Whose orders? Antoinette asked herself. Mrs. Wonicot’s, Lord Appleby’s, or the highwayman’s?
“Sir James believed me when I told him I was held up by a highwayman,” she said with a sideways glance.
Wonicot nearly lost his balance, clinging to the horse’s mane to stop himself from falling. “You shouldn’t have told him,” he said at last. “’Tisn’t nothing to do with him. ’Tisn’t his business.”
“He’s the magistrate; of course it is his business.” They rode on a moment. “Did you know, Wonicot, that a man can be hanged for a crime like that?”
He paled. “Hanged? Oh, surely not, miss. No, he wouldn’t do that. Not to his—” But whatever Wonicot was going to say he thought better of it and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done it,” was all he said.
Antoinette had much to think about as they clip-clopped along the road. One thing she decided upon: Sir James was right, the matter was out of her hands now. Anyway, it wasn’t as if it was her fault he’d chosen to rob the coach, was it?
Determined, she switched her thoughts to her return to London and saving herself and Cecilia. And she would save them, and see Appleby punished. Afterward, life could return to normal. She could go back to being the chatelaine of her home and living her own life. To being herself. Antoinette was used to a life in which each day was planned, each week had its allotted tasks, each year its predestined cycles. There was something very comforting in having your life managed so completely.
But instead of comforting her, she found that this vision of her future had the effect of depressing her. It occurred to her that she was enjoying her current predicament. The sense of uncertainty and giddy, dangerous excitement as she was pursued by a stranger who did such wicked, pleasurable things to her. She gave a little shiver. All these years she’d been mistaken in her own character. She wasn’t the cool and levelheaded young woman she’d imagined; someone very different lurked beneath the smooth surface. Someone who was insisting that now it was her turn. And now that she’d been set free, it was going to be very difficult to send her back.
Antoinette was still deep in thought as she rode into the stable yard. Wonicot had dropped behind her and was no longer in sight, as she slid down onto the brick surface. She gave her mare a pat on the nose, telling her that she was a beautiful girl and promising more rides in the future. It was only when she heard someone clear his throat behind her that she realized she wasn’t entirely alone.
It was Coombe. He was lurking in the shadows by the stable door, a cap pulled low on his head and his coarse black hair sticking out from beneath it in tufts. His sleeves were rolled up over grubby but muscular forearms, and there was a neckerchief tied around his throat.
“Take your horse for you, miss?” He spoke in an accent so thick it was almost incomprehensible.
“Thank you.” She led the mare toward Coombe. “She’s a lovely animal,” she said, smiling politely, and hoping he didn’t notice her nose twitching.
Coombe didn’t feel the need to be polite. He took the reins from her and slouched toward the stable doors, his heavy boots ringing out on the bricks. After a moment of indecision, Antoinette decided to follow him. Maybe Coombe on his own would turn out to be a fountain of information.
It was gloomy inside the stable building and she stopped, taking a moment for her eyes to adjust. Coombe was already busy removing the mare’s saddle, his head bent over his work, moving swiftly for such a big man. At the sound of her approaching steps he looked up, and although she couldn’t see more than shadows, she sensed he wasn’t pleased to see her. His surliness made her even more wary, and she decided that was another reason not to get too close to him. But if there was a chance Coombe could help her out of her predicament, then she must try to win him over to her side.
“Have you worked here long, Coombe?” she began in what she hoped was a nonthreatening voice.
He grunted, not even bothering to glance at her.
“Have you lived here long?” Antoinette was patient.
Another grunt, this time followed by a shrug.
“Tell me, Coombe, do you enjoy working for Lord Appleby?”
He froze, and then he spat on the straw. Well, that was plain enough, wasn’t it? Perhaps she’d found an ally in this most unlikely of places.
“Is Lord Appleby a frequent visitor to Wexmoor Manor?”
He held up one finger at her, his face too deep in the shadow of his cap for her to read his expression, before returning to his work.
“Only once?” Antoinette said in amazement. “I thought…I presumed he’d owned the manor for a great many years. How odd. Then who lived here before?”
No answer to that. Coombe turned away, carrying the saddle into a tack room. Again Antoinette hesitated, but again she followed him.
“Coombe,” she spoke in an airy, unconcerned manner. “Is there a regular coach to London from any of the villages near here? Or a train station, perhaps? I forgot to ask before I arrived, and now I find I may need to return to London earlier than I expected.”
He paused in his work. “I know nothing of that, miss,” he muttered, or that was what she thought he said. “I’ve never been to London.”
“Oh?” Antoinette fidgeted a moment. “Wouldn’t you like to see the Tower and Westminster Abbey?” No, a man like Coombe wouldn’t be interested in architecture and history. “There are horse races in London,” she went on, hoping it was true. “And horses for sale. The best horses anywhere. Big, strong, glossy…horses,” she ended lamely.
He was fiddling with the harness. “Big and glossy, are they?” he said with something like longing in his voice. “No one here is interested in horseflesh, not proper horseflesh.”
“But you are, aren’t you, Coombe? You’d like your own stable and your own horses. Racing horses. Have you never thought of that?”
Of course he hadn’t. A man in Coombe’s position knew his place. He would never earn enough money to own anything, let alone run his own business. But Antoinette decided she must make the offer, and follow it through if he promised to help her escape.