The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  And…there. He angled Pilgrim toward a tiny mewl, not unlike the cry of a rabbit kit caught in a snare. Bypassing the ruined chaise and giving wide berth to the downed horses, he followed a small path of disturbed bracken, barely bent. Easy to miss in last night’s gloaming, when they’d happened upon the scene. Yet clearly something had traveled this way.

  He lowered to the ground, following the delicate trail on foot. The cry grew louder the farther he tracked. So did the alarm squeezing his chest. Oh God…if this is a baby…

  Upping his pace, he closed in on a small rise of bracken and rock. Tucked into a crevice, a child, two years old or possibly three, whimpered for his mam—a mother who would never again wipe the tears from the lad’s smudged cheeks.

  Though relief coursed through him that the victim was not a babe, his lips flattened. One more piece of his charred heart crumbled loose, leaving his faith more jagged than before. It wasn’t fair, such suffering for a little one—and he knew that better than most.

  Reaching into the cleft, he pulled the child out. Teeth sank into his forearm. Nails surprisingly sharp ripped some of the skin off the back of one of his hands, and kicks jabbed his stomach. Despite it all, Samuel straightened and soothed, “Shh. You’re safe now.”

  The lie burned in his throat. No one was safe, not on this side of heaven. He closed his eyes while the child squirmed.

  Lord, grant mercy.

  Lately, that prayer was as regular as his breath.

  He retraced his route and hefted the child up into the saddle with him. He held the lad tight against him with his left arm, and gripped the reins with his injured right hand, blood dripping freely from it.

  By the time he returned to the men, they were mounted as well. Bexley’s brows lifted. The other two officers clamped their jaws and averted their gazes. To say anything would only magnify their failure to discover the lad sooner.

  Samuel scowled, as much at his own deficiencies as theirs. If no family could be found, the child would end up in an orphanage. Even so, God knew it could be worse—he knew it could be worse.

  Bexley edged his horse closer and lowered his voice for him alone. “Don’t go too hard on the men, Captain. It were an easy oversight on such a long night.”

  He’d have to mete out some kind of censure. Good Lord, if he hadn’t discovered the child and they’d left the youngling behind—but no. Better not to think it. He shifted the child on his lap, digging out an elbow shoved into his belly, then wiped the blood from his hand on his trousers. He’d come up with a discipline for Colbert and Higgins later, when his bones didn’t feel every one of his thirty-one years and his soul wasn’t raging at the injustice of the world.

  “Move out.” He twitched the reins, and Pilgrim lifted her nose toward London.

  Bexley fell in beside him. “You’ve got that look about you.”

  He slid a sideways glance at the man but said nothing.

  “You’re not long for the force, are you?”

  He did look then, full-on, studying every nuance of the stubbled face staring back at him. “What makes you say that?”

  Bexley shrugged. “It’s no secret your contract is up in a month.”

  So everyone knew. But did everyone also know he didn’t have enough money yet to purchase the land he wanted? He turned his gaze back to the road.

  “Why, Captain?” Bexley gnawed at the subject like a hound with a bone. “You’re the best officer we got. You know this road will be more dangerous without you.”

  He grunted. With or without him, danger would prevail.

  “Where will you go?” Bexley asked.

  “Far.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Farm.”

  “You? A farmer?” Bexley’s laughter rumbled loud and long. “No. You’ll miss this. The action. The adventure. Farming’s too dull and lonely a life for you.”

  “Exactly.” He pushed air through his teeth in a sharp whistle, and Pilgrim broke into a canter, leaving Bexley behind.

  That was exactly what he wished—to be left alone.

  Chapter Two

  Abby’s eyelids grew heavy as the chaise rumbled along. After only two days of travel, the tedium of the journey wore on both her and Fanny. Even now her maid’s head drooped sideways onto Abby’s shoulder, the woman’s breathing thick and even. Abby shifted slightly, easing into a more comfortable position. It wouldn’t hurt to close her own eyes. They still had Hounslow Heath to cross before stopping for the night. There’d be nothing to see but rain-dampened flatlands anyway.

  Her chin dropped to her chest, and she gave in to the jiggle and sway of the carriage. For the first time since her father had remarried, she could finally fully relax. No more cutting remarks from her stepmother. No cross looks from her sisters. It was a welcome feeling, this freedom. Decadent and heady.

