‘Tell me about the man who died. What manner of man was he?’ Amy asked.

‘I know nothing of him. He boarded the coach with you, and your tickets were in his pockets, so one supposes he was looking after you,’ James replied.

‘So I was totally dependent on him,’ she mused.

‘It would seem so.’

‘How did I get from the overturned coach to the inn?’ she wanted to know.

‘I rode one of the coach horses with you in front of me. Have you no memory of that?’

‘None at all,’ she said swiftly. But that was her memory. A slow ride, cradled in front of him on a horse with no saddle. She had felt warm and protected, with his arm about her and his coat enveloping them both. She did not remember arriving at the inn, so she must have drifted into unconsciousness again. ‘How difficult and uncomfortable that must have been for you.’

He noticed the colour flood her face and felt sure she had remembered it. How much more was she concealing? He would have it out of her, one way or another, before another day was through.

Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children, and four grandchildren.

Recent novels by the same author:

TALK OF THE TON

WORKING MAN, SOCIETY BRIDE

A DESIRABLE HUSBAND

RUNAWAY MISS

RAGS-TO-RICHES BRIDE

THE EARL AND THE HOYDEN

CLAIMING THE ASHBROOKE HEIR (part of The Secret Baby Bargain)

HONOURABLE DOCTOR, IMPROPER ARRANGEMENT

THE CAPTAIN’S MYSTERIOUS LADY is the first in Mary Nichols’ The Picadilly Gentlemen’s Club

Look out for THE VISCOUNT’S UNCONVENTIONAL BRIDE Coming May 2010

The Captain’s Mysterious Lady
Mary Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

Early spring 1750

A breathless James arrived at the Blue Boar in Holborn just in time to see the stage disappearing out of sight. He stood and watched it go and swore roundly in several languages.

‘Dammit, Sam,’ he said at the end of this tirade. ‘The devils have slipped through our fingers again. They’re as slippery as eels, the pair of them.’

‘Yes, sir. Do you think they knew we were on to them?’

‘Couldn’t fail to, could they? We have been hounding them for two years. But they need not think this is the end of it, for I will not give up while there is breath in my body.’

Captain the Honourable James Drymore turned from the sight of the back of the stage disappearing from the end of the road and went into the inn to enquire about its passengers. He did not expect to be given names; they would have meant little if he had. Those two, whose real names he had ascertained were Morgan Randle and Jeremy Smith, would have used aliases and probably disguises, too. If his informant had been right, they were finding his pursuit of them too close for comfort and had decided to leave London for the provinces. He did not know their destination, but he had learned, only that morning, that they had arranged to meet at the Blue Boar at nine in the morning with the intention of boarding a coach north. He had rushed home to pack a few clothes, put some money and his pistol into his pocket and, with Sam in tow as he always was, made all haste to the inn.

‘Two men travelling together,’ the proprietor repeated, when James finally persuaded him to stop rushing about issuing orders to his servants and speak to him. ‘Well, there were two, clerical men I should say. Dark clothes, bob wigs, shallow hats.’

‘And was one a spidershanks, without an ounce of fat on him, and the other a beefy fellow with a bulbous nose?’ James asked, mentioning attributes it would be hard to disguise, even if their clothes and wigs were changed.

‘You could so describe them, sir. What might I ask is your interest in them?’

‘I am empowered by the Bow Street magistrate to arrest them for theft and murder, so if you know anything of them you should tell me at once.’

‘I don’t ask the passengers for their histories when they board one of my coaches, sir. I’d never do any business that way.’

‘I understand that, but perhaps you could tell me their destination.’

‘They bought tickets to Peterborough. Where they were going from there I cannot tell.’

‘And when is the next coach going in that direction?’

‘To Peterborough? Not until tomorrow, but there’s one going to Lynn in half an hour. You could leave it at Downham Market and find your way to Peterborough from there.’

‘That will have to do.’

He bought inside tickets for himself and Sam, his friend as well as his servant, and went into the inn’s parlour to wile away the thirty minutes they had to wait. There was a good fire in there and they sat warming their frozen toes on the fender and drinking mulled wine.

James had every reason to want to see Randle and Smith brought to justice. The victim of the murder he had spoken of had been his own wife. Poor, innocent Caroline had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time when those two had run into the silversmiths’ to rob it at gunpoint. According to the shopkeeper, she had been buying a silver cravat pin as a present for him. She appeared well and happy and had told him she was looking forward to having her husband home again after two years at sea. The thieves had waved their pistols about and when he had been too slow in obeying their commands to hand over everything of value, one had fired and the ball had ricocheted off the wall behind Caroline and mortally wounded her.

She had been carried to Colbridge House, the family home in Golden Square, but in spite of the best care his father could obtain for her, she had died the same day. ‘She passed away with your name on her lips,’ his father had said, giving him the pin that had been in her hand. ‘She charged me to give you this.’ James had taken it and wept over it, wept over her grave, too, but when his tears dried, he had been miserable, angry and guilty by turns.

