half hours later he rode into the port village of Winchelsea, past an ancient gate that stood across the road, its adjoining walls long gone. The town itself was on a hill, with salt marshes before it. There was a large church in the middle of a gridded pattern of streets and Phillip turned towards the outer edge of the place to where it overlooked the river.

There was a number of small stone houses on this point and an inn that had rooms for rent. If anyone were to venture to Winchelsea to find a room this would be a good spot to start.

Knocking on the door of the inn, he waited. A stout older woman opened the portal and looked at him closely. She was wearing a clean white apron with a cloth hat of sorts tied around her head, and she looked at him warily.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I am looking for a friend, Mrs Wilhelmina St Claire. Would she by chance be residing here?’

The woman said neither yes nor no but stood back and asked another question.

‘And what name would I give her if she were here?’

‘Mr Phillip Moreland.’

Could it be this easy? Had he chanced on the right place so quickly? He looked around, the river snaking behind, and a group of trees nearby. The hills at the back of the town were wooded.

‘I will go and ask if she is a guest here.’

Turning, she shut the door behind her, leaving him standing there waiting.

A knock at the door had Willa tensing and when it opened Mrs Withers’ head appeared.

‘I am sorry to bother you, my dear, but there is a gentleman downstairs asking for you.’