Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence 5)

‘Do they, now?’ I leant back, trying hard not to smile. That was interesting information. This trip might end up being more interesting than I had expected.

Mr Phelps and I continued to chat for quite a bit, and by the time the innkeeper brought us another round of drinks and I had done most of his balance sheet for him, we were fast friends. And, apparently, we were about to become even faster.

‘Ladies and gentlemen?’ The innkeeper came in from the yard. ‘I see the coach arrivin’ outside. Please check if ye ‘ave any baggage left be’ind. Once the coach is ‘ere, the driver will want to leave quickly to keep his schedule, and there won’t be no chance to turn around.’

I swallowed.

Right then and there, it sank in. I was really going to do this. I was going to travel several hundred miles, half of that through a country whose bloody language I didn’t speak, without a single person to watch my back.

Get a grip, Lilly! He’s in danger. He needs you, even if he’ll never admit it himself. Go get your man!

We all started climbing into the coach. Luckily, the innkeeper had been right. There indeed was plenty of room. I could even stretch my legs a little. On my left sat Mr Phelps, and on my right was an empty spot just waiting to be used for a little nap later. This was going to be a comfortable ride.

‘Is that everyone?’ the driver asked. ‘Well, then—’

‘Wait! Wait for us!’

Turning to the coach’s window, I saw two figures rushing towards us. Women—one middle-aged and one younger one, with expensive-looking dresses and ridiculously large cases.

‘Do you have reservations?’ the driver asked, annoyed.

‘No, but we do have money,’ the middle-aged woman panted, pulling a purse out of her pocket.

The driver, not one to argue with the root of all evil if it had the face of the queen stamped on it, pulled open the coach door.

‘Welcome to the party, ladies.’

Smiling at each other with relief, the two women stepped up to the coach and looked up at the passengers inside. The younger woman, for some reason, seemed to focus her eyes on me. She was pretty, I supposed, with pale skin, a slim figure and light brown hair that fell all the way down her back, but the way she was staring at me was rather creepy. I nodded at her and smiled. Still, she didn’t look away. She wiggled her eyebrows. Then she cleared her throat.

My brow furrowed in concern. ‘Are you ill? Would you like a cough drop?’

Mr Phelps nudged me in the ribs. ‘I believe,’ he whispered, ‘she wishes for a gentleman to help her into the coach.’

‘She does? So why aren’t any of them moving?’

‘Um…well…’

Oh crap. Right. I was a gentleman.

Well, ‘man’ maybe, in this getup. I didn’t know about ‘gentle’. Still, I extended my arm and helped the two ladies climb up the steps they would have been perfectly able to climb themselves if they’d just set their minds to it. Then I saw that their luggage was still standing outside.

‘You forgot your suitcases,’ I pointed out helpfully.

The older lady gave me a cool look. I looked back. Mr Phelps gave me another nudge in the ribs.

‘I believe it’s a gentleman’s duty to help a lady with her luggage.’

‘Oh, it is, is it?’

Sighing, I slid out of the coach. The old dame gave me a triumphant look, and the girl chirped, ‘Thank you so much, Sir. We are ever so much obliged to you.’

‘No problem,’ I told her, took hold of her suitcase—and instantly revised my opinion. It was a problem. A bloody heavy problem.

‘What the heck did you put in there? Half a brick house? A collection of medieval suits of armour?’

The older lady gave me a supreme look that reminded me of Aunt Brank. Flicking open her fan, she gave me a wave that said, ‘Get on with it, will you?’

God, did I miss being able to be rude!