Scandal And Miss Markham. Janice Preston

any luck in tracking down my attackers.’

      Deadly touched the brim of his hat. ‘Very good, sir.’

      Vernon was relieved to call a halt to his enquiries, even though his original intention had been to reach Birmingham and the Royal Hotel that night. He felt in his gut that the Royal Hotel would hold the clue he needed to unravel what had happened to Daniel Markham.

      He turned back to Warrior. The lad who had been holding him had gone, leaving the horse’s reins weighted with a large stone. Vernon frowned. He had wanted to thank him properly. He looked along the street and there, in the distance, he could just make out the lad riding away on his black mare. His body screamed at him to let the lad go, but his suspicions about the quality of the horse, coupled with the lad’s reluctance to look Vernon in the eye and his lack of conversation, set warning bells jangling in Vernon’s head. Then he recalled the lad’s pistol. How many country lads like him would own a duelling pistol?

      Is he a runaway?

      And those few words decided him. His nephew, Alex—Leo’s youngest son—had run away only a few months previously, and Vernon remembered the worry and the grief of the entire family as they had imagined the worst. And then there was Thea—her anxiety over her brother’s disappearance had touched Vernon as he saw how bravely she tried to shield her parents from the knowledge. The thought of another family going through the same horror of not knowing what had become of their loved one made the decision for him: he could not allow the lad to ride off into the night without at least trying to discover his story.

      Vernon clenched his teeth and, sweating with the effort, hauled himself into Warrior’s saddle. He put his hand to his side again, reaching inside his borrowed moleskin waistcoat, feeling the sticky warmth of blood. He inhaled—he should get it seen to, but then the boy would be long gone and, if he was a runaway, Vernon would have lost his only chance to help.

      He set Warrior into a trot, biting back a gasp as the gait jolted him and pain scorched across his ribs.

      ‘Damn,’ he muttered, beneath his breath. ‘Let’s get this done,’ and he dug his heels in.

      Warrior broke into a canter—a smoother pace but still agony to Vernon. He hooked his left hand under the pommel and forced his thoughts away from the pain and on to the lad. As they neared the black mare, the lad glanced back and, for a moment, it seemed as though he would take flight. He did not, however, but reined to a halt and waited, staring fixedly at his horse’s mane.

      ‘Why did you leave?’ Vernon said as he pulled his horse round in front of the mare.

      ‘Need to get home.’

      There was something about that gruff voice...but it hovered just out of Vernon’s reach. He watched the boy as he studiously avoided meeting his gaze.

      ‘And where is that?’

      A cough took Vernon unaware. Pain forked through him and he sucked an involuntary breath in through his teeth. The boy’s head jerked upright and he stared through the darkness at Vernon.

      ‘Are you hurt?’

      ‘Merely a scratch,’ he gritted out. ‘You left before I could thank you properly.’ He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a half-sovereign. ‘Here. I am—’

      Vernon bit off his words. The boy had reached out for the coin, muttering Thanks, and something about that disgruntled, near-sarcastic tone of voice jogged a memory. He did not stop to think about it...about how unlikely it was...he nudged his horse closer to the dainty black mare and took hold of her reins. The fresh scent of roses assailed his senses.

      It cannot—

      In one swift movement he snatched the cap from the boy’s head. Even though it was too dark to see the colour, there was no mistaking the spring of the curls that tumbled about her forehead, nor the delicate oval of her face, nor the plump softness of the lips that formed a silent Oh! of horror. Vernon lifted his gaze to meet a pair of large, startled eyes that he just knew were hazel in colour.

      ‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?’