Page 24

“ M y back will never forgive you for making me sleep in that wretched cottage,” Felix complained, shifting uncomfortably against the carriage seat. “What was that mattress stuffed with? Rocks and spite?”

“It was the closest lodging available,” Rowan replied, watching the countryside roll past. “Stop being dramatic.”

“Three days of travel, Rowan. Three days of your brooding silence and inferior accommodations.” Felix stretched, wincing. “That cottage barely qualified as fit for human habitation.”

“My father found it adequate for his purposes.”

Felix made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Yes, I’m certain the old duke and his mistress were terribly concerned with the quality of the furnishings during their romantic interludes.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. The cottage had indeed been his father’s private retreat, a place for assignations away from London’s watchful eyes. That it was now their temporary base for hunting Captain Veer felt like another of fate’s bitter jokes.

“We need to stop at the next inn,” Felix announced. “I require a proper meal and a bed that won’t cripple me.”

“We’re only two hours from Veer’s property. We should press on.”

“Two hours might as well be two days if my spine snaps from this torture.” Felix peered out the window. “Look, there’s an inn just ahead. The Silver Crown. It looks perfectly respectable.”

“We don’t have time?—”

“We have nothing but time, since you insist on this methodical approach rather than simply confronting the man.” Felix’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “Come now, even you must be tired of travel rations and that cottage’s dubious hospitality.”

Rowan considered. They had been traveling hard for three days, and the horses could use proper rest. His own back protested the constant jostling, though he’d never admit it to Felix.

“Besides,” Felix continued, “arriving at Veer’s doorstep travel-worn and irritable hardly projects the image of ducal authority you’re aiming for.”

The man had a point, though Rowan was loath to admit it. “Fine.” He rapped on the carriage roof. “Driver, stop at the Silver Crown.”

The inn was modest but clean, its timber frame weathered by time yet clearly cared for. A painted sign showing a tarnished crown creaked as it swung in the evening breeze. Through the mullioned windows, the common room glowed with the warm light of oil lamps.

“Thank God,” Felix muttered as the carriage rolled to a stop. “For a moment there, I thought you’d fully turn into a Gothic villain, traveling only by night and sleeping in crypts.”

Rowan ignored him and stepped down with as much dignity as the cramped journey would allow. His muscles protested after hours in the carriage.

Peters, their driver, climbed down from his seat with a grimace and a soft grunt.

Inside, the scent of roasting meat and wood smoke greeted them. The innkeeper, a round man with a quick smile, hurried over.

“Welcome to the Silver Crown, gentlemen. What can I do for you this evening?”

“Three rooms,” Rowan said, pulling out his purse. “One for me, one for my companion, and one for our driver. And make sure the horses are well cared for.”

“Of course, sir. Will you be dining with us?”

Rowan glanced at Peters, who looked like he was ready to collapse. “Send his meal up to his room. He’s earned a quiet evening. My friend and I will eat down here.”

Peters touched the brim of his cap. “Much obliged, Your Grace.”

The innkeeper’s eyes widened at the title, his manner shifting instantly. “Your Grace! We’re honored to have you. I’ll see to it you get our finest rooms.”

“Clean rooms will do,” Rowan said, not bothering to hide his discomfort at the attention. “And whatever you’re serving for dinner.”

While the innkeeper hurried off to make arrangements, Rowan and Felix chose a table near the fire. The common room was half full, mostly local farmers and a few traveling merchants who watched them with open curiosity.

“This is more like it,” Felix said, settling into his chair with obvious relief. “Actual furniture designed for human comfort.”

A serving girl brought them ale and platters of roasted beef with vegetables. The girl, barely sixteen by Rowan’s estimation, bobbed nervous curtsies and nearly spilled the gravy in her haste.

“Steady on,” Felix said kindly. “We don’t bite. Well, I don’t. Can’t speak for His Grace here.”

The girl flushed and scurried away.

Felix poked at the carrots on his plate suspiciously. “I believe these vegetables died of natural causes sometime last winter,” he announced. “The beef appears to have been equally elderly at the time of its demise.”

“It’s perfectly adequate,” Rowan said, though the meat was indeed tougher than boot leather.

“Your standards have fallen deplorably low.” Felix sawed at his portion with determination. “Marriage has made you distressingly practical.”

The mention of marriage made Rowan’s thoughts drift to Selina. What was she doing now? Had she noticed his absence, or was she relieved to have the house to herself? He pictured her at the breakfast table, finally able to eat in peace without his brooding presence across from her.

