Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

“If I drink any more liquid, I shall need a pisspot,” growled John under his breath. Pulling out his fast-dwindling purse, he shook out a few coins. “That was unforgivably crude.” His mood and now his gentlemanly manners were going to hell in a handbasket. “Here, take these and order some sustenance for yourself while I see if I can find the ostler and coax some useful information from him.”

“Don’t be discouraged, sir. They could very well have chosen to stop on the far side of town, figuring that travelers from London are more apt to halt here for rest and refreshments.”

It was a reasonable point, but John wasn’t feeling very reasonable. “You need not coat the facts with spun sugar. The fact is, we are chasing naught but a hope and prayer. The dastards could be going anywhere.” Fisting his hands, he tried not to think of his son, alone and frightened, being taken to God-Knows-Where. “Sommers has several estates in Yorkshire, so Davenport may have guessed wrong.”

“Don’t lose hope,” said Olivia quietly.

“Are you always this damnably cheerful in the face of adversity?” he muttered.

“Not damnably cheerful, sir. Damnably stubborn, as you so rightly pointed out.”

Her stalwart humor made him feel a little ashamed of himself. “You go have a rest while I make the inquiries out here,” he said in a more measured tone. “If we have no luck, we shall do as you suggest and circle around the town and begin anew. Someone has to have seen them.”

Placing the handful of coins in the pocket of her cloak, Olivia decided to stretch her legs near the paddocks rather than seek shelter and sustenance inside the inn. On further reflection, she had decided that Lumley would not likely show his face in a tavern.

“Think,” she told herself, quickening her pace without looking up. Walking seemed to help stimulate her creative process, and if ever she needed an inspired idea it was now. “Is there something we are overlooking in our search?” she murmured to herself. “Some question we are not asking?” She felt in her heart that they were on the right track.

But my heart has been feeling odd things of late.

Olivia brushed that thought aside, forcing herself to concentrate on the search for Prescott. The earl was doing a heroic job of keeping his fears under rein, but she could tell that his inner anguish was mounting.

We must not—we will not—fail.

“Oiy!”

A muffled grunt echoed the thud as she collided with a grain barrel, knocking the postboy who was perched on its top to the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, offering a hand to help him up.

Scowling, the lad rose on his own and made a show of dusting off his grubby pantaloons. “Wimmen,” he scoffed.

Olivia bit back a smile. “Yes, we are silly creatures, aren’t we? I must have looked like a chicken, running around without a head.”

That drew a grudging grin.

“Here, allow me to make amends.” She drew a bag of horehound drops from her pocket and offered it to him.

The lad stared for a moment. “Yer giving me the whole bag?”

“Why, yes. It’s the least I can do to make up for making you take such a thumping tumble.”

“Oiy, I take much worse ones from the horses,” he confided, after quickly stuffing the sweets into his jacket. “Barrels don’t kick.”

“That must hurt like the very Devil,” she murmured sympathetically. Among their various duties, postboys rode bareback on a hired team of horses to the next changing inn, then brought them back. It was dirty and often dangerous work for such small lads…

Her pulse kicked up a notch. “Unlike me, I daresay you have to keep your eyes open at all times to avoid trouble.”

“Oiy,” he answered. “Ye got te have sharp peepers.”

“I wonder…” Olivia lowered her voice. “By any chance did you see a black coach stop here recently?” She quickly described Lumley’s vehicle. “The passengers might have been acting a little havey-cavey.”

The lad’s expression turned a touch wary. “I see a lot o’ coaches. Why ye asking?”

She prayed that her instincts were correct—and that her skill at storytelling was half as good as Anna’s. “Because my evil uncle has snatched my nephew, a lad about your age, from his parents. You see, he’s squandered all of his own blunt on drink, and now he’s threatening to sell Scottie to white slavers in Plymouth unless my sister and her husband pay a large ransom. But they haven’t got the money.”

“Oiy,” breathed the lad. “And ye mean te stop them?” His tone didn’t express much confidence in her abilities.

“Yes,” said Olivia. “You see, my husband is a famous military hero, but he’s traveling incognito.”