Rhys gave their host a scrutinizing look. “If all this is true, why didn’t you wait for Cora to return? Go with her to Bellamy’s house? Instead you slunk off and left Leo alone.”
Bellamy said, “He’s right. That makes no sense.”
Faraday gave a defensive shrug. “I don’t know … I suppose I panicked.”
“What did you have to fear?”
“Questions. Suspicions. Being found alone with a dead man.”
“But if your story is truthful …” Rhys began.
“If,” Bellamy emphasized.
“If your story is truthful, you would have nothing to fear from an inquiry,” Rhys finished. “Not to mention”—he eyed the man’s legs—“you walked back to your carriage with a broken hip?”
“No.” Faraday winced as he said the word. “I crawled.”
That answer didn’t sit right with Rhys. The man had dragged a broken leg and his gold-threaded waistcoat through the gutters of Whitechapel, rather than wait for assistance?
Faraday absorbed Rhys’s skeptical look. “As I said, I panicked. And …” He blew out a slow breath. “I knew he was going to die. And I didn’t want to watch him go. Just couldn’t.”
“So you left him to die alone,” Bellamy choked out. “In a dark, filthy alley, with a whore for company.”
Faraday picked up his teacup and stared into it, hard. “Do you know, I believe I’ve had enough society for today. Miss Dunn, once again your pretty face has improved a very bleak occasion. It’s been lovely, but I really must ask you all to leave.”
“You’re a lying bastard,” Bellamy snarled. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell us the truth. I want answers.”
Faraday’s eyes snapped up. “I’ve given you answers. A good many of them. Here are some more. What are my parents’ names? Jason and Emmeline Faraday. My childhood home? In Yorkshire. Where did I have my education? At Harrow and Cambridge. I’m just full of honest answers to those kinds of questions, Mr. Bellamy.” He set his teacup down with a crack. “What about you?”
“My history has nothing to do with this.”
“Oh, I suspect it does. And I think I deserve to hear it, considering that I’ve spent the past months recovering from blows meant for you.”
A tense silence saturated the room. Bellamy tapped Rhys’s shoulder and jerked his head toward the corner. Taking the hint, Rhys rose from his seat on the divan and followed him.
“What?” he said.
“Time for muscle,” Bellamy whispered.
Rhys shook his head. “For God’s sake, the man’s already injured.”
“You have to see he’s lying.”
“I suspect he’s not being entirely truthful.”
“Call it what you want, he’s hiding something. If you hit him hard enough, you’ll shake his secrets loose.”
“Perhaps.” Rhys gave him a cool look. “And if I hit you hard enough, I could shake loose all of yours.” He let the threat sink in a few seconds before adding, “But I’m not going to do it. I’m not a bully, as someone reminded me recently.” Someone he missed more acutely with each passing minute.
“Goddamn it, Ashworth. Leo—”
“Leo,” Rhys interjected, “wouldn’t want me to hit him. I’m certain of it.”
“I’ll do it then.”
“No, you won’t.” Rhys put a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder. Then he tightened his grip, by slow degrees, until he was sure the man comprehended his meaning.
“Mr. Bellamy,” Faraday said, bracing his hands on the armrests and struggling to his feet, “I assure you, I’ve given you all the help I can. If you want to find Leo’s murderers, there’s really only one question that needs answering.”
“Oh, really?” Bellamy said. “What’s that?”
“Who wants you dead?”
“Who wants me dead?” Bellamy muttered to himself from where he’d sunk into the corner of the coach. “The better question would be, who doesn’t want me dead?”
“I don’t want you dead,” Rhys said. Then he added honestly, “But then I’m rather ambivalent to your general existence.” His teeth rattled as they jounced over a rut in the lane. “Weren’t you with a woman that night?” he asked. “A married lady, if I recall. Thought she was the reason you cried off the boxing match. What was her name again?”
“Carnelia. Lady Carnelia Hightower. But if her husband intended to murder her lovers, I’d be holding up the end of a very long queue.” Bellamy sighed. “No, it wasn’t him. But there are others.”
“Other jealous husbands? Or other enemies?”
“Both. What do you care?”
Rhys shrugged. “I suppose I don’t. Where are we headed, then?”
“I’m for Town. I’ll have to go to ground, skulk around a bit and see what I can find.”
“What about the girl?” Rhys asked. “I can’t offer her protection anymore.” He’d go to London, too. See his solicitor there, discuss arrangements for the estate and George Lane’s pension. Then he’d think about what to do next. Perhaps the army again. He could buy back his commission. Or there was mercenary work, if he wanted a change of pace. England wasn’t currently at war, but surely there was something that needed destroying somewhere. Preferably somewhere far away. Maybe if he put an ocean between himself and Meredith, this fierce ache in his chest would ease.
“Kindly don’t discuss me as if I’m not here,” Cora said, hugging her arms across her chest. “I should think I’d be free to do as I please, now that you’ve found Mr. Faraday. And I want to go back to the Three Hounds.”
“Why would you want to return there?” asked Bellamy.
“I like working at the inn. I like the villagers, and they like me. I was happy there.”