He had been a poor husband, had not told her often enough how much she meant to him, and now it was too late. If he had not been away so much, they might have had children; he knew she had wanted them, as he had. And poor, innocent darling, she was thinking of him when she went into that shop to buy him a cominghome present. The anguish was unbearable and his temper was something dreadful to behold. Only his patient and loyal Sam Roker put up with him.

A visit to Bow Street had followed, where he had raved at the watchmen and constables for their lack of action. It was unfair of him, he supposed; they were not employed to investigate, but simply to arrest wrongdoers when they were brought to their attention. There seemed no one prepared to spend time on detective work. It was slow and laborious and nearly always futile. James had resolved to catch the pair himself, come hell or high water. It was a quest he had been pursuing for the best part of two years and had involved putting on some strange disguises and mixing with the rogues who inhabited London’s underworld. News of his pursuit seemed always to precede him because, whenever he followed up a lead he had been given, the quarry had decamped. The lure of a reward had eventually brought information that the two men were leaving London from the Blue Boar, but, once again, he had arrived too late.

He sat drinking his spicy wine, while musing on his life with Caroline. He had been away at sea a great deal of the time, but when he was at home, they had been happy together, delighting in each other, sometimes dining in, sometimes going to the theatre, meeting friends, going for walks, planning the family they hoped to have, until it was time to leave her again. After his last leave, he had, for her sake, resolved to quit the service, settle down to domesticity and become a doting husband and father. He had been torn apart with guilt to think she would never know of that promise. The plans he had made for going back to his small estate near Newmarket and becoming a gentleman farmer meant nothing without her to share them. He could not bear to stay there and left his steward in charge while he set about tracing the murdering thieves. It had become a crusade from which he never wavered.

In so doing he had been instrumental in uncovering other crimes which he had reported to the appropriate magistrate, earning him the name of thieftaker, a soubriquet he hated. Thieftakers had a bad reputation with the public for frequently faking evidence to obtain a conviction in order to claim the reward. He did not need the money. True, he was only the second son of the Earl of Colbridge and not his heir, but he had been left an annuity by his maternal grandfather that, together with his pay and his share of prize money, meant he was of independent means. Anything he was offered for his services to law and order he gave to charity. ‘What we need,’ he was fond of telling Sam, ‘is an independent police force paid for out of taxes, a body of astute, incorruptible men whom everyone can trust.’

‘And pigs might fly,’ Sam would say. ‘Folks’d never agree to pay for it.’

They heard a horn followed by the rattle of a coach coming into the yard and went to join their fellow passengers. Apart from two or three men who climbed on the roof, which was cheaper, there were three inside besides themselves. A parson in a black suit of clothes, a full wig and wide-brimmed hat, and a man and a young woman who appeared to be travelling together. James, settling himself in the seat opposite, found himself covertly studying her.

She was so pale there was hardly a vestige of colour in her face and even her lips seemed blanched. Her eyes were blue, but they were clouded by worry. Her clothes, though not the height of fashion, were nevertheless of good quality. Her simple unpadded open gown was in a blue-and-white striped material with an embroidered stomacher. She had a cloak, but no hat or gloves and her shoes were flimsy, not intended for out of doors. Her fair hair hung about her shoulders in a tangle, as if she had left home in a great hurry. Had she been coerced into making the journey? Or even abducted? She did not look as if she would fetch much in the way of ransom.

She noticed him looking at her and quickly looked away. Was she ill? Was she nervous because she was unused to travelling by public coach? She would not look at her companion and when the man put a hand on her arm, she flinched as if she had been struck. He wore a black suit of clothes, shiny with age, and a beaver hat with a wide crown crammed on to a grimy scratch wig. Not on the same social plane, James concluded. A servant, perhaps, but not one she trusted.

Sam, sitting in the corner, was looking out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘We’ll have snow afore long,’ he said to no one in particular.

The man with the girl simply grunted in response. ‘Are you and the lady going far?’ James asked him pleasantly.

‘That’s our business,’ the man growled and James noticed the young woman imperceptibly shake her head as if warning him not to pursue his questioning.

He turned to the other occupant of the coach. ‘What about you, sir? Do you have far to travel?’

‘To Cambridge, God and weather permitting,’ the parson said. ‘I never knew winter to last so long. We should be seeing the shoots coming through the cold earth by now, but not a sign of them yet. And what with earthquakes and suchlike I do not doubt we are being punished for our wickedness.’

‘What, all of us?’ James queried. ‘Surely the righteous should not be punished along with the wicked?’

The man paused to look at him and then went on as if such a remark were too foolish to merit an answer. ‘I would not have travelled if it could have been avoided. I abhor London with its smoke and grime and stink. Full of thieves and cutthroats. Why, I had my pocket cut while walking in Hyde Park yesterday.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’ James answered him, but he was looking sideways at the young woman. She had not moved, was staring straight ahead and did not appear to be listening. What was going on in her head, for clearly something was? He wondered how to draw her into the conversation and then asked himself why he wanted to. If she wished to sit silent, then so be it. ‘Did they take much?’

‘Several guineas, sir. I do not know what the country is coming to, when a man of the cloth can be blatantly robbed in daylight.’

‘You reported it, of course.’

‘Yes, but the judiciary are more concerned with rooting out Jacobites, than protecting honest citizens.’