“You’re thinking of her,” Felix observed. “You get this particularly constipated expression when your mind turns to your duchess.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Your eyebrows draw together and your jaw clenches as if you’re attempting to crack walnuts with your teeth.” Felix demonstrated the expression with exaggerated precision.

Before Rowan could retort, movement near the stairs caught his attention. Two women descended, their low-cut gowns and painted faces clearly marking their profession. They surveyed the room with practiced eyes, zeroing in on Rowan and Felix as the most prosperous-looking patrons.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the taller woman said with a slow, practiced smile as she approached their table. “You look like you could use some company.”

She was striking in a bold, dramatic way, with dark hair swept high and kohl-lined eyes that missed nothing. Her companion, blonde and softer in appearance, had a similar watchfulness beneath her smile.

“Indeed we could,” Felix said, grinning as if the day’s travel and disappointing meal had been forgotten. “Please, join us.”

They didn’t hesitate. The brunette slid into the seat beside Felix with familiar ease, while the blonde moved toward Rowan, her hips swaying deliberately.

“And you, handsome?” she asked, tracing one finger along his shoulder. “Feeling a little lonely on a night like this?”

“No,” Rowan said flatly. “Thank you.”

The blonde pouted prettily. “Come now, don’t be shy. A fine gentleman like yourself must get lonely on the road. I’m Rosie, and I can be very… comforting.”

She leaned forward, displaying an impressive décolletage. Rowan kept his eyes firmly on her face.

“I’m certain you can. However, I’m not interested.”

Felix was already whispering something in the brunette’s ear that made her laugh, a practiced titter that probably charmed less discerning men.

“My friend is devoted to his wife,” Felix announced, wrapping an arm around the brunette’s waist. “Boringly, tediously devoted. But I’m delightfully unattached.”

“How fortunate for us,” the brunette cooed. “I’m Maria, by the way.”

“Felix, at your service.” He stood, offering his free arm to Rosie. “Ladies, shall we continue this conversation somewhere more private? My room has a lovely view of the stable yard.”

Rosie gave Rowan one last speculative look. “If you change your mind, handsome, just ask for me at the bar. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“He won’t,” Felix said cheerfully, already leading both women toward the stairs. “The man’s turned monk since his wedding. It’s quite tragic, really.”

Rowan watched them disappear upstairs, Felix’s laughter echoing down the stairwell. The common room seemed suddenly quieter without his friend’s chatter, leaving Rowan alone with his thoughts and a plate of dubious beef.

He pushed the food around without enthusiasm, his mind churning.

Tomorrow, they would find Captain Veer, and he would finally have answers about his abduction. The man’s name had cost him considerable coin at the Jackal’s Den, but it would be worth it to finally understand who had orchestrated his year of hell.

A group of farmers at the next table were discussing crop yields, their broad accents reminding him of the tenants at Aldermere.

Had Selina visited any of them? She’d shown such natural ease with the villagers during the flood crisis.

They’d warmed to her instantly, recognizing something genuine beneath her duchess’s facade.

“Another ale, Your Grace?” The serving girl had returned, less nervous now.

“Yes. And bring a bottle of whatever passes for decent whiskey here.”

She bobbed a curtsy and hurried off. Rowan settled back in his chair, prepared for a long evening of his own company.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and gradually the common room began to empty as local patrons headed home to their families.

The whiskey, when it arrived, was rough but serviceable. Rowan poured himself a generous measure, letting the burn distract him from memories he’d rather forget. But they came anyway, as they always did when he had too much time to think.

The Intrepid’s gun deck. The crack of the bosun’s whip. The taste of weevil-infested hardtack. The screams of men during battle, the acrid smoke of cannon fire, the slickness of blood on wooden planks.

He drained his glass and poured another.

The memory of Selina in his arms haunted him—not just their encounter in the kitchen, though that was burned into his mind with painful clarity.

But smaller moments too. The way she’d leaned into him at the opera before Felix’s interruption.

Her hand on his arm as they’d walked through Hyde Park.

The concern in her eyes when he’d returned from the Jackal’s Den with his lip split and bleeding.

She deserved better than a husband who kept her at arm’s length, who couldn’t even share a bed with her without fearing what his nightmares might reveal.

But how could he explain that he sometimes woke thinking he was back on the ship? That the sound of a door slamming could send him reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there?

He could not.

All he could do now was focus on his goal: find whoever had him kidnapped.

His wife was another matter altogether.