Page 8

After abandoning the gig on the outskirts of Bath near a questionable stable, along with a penciled note, torn from his little leather notebook stashed in his saddlebags, that stated to which manor the gig belonged, Bash tugged on his black riding breeches once more, trusting the color to shield him from all until he returned to his apartment.

He rode hard for hours. In the unlikely event he was followed, he bypassed the road where he’d robbed the stagecoach and put a few villages between them for good measure.

The stolen funds pressed against his calf inside his Hessian boots.

He knew too well the peril of traveling with such heavy funds in his purse—even a highwayman could be robbed.

Bash planned to donate it to the church as usual, but he had no time to stop, as his shift as Yeoman of the Guard was slotted for the morrow’s eve.

He would have to donate the funds later.

Despite the pangs of guilt that plagued him for robbing Evie, he looked forward to hearing the Prince Regent’s relief for the return of the letters.

For generations, the men in Bash’s family had served the Crown, but only a few had been granted the knighthood like Bash—revitalizing the old title of Sir Sebastian Larkby of Lark Manor.

Years of serving the Prince Regent and going on covert missions such as this had earned him the title—one he risked every time he donned the mask on behalf of the Prince Regent.

For if he was caught, the Prince Regent would not be pulled down into the mess.

He rode until he grew stiff in the saddle.

He took a few breaks for Brigand’s sake but pressed on until the sun began its descent.

Eager for a cot after the trial it had been to retrieve the letters, he turned his mount into The Blue Fox, a rather ramshackle country tavern that boasted of rooms to rent for the night.

He dismounted in the yard as a hen darted across, squawking at the dog nipping at her feathers. Bash was rubbing Brigand’s mane when a rail-thin boy with a shock of black hair appeared in the stable doorway.

“Do you need your horse boarded, mister?”

“For the night and a good rubdown, as well as oats.” Bash released Brigand to the stable boy and tossed the lad a shilling, a small price to keep pickthanks at bay. “For your silence. What’s your name, boy?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Name is Noah, sir.” The boy bobbed his head and stuffed the shilling into his pocket before leading the massive stallion into the stall for some much-deserved care.

The boy glanced over his shoulder thrice, as if afraid Bash would change his mind and demand the tip be returned.

Bash shoved open the heavy plank door. The scent of meat stew hit him first, closely followed by the stench of copious spirits and unwashed bodies.

His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit tavern.

A few patrons were clustered around a table over a game of cards beside the fire.

All looked up at his arrival, then quickly shifted their attention back to their cards.

Bash was well aware of the dangerous figure he cut.

He commanded respect first by his appearance and second by his fist.

He approached the stout man behind the bar. “Lodgings for the night and a tray sent up to my room.” He slid a coin to the innkeeper.

The man bit the gold piece, revealing a missing canine and rotting teeth. With a satisfied harrumph, he fished out a tin box from under the counter, found the key, and tossed it to Bash. “First floor. Second door on right.”

Bash climbed the creaking stairs and swung open the plank door.

He tossed his hat on the back of a lone chair in the corner, which also served as the stand for the chipped water basin.

He tugged off his boots and, stuffing the funds into his waistline, sank atop the rope bed, pulling the filthy blanket over his head.

The stench from under the bed made his eyes water, and he wondered when was the last time the chamber pot had been given a scrubbing or even been emptied.

A gentle knock at the door pulled him from the bed, and the same lad from the stable stood there with a tray balanced between his filthy hands.

Mucking stalls and serving guests? They were working this young man to skin and bone.

He nodded his thanks and closed the door without a word.

He made quick work of the stew and drained the stale water.

He stowed the loaf of bread in his saddlebags and crawled into bed.

The clattering of pots being scrubbed downstairs awoke him.

Bash squinted in the sunrise splaying through the dust-coated windowpanes and groaned.

It was far later than he had anticipated.

He had a long journey ahead of him to reach the Prince Regent by nightfall.

He swung his feet to the floor, scratching behind his ear as he did so.

He stumbled to the washbasin, splashed murky water from the pitcher to his face, and ran water through his golden hair.

The itching in his scalp did not relent.

Oh no. He gritted his teeth against the realization.

He glanced at the filthy bed and groaned.

The Prince Regent would not allow Bash near if lice were anywhere on his person, not with the Prince Regent’s fine wardrobe and own hair at risk.

Bash sighed and reached for his knife. You are a Yeoman of the Guard, not some foppish dandy.

Best to do it sooner rather than later. He flipped the knife in his hand and gripped the worn handle, slicing off a handful of hair at a time until he’d cropped it as close to his scalp as possible, where no louse could hide.

If he kept scratching, he’d risk sores that might get infected, keeping him from his work.

He made quick work of devesting himself of the fiends, tossing his shorn locks into the chamber pot. He scrubbed his head and what little remained of his hair in the basin of water. Satisfied the lice had not made their way into his spare set of clothing, he dressed.

Despite the familiar attire, his shorn locks were not something easily disguised.

He did not need unnecessary questions regarding his appearance.

He looked out the window. He could manage it.

He tossed out his saddlebags, crawled out and gripped the sill, and, stretching out his body, dropped to the ground, rolling on his shoulder to his feet to break his fall.

He trotted across the yard to the stable.

The stable boy was asleep in a mound of hay in Brigand’s stall, brush in hand, as if he had fallen asleep as soon as he had taken care of the horse.

In the night, Bash had thought Noah was thin, but in the daylight he looked akin to starving.

Bash reached into his boot and from the purse withdrew a sovereign. He knelt and set it in the boy’s palm.

His eyes flashed open, arm lifting as if to block a strike. “No!”

Bash dropped back to his heel and lifted his hands. “Never fear. Check your palm.”

Noah’s jaw dropped at the coin, his fingers trembling. “I-I didn’t take it. I swear—”

“It’s a gift for looking after my horse. His coat is shining.”

His eyes welled. “I’ve never had so much in my life. Probably won’t have it for long once the innkeeper finds out, but I thank you, sir.” He moved to saddle Brigand.

Bash frowned at this bit of news. “The innkeeper takes your funds?”

The boy hefted the saddle over the horse’s pad, giving Bash a second look, betraying that he’d noticed Bash’s shorn locks. “Says I eat more than I should and I owe him that much.”

Bash’s brows shot up. “I would venture a guess that you do not eat much. Does he beat you if you do not give any tips to him?”

Noah frowned and tightened the girth, his silence telling Bash all he needed to know.

“Do you know how to get to Bath?”

The boy narrowed his gaze. “Why?”

Bash shouldn’t allow himself to be distracted by anything other than his work for the Crown—and to have a boy remember him was dangerous.

But he never saw your mask. He may think you are only a traveler.

“There is a lady along the River Avon at Lark Manor who needs a stable hand. Tell her that her grandson sent you, and you shall be taken care of.”

“Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Bash reached into his saddlebag and broke the loaf in half, tossing a hunk to the lad, then finished readying Brigand.

“Leave on foot now, and you should be there by night if you set a good pace. Keep your sovereign in your boot until you can spend it on food in Wells.” He mounted and drew on his hat.

“God bless you, sir.”

“Make haste and God be with you, Noah.” He nodded to the boy and charged out of the stable.