‘Yes, I heard tell the Young Pretender is about to make another bid for the crown,’ Sam put in. ‘Everyone is in a fever over it. He is here, he is there, he is everywhere.’

‘He would surely not make another attempt without French backing,’ the parson added, looking worried. ‘He would not dare, would he?’

‘’Tis all rumour,’ James said. ‘You may be sure the Scots won’t come to his aid again, not after the way Butcher Cumberland put them down after Culloden. And without them, where would he get the money to pay troops and buy supplies and armaments? It is common knowledge his pockets are to let and he has to resort to begging from his friends.’

‘The Arkaig treasure,’ Sam said. ‘I reckon someone knows where it’s been hid.’

James noticed the man beside the girl sit forward and show an interest in the conversation for the first time. James smiled to himself, wondering whether to speak of what he knew. He had been on board one of English ships sent to intercept the French vessels taking supplies to the Scottish rebels in the last battle of the ‘45 rebellion off the shore of Loch Nan Uamh. Before they had chased the French vessels off, everyone on board had witnessed the Highlanders hauling large quantities of cargo up from the shore to the woods, some of it extremely heavy, and it was common knowledge that there had been several thousand louis d’or in barrels. There was brandy, too, and many of the rebels had been paralytic with drink. He could not believe they had not appropriated at least some of the gold. Their captured leaders had talked of it and tried to account for it all, but a large proportion had never been found.

‘I hope nothing comes of it,’ he said. ‘It would mean war and though I do not doubt we would be victorious, I should not like to see another monarch executed.’

‘Are you a Jacobite sympathiser, sir?’ the parson demanded.

‘No, indeed not. I serve my king and country and armed rebellion has to be put down. That does not mean I approve of some of the measures taken to achieve it, nor that men should be persecuted for sincerely held beliefs. This is a free country, after all.’

‘Free!’ the young woman’s companion scoffed. ‘Free from what, I should like to know. ‘Tis only the likes of you and the parson there can call themselves free.’

‘Please,’ the girl said suddenly. ‘You are all speaking too loudly and I have the headache.’

James, surprised that she had spoken in the refined accents of a lady, bowed towards her and spoke softly. ‘I beg your pardon, madam. When we stop to change the horses, I will obtain a tisane for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and turned to look out of the window, presenting her profile to him. She had good bone structure and there was a tilt to her jaw, which might have been an indication of courage or perhaps stubbornness. But even so, he noticed a silent tear spill over one eye and roll down her cheek. Before he could stop himself he had reached forward and scooped it up on his finger. She turned startled eyes on him and he smiled reassuringly without speaking. He took off his coat and rolled it up to make a pillow and propped it behind her head. ‘Why not lean back and close your eyes? It might help.’

She did as he suggested, though her companion’s look was enough to fell an ox. James, sitting back in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat and ignoring the chill air, pretended to shut his eyes, but between half-closed lids he could see she was still tense, still far from relaxed. But she had effectively silenced all conversation. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones, and it was not simply a headache. He wondered whether he ought to do something about it, but then told himself it was not his business and perhaps he was allowing his imagination to run away with him.

That was it; she was running away, possibly from her family or an unwanted suitor or perhaps from the fear of another earthquake. A second one exactly a month after the first had set the citizens of London deserting the capital in droves. But if that were so, she had chosen a singularly ill-bred escort, and why, if she was gently bred, did she not have a female companion with her? But supposing she was the one in the wrong, had run away and was being taken reluctantly back home?

They had stopped now and again to change the horses, but they did not leave the coach until they reached the Feathers at Wadesmill, where they were told they had half an hour to visit the necessary and have something to eat. Once out of the carriage, the young lady returned his coat. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he whispered as he took it from her and slung it over his shoulders.

She turned to look up at him and for the first time he saw animation in her lovely eyes. It made her suddenly beautiful and vulnerable as well. There was hope in that glance, which quickly turned to despair when her companion seized her arm and led her away to a table in the corner where he pushed her roughly into a chair and ordered food.

‘They’re a rum pair, ain’t they?’ Sam said, as they seated themselves at another table.

‘Who?’

‘Those two over there.’ He nodded imperceptibly in their direction. James noticed she was pushing the food about on her plate, but not eating.

‘Yes, there’s something not right there.’ In spite of a reputation he had for being hard and unbending, he could still sympathise with anyone in trouble and he felt sure the young lady was in trouble.

‘You ain’t thinkin’ of doin’ somethin’ about it, are you, Cap’n?’

‘And let Randle and Smith get away again?’ As he had done so often before, he imagined his wife’s terror at being confronted with the gunmen and his anger surfaced again. Those two were going to pay for their crimes and pay heavily. That was his true errand, not rescuing women who might or might not need rescuing. And what would he do with her if he did separate her from her escort? He could hardly take her with him. ‘We still have a long way to go,’ he said, as a waiter put their food in front of them and he ordered a tisane to be taken to the young lady. ‘We will see what transpires.’