  And horribly shame inducing. She ought to be missing her family, not reveling in their absence. She ought to be praying for them each night as her head hit the pillow, not dreaming of her new life with Sir Jonathan Aberley. As she bobbed along with the rhythm of the rolling wheels, she vowed to be more diligent in prayer for them. Starting tonight.

  Guilt assuaged—for the moment—she purposely tuned her thoughts to memorized portions of the Psalms, losing herself in still waters and green pastures…one of her favorite ways to drift into sleep.

  But a sudden stop jerked her back to reality. Groggy, she fumbled at her bodice for the watch she wore pinned to her spencer, then blinked at the tiny numbers. ’Twas only half past two.

  Gently pushing Fanny aside—who mumbled something about scones and jam, or maybe pudding and ham?—Abby unlatched the door and peered out. The postilion had already dismounted from his perch on the lead horse and was brushing mud flecks off his blue jacket as he strode over to lower the steps. He’d stopped the chaise in front of a building that brightened the dreary day by virtue of its whitewashed stones and the lit lanterns in the windows. Above the front door of the inn, gilt letters, chipped and crooked, spelled out THE GOLDEN CROSS. Abby reluctantly took the driver’s offered hand and lowered to the ground. Surely the man couldn’t be thirsty nor the horses tired when they’d taken a meal not two hours ago. “Why are we stopping?”

  Brown eyes stared directly into hers, for the fellow was her height. Though she’d interacted now with many postilions when they changed horses and drivers at every inn, she’d still not grown accustomed to men no taller than herself. A boon for the horses, not having to haul large frames, but unnerving for her to stand eye to eye with a man.

  “Ground’s a muddy mess, miss. It’ll take too long to cross the heath with the roads such as they are. We’d never make it across by nightfall, and the heath’s no place to be caught in the dark. It’s better to give it a go early in the morning.”

  Behind her, feet splatted onto the wet ground. A moment later, Fanny’s whisper warmed her ear. “Is there a problem?”

  “The roads are too wet. We are stopping for the night.”

  “Ahh, good. Then you could order us some scones and jam, eh?”

  Stifling a retort, Abby gathered her skirt and lifted it slightly. It would do no good to reprimand the woman for such impertinence. It was Fanny’s way. The maid’s insolence was likely the reason her stepmother had chosen her for Abby in the first place. Still, for all of Fanny’s peculiarities, the woman had a pleasant way about her…especially when food was involved.

  Stepping on flagstones too far apart for comfort, Abby gathered her gown a bit higher and focused on the precarious walkway leading to the door of the inn. A full day of mist coated the world in slippery dampness. The promise of hot tea lured her to up her pace, but a glance at the mucky ground tempered that urge. Sitting with wet shoes would be bad enough. Adding a muddied gown to the mix would prove intolerable.

  Inside, she and Fanny stopped at an ancient slab of a bar, darkened by centuries of spilled ale and the elbows of patrons too many to count. Behind it, a round fellow, wiping off th
e rim of a mug with the corner of his apron, glanced over at them. “What’ll it be, ladies?”

  “We need a room for the evening and tea for now.” Abby dabbed away the moisture on her cheeks with the back of her hand. “For two, please.”

  “Aye. Room four is yours. I’ll have a boy fetch yer belongings.” He set the mug down then tipped his head toward an open door across from the bar. “Find a table in the front room, just through there. Tea will be out shortly.”

  “Thank you.” Abby offered the man a smile, then turned and strode through the door. Only one of the five tables was unoccupied, the one nearest the window. The space was likely drafty, but once their hot drink arrived, it wouldn’t matter.

  Abby sank into the chair, thankful for a seat that wasn’t jostling and juddering, then untied her bonnet and lifted it from her hair.

  Fanny did the same but stretched her neck to glance around the room. “Quite the full house for this time of day.”

  “I suppose, with the weather, we are not the only ones holding off our jaunt across the heath.” Abby’s gaze shifted to the window. Tiny droplets gathered together, forming great tears that wept down the glass. It was sound judgment to stop here for the night, but even so, a growing anticipation needled her for the wasted time.