The coach took a sharp curve in the road, and they all leaned into the turn.
Bellamy said, “This is about that Gideon Myles, isn’t it?”
“Not completely,” the girl replied, blushing. “But yes, in part.”
“Nothing good will come of it, you know. The man’s a petty smuggler.”
“Smuggler or no, he cares for me.” She glanced at Rhys. “There’s someone in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor who cares for you too, my lord. Don’t you want to go back?”
Rhys sighed and turned his head to the window. The carriage had turned off the coastal lane, and he caught one last glimpse of the dramatic Cornish cliffs as they began the gentle climb back to the main road. Gravity tugged on him as they made their way up the grade, and he slipped toward the edge of the rear-facing seat. He propped one boot on the opposite bench, bracing himself. “It’s not a matter of whether I want to go back. It’s a matter of what’s best for everyone.”
“Exactly,” Bellamy said. “Listen, Cora. It’s nice that you want to settle down. But pick a better man to settle down with. A scoundrel like that will bring you nothing but trouble. Believe me, I speak from experience. I’ve lived a devil’s life, and now someone’s out to kill me. I wouldn’t wish myself on any lady, much less the one I actually—” He broke off.
Rhys finished the thought for him. “I think what Bellamy here is trying to say is, if Gideon Myles truly cared for you, he’d leave you alone.”
Cora sat up on her seat. “What nonsense,” she said hotly. “What absolute cowardly rot.”
“Cowardly?” Bellamy and Rhys spoke as one.
“Perhaps he has done some bad things in his life,” she said. “But why can’t a man change? I changed. I’m not a whore any longer. I want an honest life now, and maybe Gideon wants the same.” She shook her head. “‘If he cared for you, he’d leave you alone,’” she muttered, mimicking Rhys’s deep voice. Her bold gaze met his. “If he truly cares for me, he’ll stay. And do better.”
Rhys stared at her, surprised. Was this the same girl who’d trembled in his presence not a few weeks ago? He wasn’t sure about Myles’s prospects for an honest life, but he felt certain Cora wouldn’t be any man’s whore again. The girl knew her own value now. Good for her. Meredith’s influence was to thank, most likely. She had a way of letting people know their worth.
Maybe Cora was right. Maybe he was being cowardly. Back in Devonshire, there was a woman who loved him. Loved him enough to risk her own life to save his in a split-second decision, then devote the next fourteen years to coping with the consequences. Caring for herself, her father, the village. And she would do it all again.
Of course it terrified him. How could it not? The whole tragedy still traced back to him—but it wasn’t the result of Rhys being unwanted or worthless. It was the result of his being loved. Meredith thought saving his life was worth every sacrifice, and if he wanted to be with her, he would have to somehow find the courage within himself to agree. Christ. And he’d thought accepting her gift of a shaving kit was difficult?
He’d never run from a battle in his life, but Rhys was running like hell from this.
The ache in his chest intensified. He couldn’t understand why being loved hurt so damn much. And it didn’t help matters any when the carriage gave a violent lurch.
“What’s that?” Cora asked, flinching at the loud crack of a whip.
Rhys tensed. “I don’t know.”
He heard the coachman shouting at the horses from the driver’s box, urging them forward. The entire carriage gave a violent shudder. There was another jolt, this one more jarring than the first. Rhys nearly lost his perch on the seat as the carriage came to a dead stop.
Bellamy looked to Rhys. “Would it help if we offered to walk?”
“Perhaps.”
They never had a chance to act on the idea. With a low, foreboding creak, the carriage began to roll.
Backward.
For the second time in a week, Meredith slept through noon. The inn had no guests, thankfully. She didn’t suppose any locals would be expecting full breakfast today, and if they did—well, they would learn to live with the disappointment.
When she finally gathered the strength to wash, dress, and trudge down the back stairs, she was stunned to find the public room full of men. They’d all gathered round the slate fixed to the wall, arguing and debating. Standing atop a chair, Darryl looked to be defending both the slate and his very life with naught but a nub of chalk. “Now, gentlemen …”
“That purse should be mine,” Skinner said, thumping his chest. “I had five weeks. Didn’t nobody have money on longer.”
Harry Symmonds shook his head. “But it’s been more than five weeks, hasn’t it? That doesn’t make your bet right, just makes it wrong like the rest. Tewkes, just cancel the wagers and call it square.”
Meredith couldn’t believe it. After all that had happened yesterday, they were here this morning to argue over a ridiculous bet? From the bar, she put finger and thumb in her mouth and whistled for attention. When the lot of them swiveled to face her, she finally found her voice. “What the devil are you doing?”
Skinner shrugged. “Well, since Lord Ashworth’s left the village … There are wagers to be settled, Mrs. Maddox.”
Her face burned with anger. With a trembling hand, she retrieved a damp sponge from underneath the bar and threw it at Darryl. It hit his shoulder with a wet squelch, and he yelped with surprise.
“Wipe that slate clean,” she ordered.
Darryl obeyed while the men looked on in silence.
“Now get out,” she said. “All of you. The Three Hounds is closed until further notice.”