What actually transpired was something not even he had expected, though why he should be surprised when the coach was later held up by highwaymen, he did not know; it was a common enough occurrence. It had been fully dark by the time they reached Cambridge where the parson left them, and he had wondered if the man and the girl would stop there, but they must have been in as great a haste as he was, for they had elected to go on. The journey north through Ely had been uneventful and they were proceeding as fast as the coachman dared go along an extremely bumpy road with the river on one side and a spindly stand of trees on the other, when two men brandishing pistols appeared from the copse on horseback and commanded the driver to stop. The coach pulled up so sharply they were all flung against each other. The girl gave a little cry to find herself in James’s arms, as a man with a black kerchief about his lower face opened the door and waved a pistol at them. ‘Out!’ he commanded. ‘We’ll have your valuables or your lives.’

James helped the girl to alight and put his arm about her shoulders to support her. When the pistol was waved at him, he thought it expedient to hand over his watch and a purse containing a few guineas. The robber took them and stowed them away inside his voluminous cloak, then turned to the other occupants of the coach. Catching sight of the man who had boarded the coach with the girl, he promptly fell about laughing. ‘Here, Jerry,’ he chuckled. ‘Look who’s turned up.’

His accomplice, who had been keeping his eye on the coachman, appeared beside him. He, too, had his face covered so that only his eyes were visible. ‘Gus Billings, as I live and breathe, and the lady, too. Now, there’s an interesting turn of events.’

James felt the girl’s shoulders stiffen under his hand and heard her stifle a small cry. She was shaking and only his arm about her was stopping her from sinking to the ground. He gave her shoulder a little squeeze of reassurance.

‘I’m only doin’ your biddin’,’ the man called Billings told the other two. ‘If you want to lay yer hands on you know what, you’ll allow me to get on with it.’

‘And who is this?’ Jerry waved his pistol towards James, who did not flinch, though the girl did, quite violently.

‘Dunno, do I?’ Billings said.

‘I am the Honourable James Drymore, Captain of his Majesty’s navy,’ James told him in his haughtiest voice. ‘And I advise you to allow us to proceed or it will be the worse for you.’ It was an empty threat; there was nothing he could do to stop them. His pistol was in his coat pocket and he could not reach it without taking his arm from around the young lady and he was afraid if he did she would collapse in a heap at his feet. Sam had no weapon.

The masked riders laughed and beckoned Billings to join them. He went reluctantly but, after a few whispered words, he came back and, taking the girl’s arm, wrested her from James and pushed her back into the coach. It was then James tried to reach into his pocket for his pistol, but a shot whistled past his ear. ‘Get back in the coach and be off with you,’ the first highwayman ordered. ‘And think yourselves fortunate I’m feelin’ generous today.’

They resumed their seats, the horses were whipped up and they were on their way again.

‘Madam, are you all right?’ James asked the young lady.

‘Leave ‘er alone,’ Billings said. ‘Can’t you see she’s upset?’

‘Indeed I can, but I do not think it is I who upset her.’

‘Being held up by robbers is enough to overset anyone.’

‘True. But I notice you were more surprised than overset. The scoundrels were known to you.’

‘Please,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I thank you for your concern, sir, but I am perfectly well.’ Which was very far from the truth, but she evidently did not want him taking the man to task.

He looked across at Billings, who was eyeing him warily. If the fellow were to drop his guard, he might be able to overpower him with Sam’s help. But if he did, what in God’s name would he do with the young lady? And how could he be sure those two highwaymen were not following them? The coachman must have had the same idea, because he was driving at breakneck speed, relying on the moon and a couple of carriage lamps to light his way. Further conversation was almost impossible as they all hung on to the straps and endeavoured to stay in their seats.

When they stopped for a change of horses at Downham Market, he would endeavour to part Billings from the young lady long enough to interrogate them both separately, James decided. Whatever he discovered he would report to the local constable, though it would be impossible to give a description of the robbers, considering the night was dark and they were masked and shrouded in cloaks. No one was safe on the roads while men like those two waylaid travellers. He was glad he had had the foresight to hide his precious cravat pin and most of his money in a belt about his waist and keep only a little in his purse. It was a common practice and he wondered why the thieves had not known it, or, if they did, had not searched him. He supposed they had been taken aback to find an acquaintance on the coach and their exchange with him had put it from their minds.

His musings came to an abrupt halt as the coach wheel dipped into a particularly deep pothole, seemed to right itself and then lurch off the road. In spite of the coachman’s heroic efforts, he could not bring it back on course and it went over and slid down the embankment, accompanied by the sound of frightened horses and splintering wood. The coachman yelled, Sam swore loudly, Billings screamed and then was silent. The girl uttered not a sound, as the vehicle came to rest on the steeply sloping bank only inches from the river.

James, who was thankfully unhurt, climbed out of the wreckage and turned to help the young lady. She was unconscious, which accounted for her silence, but was mercifully alive. He picked her up and laid her gently on the grass, then turned to the others. Sam was climbing out, looking dazed but otherwise unhurt. Billings must have broken his neck; his head lolled at an unnatural angle and he was clearly dead. The coachman, who had been flung into the river, was climbing out, dripping wet weeds in his wake. James went to help him while Sam and the guard saw to the horses.