  The closer they drew to Penrith, the more anxious she was to see Sir Jonathan again. She’d met her intended only once, at a dance crowded with people—and even then merely in passing. ‘Twas a miracle he’d offered for her. There’d been other beautiful, eligible hands he could have requested. A small smile rippled across her lips. Sir Jonathan must have truly been taken with her to have approached her father before leaving that night.

  “Miss?” Fanny’s urgent murmur cut into her sweet ponderings. “I don’t like the way the fellow at the table behind you is looking at us. Perhaps we should take tea in our room.”

  “But we are already seated. Do you really think it necessary?” She studied her maid’s eyes, trying to detect how much anxiety swam in those brown depths or if the woman was merely angling for a good lie down. Besides food, Fanny’s other penchant was napping, and a champion she was. The woman would’ve made a proficient lapdog.

  Fanny leaned across the table, speaking for her alone. “I wager that fellow is eyeing us up for the pickings.”

  Real fear pinched the sides of Fanny’s mouth, and Abby reached out to pat the woman’s shoulder. “Do not fret. I am sure brigands have better things to do at this time of day than take tea.”

  Fanny’s gaze burned into hers. “I’ve heard it said ol’ Dick Turpin used to meet with his gang ‘round here, maybe even at this very inn, planning his vile attacks. Oh!” Fanny gasped, her voice dropping to a ragged whisper. “He’s coming over.”

  Biting her lip, Abby straightened in her chair just as a tall man pulled up to the side of their table. She lifted her face to a whisker-jawed fellow in a cutaway dress coat, smelling of onions and blue stilton.

  “Pardon me, ladies. I am Mr. Harcourt, a local constable in these parts.” He hitched his thumbs in his lapels. “Might I have a word with you?”

  “You may.” Abby snuck a glance at Fanny. The maid leaned as far back in her chair as possible, as if the man might pick her pocket at any moment.

  Abby turned back to Mr. Harcourt, preferring to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Is something amiss, sir?”

  Mr. Harcourt shook his head. “Not at all. I simply noticed the two of you are traveling alone—unless your gentlemen are joining up with you later?”

  For a moment she studied the fellow. He seemed upright enough, with his cream-coloured cravat tied neatly and his silver-streaked hair combed back in a tidy fashion. Still, constable or not, it wouldn’t do to admit she and Fanny were alone. She lifted her chin. “Pardon me, but I do not see how that signifies.”

  “Only that if my summation is correct, and you are planning to cross the heath, then I’d like to offer you my services.”

  Fanny narrowed her eyes. “What services might those be?”

  “Sharpshooting, miss.”

  Abby pressed her lips flat to keep her jaw from dropping. Sharpshooting? Did the fellow think they were off to net big game? “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Harcourt, but we are on a simple journey, not a hunting foray.”

  “You may not be hunting, but Shankhart Robbins is.”

  Abby couldn’t help but bunch up her nose a bit. Was that a name of a man or an animal? “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “It’s like this.” Mr. Harcourt cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back, as if he were about to launch a tale while employing great oratory.

  Abby shifted on her chair, just in case he was.

  “A fortnight ago,” Mr. Harcourt began, “two women, such as yourselves, set out across Hounslow with naught but a wee lad, a manservant, and a single driver as accompaniment. I warned them against such a rash venture. Why, they sat at this very table when I approached them just like this. I said to them, ‘Ladies—’”

  “Highwaymen got them,” Fanny cut in. “Am I correct?”

  Mr. Harcourt’s brows sank into a thick line. “I was about to get to that, but yes. Only the lad came back. ‘Twas a grisly murder scene, I’m told. Robbins…well, he’s a blackguard who takes more than gold. He takes everything.” He stretched the word so that his meaning couldn’t be denied, then he drew back and sniffed. “And that’s why you need a hired gun to see you safely across the heath. Three guineas ought to cover it.”

  Across the table, Fanny’s worried gaze met hers. Mentally, Abby tallied her remaining traveling allowance. Paying this fellow would dip deep into those coins, so much so that by the end of the journey, she might have to use the funding given to her by her father for her last-minute wedding needs.

  “I, uh…” She licked her lips, praying for wisdom.

  “Well, what’s it to be?”

