the rope climber. Opportunities like that didn't come every day. With a pocketful of coins, Thomas won a handful of pinchbeck jewelry at the games. With a slightly larger purse, Timothy won the temporary affections of the tattooed lady. An opportunity like that didn't come every day either.
There was to be a cockfight at Horsham that night, so the brothers stayed on. Miss Lockharte must be dead by now, so another day or two couldn't make any difference to her. Neither of the twins was feeling hexed or haunted by her wandering wraith, so what was the rush to hear bad news? The longer they waited to sign up, the better the chance of old Boney being defeated without their assistance, which suited them to a cow's thumb.
The following morning, waking in a cow's manger, heads pounding and pockets considerably lighter, the twins decided that such delays did not suit Miss Lockharte's spirit. If the female was indeed starting to take her revenge, they'd better hurry.
So they raced as if the devil were on their heels, or a dishonored woman. At Horsham, the careening curricles took a narrow bridge. The wheels locked and Tim went flying. Tom brought his horses under control, then went back to untangle his brother's cattle. Lastly, he fished his twin out of the water. He couldn't save Tim's hat, which was floating downstream at a merry pace. One of Tom's horses was lamed, and Tim's curricle was damaged. They'd have to head slowly for Cuckfield, where someone could make repairs and where Tim could buy a new hat.
Lord Haverhill saw no reason to hurry. If his niece was dead, she was dead. No one else was going to pay to put her in the ground, so she'd keep until he got to that wretched school. And if she wasn't dead, there was nothing he could do to nurse a sick female.
Besides, the baron meant to enjoy this vacation from his high-strung daughter and low-spirited spouse. His coach was well sprung, well protected by outriders, and well stocked from the Haverhill pantry. The coachman knew to avoid bumps and high speeds, for the baron hated to be jostled around like a cricket in a cage. The driver also knew to be on the lookout for inns that catered to the quality, for the baron did love his food and drink.
They stopped outside Reigate at noontime, at the Quiet Woman. What could be more fortuitous? The meal was superb, the wines obviously smuggled. Afterward, Baron Haverhill needed a nap. He might as well stay on at the delightful place for dinner, which the innkeep promised would surpass luncheon. The serving wench was surpassing lovely, too. With tasty morsels all around, Rosellen's uncle decided to stay the night rather than face the irksome duty of arranging a funeral.
Viscount Stanford was riding. He didn't like being confined for hours, no matter how comfortable his carriage. He didn't enjoy riding through sleet and rain either, so the luxurious crested coach was following at a more leisurely pace in case the weather turned inclement.
He, too, intended to enjoy this freedom from the obligations that were burdening him in Town. Fine horseflesh beneath him, clear skies above, Wynn's family and the War Office were miles away. Unfortunately, a man could not outride his thoughts.
Was he truly an uncaring beast? Did he really show callous disdain for those beneath him? Wynn took stock. His servants were the highest paid in London, with the least work, there were so many of them. His tenant farmers lived better than many lords. His cottagers had schools and doctors and new roofs whenever they needed. Even his mines were the safest in England, with no children employed. He did have his sister's best interests to heart, no matter what she thought, and he took the rest of his responsibilities equally seriously, from serving in Parliament to sending donations to orphanages.
But Miss Lockharte was dying and he could not recall meeting her. Perhaps he had shown carelessness in not clarifying his refusal to employ her, but Wynn was not
There was to be a cockfight at Horsham that night, so the brothers stayed on. Miss Lockharte must be dead by now, so another day or two couldn't make any difference to her. Neither of the twins was feeling hexed or haunted by her wandering wraith, so what was the rush to hear bad news? The longer they waited to sign up, the better the chance of old Boney being defeated without their assistance, which suited them to a cow's thumb.
The following morning, waking in a cow's manger, heads pounding and pockets considerably lighter, the twins decided that such delays did not suit Miss Lockharte's spirit. If the female was indeed starting to take her revenge, they'd better hurry.
So they raced as if the devil were on their heels, or a dishonored woman. At Horsham, the careening curricles took a narrow bridge. The wheels locked and Tim went flying. Tom brought his horses under control, then went back to untangle his brother's cattle. Lastly, he fished his twin out of the water. He couldn't save Tim's hat, which was floating downstream at a merry pace. One of Tom's horses was lamed, and Tim's curricle was damaged. They'd have to head slowly for Cuckfield, where someone could make repairs and where Tim could buy a new hat.
Lord Haverhill saw no reason to hurry. If his niece was dead, she was dead. No one else was going to pay to put her in the ground, so she'd keep until he got to that wretched school. And if she wasn't dead, there was nothing he could do to nurse a sick female.
Besides, the baron meant to enjoy this vacation from his high-strung daughter and low-spirited spouse. His coach was well sprung, well protected by outriders, and well stocked from the Haverhill pantry. The coachman knew to avoid bumps and high speeds, for the baron hated to be jostled around like a cricket in a cage. The driver also knew to be on the lookout for inns that catered to the quality, for the baron did love his food and drink.
They stopped outside Reigate at noontime, at the Quiet Woman. What could be more fortuitous? The meal was superb, the wines obviously smuggled. Afterward, Baron Haverhill needed a nap. He might as well stay on at the delightful place for dinner, which the innkeep promised would surpass luncheon. The serving wench was surpassing lovely, too. With tasty morsels all around, Rosellen's uncle decided to stay the night rather than face the irksome duty of arranging a funeral.
Viscount Stanford was riding. He didn't like being confined for hours, no matter how comfortable his carriage. He didn't enjoy riding through sleet and rain either, so the luxurious crested coach was following at a more leisurely pace in case the weather turned inclement.
He, too, intended to enjoy this freedom from the obligations that were burdening him in Town. Fine horseflesh beneath him, clear skies above, Wynn's family and the War Office were miles away. Unfortunately, a man could not outride his thoughts.
Was he truly an uncaring beast? Did he really show callous disdain for those beneath him? Wynn took stock. His servants were the highest paid in London, with the least work, there were so many of them. His tenant farmers lived better than many lords. His cottagers had schools and doctors and new roofs whenever they needed. Even his mines were the safest in England, with no children employed. He did have his sister's best interests to heart, no matter what she thought, and he took the rest of his responsibilities equally seriously, from serving in Parliament to sending donations to orphanages.
But Miss Lockharte was dying and he could not recall meeting her. Perhaps he had shown carelessness in not clarifying his refusal to employ her, but Wynn was not
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