One was clearly dead, another had struggled free and was in the river, swimming strongly for the other side. As soon as the other two had been released from the traces, one scrambled to its feet and galloped up the road in the direction from which they had come. The fourth, though clearly terrified, was unhurt and allowed itself to be led up on to the road. Once that was accomplished, everyone stood and surveyed the wreck. It was certainly not going to take them any further.

‘Do you think those devils are behind us?’ the coachman queried, as James bent to tend to the young lady. She had a nasty bump on her temple, which would account for her passing out, but he could detect no broken bones. She would undoubtedly be bruised and sore when she regained her senses.

‘No tellin’, is there?’ Sam said. ‘And they’d be no help, would they?’

‘No, but the sooner we get away from here the better.’ He was trying to wring the water out of his wig, but it was a sorry mess and he gave up the idea of replacing it on his head and stuffed it in his equally wet pocket.

‘How far is it to the nearest village?’ James asked, glad he had given up wearing a wig. Opportunities for having one cleaned and dressed were few and far between while he was chasing criminals all over the country, and now his own hair was so long and thick no wig would stay on it. Usually he tied it back with a narrow ribbon, but if he was dining out, he allowed Sam to roll a few curls round some stuffing and powder it.

‘Highbeck’s four mile or thereabouts,’ the coachman said. ‘We’d ha’ bin calling there in any case.’

‘Right, then I’ll ride the horse and take the young lady up in front. The rest of you can walk.’

‘She’s out cold, she’ll not be able to hold on,’ Sam put in. ‘And the ‘orse ain’t exactly quiet, is ‘e?’

‘I can steady it with one hand, if you tie her to me.’

As no one had a better idea, this was done. He replaced his hat, which he had found in the wreckage of the coach, and mounted up, stilling the horse’s protests with calm words and firm knees. Sam fetched a strap from the boot and tied it round the lady’s waist and lifted her up to him. He slipped the loop over his head and put his arm through it, cradling her to his side, inside his coat. ‘Right, she is secure enough. I’ll see you all at the inn.’ He picked up the reins and set the horse to walk.

He could feel the warmth of her body through his shirt and realised it was the closest he had been to a woman since he had last held Caroline in his arms, the day he had waved her goodbye to go on his last voyage. He stifled the half-sob, half-grunt of anger that rose in his throat and looked down at the slight figure in his arms. Her head was nestling on his chest as if she knew she was safe, but her face was paler than ever. She should have started to come round by now, but she was still unconscious, though every now and again she gave a low moan and he prayed she had come to no lasting harm. He dared not make the horse hurry.

Her escort was dead and could not be questioned now. Did that mean she was free of trouble? When she came to her senses, he would have to find out what was going on, who she was, where she came from, then restore her to her family. If she had a family. She had no means of identification on her, no luggage, no purse, nothing but the clothes she wore, now filthy and torn. He had been through Billings’s pockets, but he’d had nothing either, except a few shillings and two coach tickets, destination Highbeck. That was the name of the village he was heading for. Did that mean she was nearly home? Or was it Billings’s roost? The questions plagued him as he clopped onwards, cradling the unconscious beauty in his arms. For she was beautiful, he realised, and her skin, except where it was bruised by the accident, was smooth and creamy. Her scarf had come loose and he could see the top of her breasts peeping from her stomacher. They rose and fell with her even breathing and for the first time in an age, he felt a frisson of desire. He pulled himself together, wishing she would regain her senses, but if she did and realised where she was, she would be mortified. Would she be as frightened of him as she had been of Billings? he wondered, not liking the idea.

It was dark by the time he reached the village. A dog barked loudly from a farmhouse on his right; another answered from the churchyard on his left. He clopped on. A few cottages straggled along the road until he came to the crossroads and here there was light spilling from the open door of an inn. He reined in, slipped the strap from around his neck and called for the landlord to come to his assistance; he could not dismount until someone took his burden from him.

A man came out carrying a lantern. ‘Make haste, man,’ he told him. ‘The lady has been injured. She must be put to bed. Is there a doctor hereabouts?’

‘Not before Downham, sir. My wife will see to her.’

James gently lowered the girl so that the innkeeper could take her, then he dismounted and took her back to carry her inside.

The innkeeper’s wife hurried forwards. ‘What has happened?’

‘The coach overturned four miles back,’ James told her. ‘There’s a dead man and a dead horse. The coachman, the guard and my servant are following on foot. They will all need bruises and cuts seeing to and sustenance when they arrive, but first a room and a bed for the young lady.’

‘This way, sir.’ She led the way up a flight of stairs where she pushed open the door of a bedchamber. ‘Will this suffice?’

He looked about him. Although it was small, the room and the bed hangings were clean. ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Do you need anything else? Hot water? Food and drink?’

‘All of those things when the lady regains her senses. Unfortunately she has been unconscious for some time and I do not even know her name.’ He put his burden on the bed.

‘My goodness, I know her,’ the lady said, peering down at the unconscious woman. ‘She used to live at Blackfen Manor, hard by here, when she was a child. I disremember her name—it was some time ago, you understand—but I know the ladies at the Manor, Miss Hardwick and Miss Matilda Hardwick.’