  Mr. Harcourt’s bass voice pulled her from her conjecture, and she smiled up at him. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Harcourt. I shall consider your offer.”

  “As you wish, but don’t think on it too long. I generally take the first offer.” He slipped a glance at the rest of the occupied tables. “And as you can see, there may be others who will want my services.”

  “I understand. Good afternoon, sir.”

  Mr. Harcourt stepped toward the next table but then suddenly turned back. “Oh, and miss? Even if you do have gentlemen meeting up with you, unless they are familiar with a gun and the heath, you ought still to consider hiring me on. Robbins is no respecter of fools. He eats them for dinner and spits out their bones.”

  Rain drizzled from clouds low enough for a man to reach up and yank down. On a good day, London streets were crowded and smelly. But with the addition of the sooty mist coating one and all, today was a bad one. Not that Samuel minded. The grey June afternoon was a big shadow—and that suited him fine. It felt like home, this murky obscurity.

  Rounding the corner, he turned onto Bow Street. Many feet had trod this path to the magistrates’ court entrance, usually with trepidation. His steps were no different. Would the chief magistrate grant his contract renegotiation, extending it for only a month instead of the required two more years? Just four weeks more and he’d have money enough to buy the parcel of land that Lord Mabley, needing to raise cash, was selling over in Burnham. Hopefully Magistrate Conant was in a charitable mood, for if he wasn’t…

  Lord, grant mercy.

  He flexed his hand and scowled at the remains of the deep scratch from the orphan boy atop it. The gash should’ve been sewn up, but what was one more scar? The last ten years on this job had been nothing but wound upon wound, in more ways than one.

  He reached for the door—just as two hulking shapes stepped out.

  The flaxen-haired figure—former Officer Alexander Moore—clapped him on the shoulder. “Speak of the devil—”

  “And he doth appear, as I said he would.” The darker of the pair, Officer Nicholas Brentwood, shifte
d his hawklike gaze from Moore to Samuel. “If I don’t miss my mark, you’re on your way to see Conant. Though judging by the looks of you, you’re running a bit late due to an overturned cart loaded with an apothecary’s delivery. Am I correct?”

  Samuel’s scowl deepened to a glower. How in all of God’s green earth would Brentwood know that? Narrowing his eyes, he glanced down at his trousers, and…yes, there, clinging to the hem and the top of his shoes were small splotches of yellowish goo, too thick and sticky to have been washed away by the drizzle. Hang the man for his overly observant ways.

  Part nudge, part shove, Moore turned Samuel about and herded him down the street—away from the courtroom’s door. “Come. I’ve not much time before I must meet up with my wife. I don’t often get to London anymore, so this round is on me.”

  Samuel shook his head. Likely a fruitless rebuff, knowing Moore’s penchant for a tall mug and a good jawing. Blast! This would be his only chance for the next week to meet with the chief magistrate, for he was slated to ride the heath again tomorrow. He stopped in his tracks. “I’ll catch up. First I must—”

  “Don’t bother.” Brentwood clouted him on the back, bookending him between the two and pushing him into motion. “Conant isn’t in, as usual.”

  Moore cocked a brow. “Not like the old days, eh?”

  “Not at all.” The words were more of a growl in Brentwood’s throat, yet he was right. Things had never been the same since Ford resigned and ran off to Sheffield with his new bride.

  “You can tell Ford he is still sorely missed,” Brentwood added.

  “What, and give the old duff a fat head?” Moore chuckled. “No, thank you. He’s barely tolerable when he and Johanna’s mam come for a visit. It’s all ‘I’m the best grandfather this’ and ‘never better grandchildren that.’ The man’s pride of family is enough to choke a horse.”

  Samuel stared at his friend, baffled. “Oughtn’t you be glad of it? It is your family he’s proud of, after all.”

  “I suppose, though it would be easier to bear were he not as domineering in his child-rearing advice as he was with his former directives. You’d think I’m still a runner under his employ instead of his son-in-law.” Moore shoved open the door of the Blue Boar pub and barreled ahead, glancing over his shoulder. “And then there’s old Nutbrown, thinking he knows all there is about children just because of his ridiculous puppeteering…though I do admit his theatre group keeps the little ones entertained in Dover and beyond.”