Now if fleas could be charged a nightly rate, thought Caro, the innkeeper would be rich as Croesus.
A slat-back chair, a battered chest of drawers, and a washstand with a cracked pitcher and dusty basin were the only other furniture in the room. Trying not to let her spirits plummet, Caro turned at the sound of someone pushing open the door.
A skinny serving lass set plate of brown bread and a watery stew on the chest, along with a none-too-clean glass of water. “Yer supper,” she mumbled, before skittering out.
“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Caro. And remember, don’t try anything foolish. It would be pointless.” Flashing an unsavory smile, Thayer brandished the key to highlight his warning. “And I warn you, there would be very unpleasant consequences.”
Caro dropped her gaze to the tips of her half boots to hide the flash of anger his words provoked.
“I’ll come fetch you in an hour or two.”
Ha—by that time she hoped to be out of his clutches for good.
Darkness enveloped her as he left with the candle and drew the door shut behind him. The metallic click of the key turning in the lock followed.
Caro made herself choke down the unappetizing food as she waited for the tread of his steps to trail off into silence. It might be quite some time before she ate again. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to return, she then quickly drew out her penknife and several hairpins from her tangled tresses.
Locks were child’s play for a Hellion of High Street. In the wilds, her father had made a game of teaching his daughters survival skills, believing a lady ought to know how to fend for herself.
“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered as she knelt down and pressed the knifeblade against the main lever, then slipped in a straightened pin and began to jiggle.
It was only a matter of moments before she heard a welcome snick.
Easing the latch open, Caro checked that the narrow corridor was deserted. Earlier, she had spotted a window at its far end, and as she hurried to check the casement, she found it was merely locked, not barred. Once again, her knife made quick work of the levers, and in a trice, the iron-framed leaded glass swung open.
Tucking up her skirts, she swung out and edged along the narrow ledge to the drainpipe at the corner of the building. Once again giving thanks for her unladylike upbringing, she shinnied down to the ground.
The rain had let up, giving way to a drifting fog. Only the faintest mizzle of moonlight peeked through the swirls of silvery mist making the dark silhouettes of the surrounding moors look even more forbidding. There was no flicker of light, no sign of life.
Caro steadied her thumping heart with several deep breaths. The lone road was too dangerous to try, she decided. It was the first place Thayer would look. Better to hide in the hills until morning, when she could get a better lay of the land.
A harsh laugh rang out from behind the shuttered window of the taproom. Spinning around, she darted past the stables and headed up a narrow path that wound its way into the looming darkness.
All senses on full alert, Alec tethered his horse in a copse of trees and stealthily approached the rear of the inn. At the last village, a barmaid had confirmed that a carriage matching the description of Thayer’s vehicle had passed along the road just a few hours ago.
Caro was close. He could feel the certainty of it thrumming through his blood.
Cocking his pistols, he slipped in through the scullery door and moved noiselessly through the dimly lit corridor,
heading for the sound of clinking tankards.
Flickering candles, two faces—one of them familiar. But Thayer was not there.
“Well, well, it seems I’ve stumbled into a nest of vipers.” Taking dead aim at the pair, Alec stepped into the taproom. “Not a move, not a sound, unless you wish to meet your Maker.”
The proprietor—a balding, pasty-faced man wearing a greasy apron—shrank back, fear slackening his heavy jaw.
“Sir,” he whispered. “I—I am…”
“Quiet,” growled Alec. His gaze remained locked on the other man. “Where are Thayer and Miss Caro, Dudley?”
“The chit fled into the hills. Thayer went after her.” Dudley let out a nasty laugh, looking confident that he held the advantage. “We’re willing to bargain with you.” Another laugh. “But if you hope to get her back undamaged, I daresay you’ve come a bit too late.”
“You had better pray not,” responded Alec. He aimed one of his weapons at the proprietor. “I suggest you tell me exactly what has happened here. Unless you, too, wish to be thrown in the gaol along with this miserable cur.”
The details quickly spilled out—the stableboy spotting Caro as she fled up a path into the moors, Thayer’s rage and his saddling of Dudley’s horse to go in pursuit.
“How long ago?” he demanded.