‘Then send for them at once. They will know what to do.’

The girl on the bed stirred and moaned and opened her eyes. ‘Where am I?’

‘At the King’s Arms in Highbeck,’ James answered. ‘You had a nasty knock on the head when the coach overturned.’

‘Coach?’

‘Yes, you were travelling on it. Don’t you remember?’

‘No. Where was I going?’

‘Coming here, I think.’

‘Why?’

‘You have kin at Blackfen Manor,’ the innkeeper’s wife put in. ‘I expect you were coming on a visit.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘It is hardly surprising,’ James said. ‘You were knocked out.’

‘Who are you?’ she asked him.

‘Captain Drymore, at your service,’ he said. ‘I was travelling on the same coach. Now you must rest. We are going to send word to Blackfen Manor for someone to take charge of you. I will leave you in the care of our hostess and come to see you again later.’

The innkeeper’s wife accompanied him to the door. ‘Was she travelling alone?’ she asked.

‘She had an escort, but he’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know whether to tell her that or not.’

‘We should tell the ladies when they come.’

He left her to tend to the girl’s bruises and went downstairs again to find the others had arrived and were making themselves comfortable in the parlour with a quart of ale each, while food was prepared for them. ‘What now?’ Sam asked when he joined them.

‘She is known to the innkeeper’s wife. It appears she has kin close by and someone is going to fetch them to take charge of her,’ James told him.

‘Thank the Lord for that, for a moment I thought we were going to be saddled with her.’

James realised, with a jolt, that her predicament had driven the main purpose of his journey from his mind, but it was time he began to think of it. ‘And you wouldn’t want that, would you, my friend?’

‘To be sure, it would put a spoke in the wheels. Has she got her senses back?’ Sam asked.

‘Yes and no. She is conscious, but still too dazed to know what has happened to her. No doubt the sight of her relatives will be all that’s needed.’

‘Then we go on?’

‘To Peterborough?’ James queried vaguely, his mind still half with the mystery of the girl.

‘Yes, had you forgot where we were going and why?’

‘No, I had not and I’ll thank you to mind your manners.’

‘I beg your pardon, Cap’n sir, but you must admit you can’t be worrying about that one upstairs when we are so close to success.’ Sam was almost as determined on catching those two as he was, knowing what it meant to him.

‘How do you know we are close to success?’

‘We know they were on that coach and going to Peterborough, don’t we?’

‘Just because they paid the fare to Peterborough, does not mean they meant to travel all the way there. They could have left the stage anywhere to put us off the scent again. Or they may have gone on somewhere else,’ James pointed out.

‘And they might have been held up by those two highpads. That would have delayed them, don’t you think?’

‘Very true, but in the absence of evidence to the contrary we will head for Peterborough.’

‘I took the liberty of making enquiries, Captain, and there’s a coach coming through at first light which will take us on to Downham Market. And there are connections to Peterborough.’

‘Good. We can’t do anything more here.’

After they had eaten, James went up to speak to the young lady and take his leave of her. She had swallowed a little supper, he was told, but she was still dazed. ‘She’ll be fine as ninepence when the Misses Hardwick come to take care of her,’ the innkeeper’s wife said, as they stood outside the bedchamber talking quietly.

‘You have sent word to them?’

‘Yes, but they are maiden ladies and will not venture out at this time of night. They will be here in the morning.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ He was torn between staying and leaving. It was curiosity mixed with pity and a feeling of responsibility that made him want to stay and see her safely with her kin, while the determination to find his wife’s killers and see them hanged drove him relentlessly.

‘Oh, yes, indeed. Lovely ladies they are, always pleasant, always have a kind word for everyone and they do a deal of good in the village. I reckon she must be a niece or something of the sort. It’s a mystery, though.’

‘What is?’

‘No baggage, no money, nothing, according to the coachman.’

‘I will recompense you for her food and lodging.’

‘I did not mean that, sir, indeed I did not. I am sure the Misses Hardwick will see to that. I was thinkin’ what a mystery it was.’

‘Yes, to be sure. But no doubt when the lady recovers her senses she will be able to enlighten you. In the meantime, can I leave her with you?’

‘Yes, of course. You must be anxious to continue your journey.’

‘I am.’ His mind was made up. ‘Pressing business, you understand. We shall go on the early coach, but a bed for the rest of the night will be welcome.’

‘Certainly, sir. I’ll see to it.’

He took several coins from his purse and handed them to her, enough to cover his and Sam’s stay and the young woman’s. ‘I will go in and say my farewells. I doubt I shall see her in the morning.’

He opened the door and stepped into the room. The invalid lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

‘Madam,’ he said, moving over to stand beside her. She looked small and frail in the big bed.

She turned towards him. ‘Captain Drymore. That is right, is it not? I have remembered your name correctly?’

‘Yes, that is my name. Can you tell me yours?’

A tear found its way down her cheek. ‘I must have had a really bad bang on the head, for I cannot remember it. I have been lying here, racking my brain, and it just will not come.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Do not distress yourself. When you are with your relations again and in familiar surroundings, everything will come back to you.’

‘I expect you are right. But I must thank you for what you have done for me. The landlady has told me and it seems I am in your debt.’

‘Not at all. I did nothing.’ He stood up. ‘I came to say goodbye and to wish you well. I am leaving very early in the morning to continue my journey. Mrs Sadler has assured me I can safely leave you in her care until your relatives come for you.’

‘Then goodbye, sir. And again my gratitude.’

He gave her a small bow and left the room. He did not like leaving her, but Sam was right, he could do nothing more for her. They were strangers who had passed a few hours in each other’s company, that was all. But she was a courageous little thing and he hoped she would make a full recovery. One day, perhaps, after he had seen justice done for Carrie, he might call at Blackfen Manor and enquire after her.

Chapter Two

Amy was walking across the fields surrounding Blackfen Manor, stopping every now and again to watch a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, or a skylark soaring, or gazing into the water of the river at her own reflection. It was like looking at a stranger. The image gazing back at her was unknown to her. She saw a woman in a plain unpadded gown, with fair hair tied back with a ribbon, a pale face and worried-looking eyes. It was the same when she looked in the mirror in her bedchamber, a stranger’s blue eyes looked back at her. ‘Who are you?’ she would whisper. Teasing her woolly brain about it only brought on a headache.

‘Do not fret, it will come to you, my dear,’ Aunt Matilda had said. She was the rounder and softer of the two ladies who had come to the King’s Arms to fetch her after the accident. The other, Aunt Harriet, was taller and thinner, more practical and down to earth. Both wore gowns with false hips, though nothing like as wide as those worn in London, and white powdered wigs. They were, so they told her, her mother’s sisters and their surname was Hardwick, none of which she could remember. She didn’t remember her own name, let alone that of anyone else.

‘You are Amy,’ Aunt Harriet had told her, when Matilda could not speak for tears. ‘And once we have you home, you will soon recover your memory. It is the shock of the accident that has taken it from you. You will be chirpy as a cricket tomorrow and then you can tell us what happened.’

‘I am glad I have found someone who knows who I am,’ she had told them. Lying in bed in the inn with no recollection of who she was, or how she had got there, had been frightening.

‘Of course we know who you are. Did we not bring you up from a child? You were coming to visit us, no doubt of it, though why you did not send in advance to say you were coming, we cannot think.’

They had brought her to Blackfen Manor in their gig, put her to bed and sent for their physician. He had said she had no broken bones and her many bruises would fade in time. And he confidently predicted her memory would return once she was up and about surrounded by familiar things and people she loved and trusted. She had to believe him or she would have sunk into the depths of despair.

But after two months, she could remember nothing of her life before that coach overturned, and very little of the immediate aftermath of that. Her aunts were kind to her, fed her with beef broth, roast chicken, sweetbreads and fruit tarts, saying she was far too thin, and provided her with clothes, having assumed her baggage had been stolen from the overturned coach. They fetched things to show her in an effort to jog her memory, saying, ‘Amy, do you remember this?’ Or ‘Look at this picture of us and your mama our papa had painted just before she married Sir John Charron.’

‘Amy Charron,’ she murmured.

‘No, not Amy Charron, not any more,’ Matilda had told her. ‘You are wed to Duncan Macdonald, have been these last five years.’

‘Married?’ This had surprised her, though why it should she did not know.

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he? Why was he not with me?’

‘We have no idea, though if he knew you were coming to visit us, he would not worry, would he? When he learns what has befallen you, he will come post haste.’

‘Did I deal well with him? Were we happy together?’

‘Only you can know that,’ Harriet said. ‘You never complained of his treatment of you, so one must suppose you were.’

‘Do we have children?’

‘No, not yet. But there is time, you are still very young.’

‘How old am I?’

‘Five and twenty.’

Twenty-five years gone and all of them a mystery!

She had written to Duncan to tell him what had happened, which had been difficult since she knew nothing about him except what her aunts were able to tell her, did not even know the address to write to until they told her. He was an artist, they had said, though how successful he was they did not know. He was of middling height and build, was careful of his appearance and always wore a bag wig tied with a large black bow, which did not tell her much. In any case, she had had no reply.

It was all very frustrating. She could not remember her husband. What did he look like? Did she love him? She supposed she must have done or she would not have married him, but if he turned up would she know him? How could you love someone you could not remember? Why had she left him behind when she made the journey? Why had he allowed her to travel alone? But she hadn’t been alone, had she? By all accounts there had been a man with her and he had died of a broken neck. Who was he? She wasn’t running away with him, was she? Oh, that would be a despicable thing to do! But how could she know whether she was a wicked person or a good one? When she asked the aunts, they were adamant that she had the sweetest temperament and would not hurt a fly. ‘Goodness, have we not brought you up to be a good, law-abiding Christian?’ they demanded. ‘If anyone is wicked, it is certainly not you.’

‘Why did you bring me up?’

‘Because your mama is an opera singer and is always travelling about from one theatre to another and that was not a good life for a young child, so we offered to rear you,’ Aunt Matilda said. ‘We wrote immediately to tell her you are here safe and sound. I am sure she would have come to see you if she were not in the middle of a season of opera at Drury Lane.’

‘And my father?’

‘He lives abroad.’

‘Why?’

They had shrugged. ‘Heaven knows.’ But she thought they did know.

‘Did I love him?’

‘Of course you did,’ Harriet said. ‘You were especially close and very downpin when he went away.’ They had showed her a portrait of him, a cheerfullooking man with grey-green eyes and a pointed beard, but it did nothing to help her recall the man himself.

She stopped walking to turn back and look at the Manor. It was a solid Tudor residence, with a moat about it and a drawbridge with twin turrets on either side of the gate, which led to an enclosed courtyard. She found it difficult to believe she had spent most of her childhood there. In the last two months she had explored every inch of its many nooks and crannies, but nothing reminded her of anything. It was like being born, she supposed, with no history behind you and everything new.

She had strolled about the gardens both within and outside the moat and climbed the tower on the edge of the estate that had been built as a look-out and from which she could see the countryside for miles around: the river, the road, the village with its church and inn, all things she had known and loved in her childhood, according to her aunts. The people she met in the village would speak to her, ask how she did, address her sometimes as Mrs Macdonald, but more frequently as Miss Amy, and she would reply, hiding the fact she could not remember their names.

She could not even remember Susan, much to that good woman’s sorrow. Susan was in her middle thirties and had been with the family since she was twelve, moving up the hierarchy of the servants from kitchenmaid to chambermaid and from there to lady’s maid. But she was more than that, she was a valued companion to both old ladies and had known Amy since childhood, had watched her grow up and helped her dress, scolded her when she was naughty and praised her when she was good. Susan had added her efforts to get her to remember, all to no avail.

Her aunts were worried, she knew that. They had tried everything they could think of to jog her into remembering, but nothing seemed to work. ‘I fear something dreadful occurred before the accident that occasioned your loss of memory,’ Matilda had said only the day before.

‘Something so dreadful I have blotted it from my mind, you mean?’

‘Perhaps. If only Duncan would come, I am sure the sight of him would effect a cure.’

‘Then why has he not answered my letter?’

‘We cannot tell,’ Harriet put in. ‘Unless something has happened to him, too. I have written to ask your mother to make enquiries.’ Her mother, so she was told, had an apartment near the theatre, not far from Henrietta Street where Amy and her husband had their home. That was another thing Amy could not remember. Racking her brains produced nothing. By day she was calm, though worried, but her nights were beset by violent dreams in which she was running, running for all she was worth, knowing there was something evil behind her.

Only the week before, her mother had written to say she had not seen Duncan and their house was unoccupied. Lord Trentham had come to see the opera and had taken her out to supper afterwards and she had asked him to help uncover the mystery. Lord Trentham, Aunt Harriet had explained to Amy, was a lifelong friend of the family and a man of influence. Whether he would succeed Amy was not at all sure, but he seemed her only hope.

Sighing, she began to walk slowly back to the house, trying, as she did every day, to remember something, anything at all, that would shed some light on the life she had led before the coach overturned. She knew she had been rescued by a gentleman who had apparently been another passenger, but she had been so dazed by her experience she could not remember his name or what he looked like. And he had not stayed to see her handed over to her aunts, so they had no idea who he was. Had he known her before that journey? Was he part of the mystery?

James was on his way to Bow Street to pay Henry Fielding a visit. He had not caught his wife’s murderers thanks to that coach overturning and the delay in arriving at Peterborough, where the trail had gone cold. He had returned to London, along with thousands of others who had decided the threat of more earthquakes had been exaggerated and the world was not about to come to a violent end. Rather than go to his Newmarket estate, he decided to stay with his parents at Colbridge House, expecting Smith and Randle to return to the metropolis as soon as they thought the coast was clear but, in two months, none of his contacts had seen or heard anything of them. London’s Chief Magistrate had been a great help to him over his quest in the past and he might have heard something of them.

The street was crowded with people going about their business, jostling each other in their hurry to reach their destinations: city men, gentlefolk, parsons, hawkers, women selling posies, piemen, street urchins. James hardly spared them a glance as he made his way on foot to the magistrate’s office, where he found him in conversation with Lord Trentham, a one-time admiral, whom he had known from his years of naval service.

‘Now, here’s your man,’ the magistrate said to his lordship, after greetings had been exchanged and a glass of brandy offered and accepted. ‘He can help solve your mystery.’

‘Oh, and what might that be?’ James asked guardedly, assuming they wanted to inveigle him into more thieftaking.

‘A man has gone missing and his lordship wants him found.’

‘Men are always going missing,’ he said. ‘I know of two myself I should dearly like to find.’

‘Still no luck?’ Henry queried.

‘Afraid not. I have been chasing them all over the country. What we need is a paid police force, one that investigates crime as well as arresting criminals, a body of men in uniform that everyone can recognise as upholders of law and order.’

‘I agree with you,’ the magistrate put in. ‘I am working on the idea and one day it will come about, but in the meantime I must put my faith in people like you.’

‘That has come about because of my determination to see Smith and Randle hang.’

‘Bring them before me, and they will,’ the magistrate told him. ‘In the meantime, will you oblige Lord Trentham?’

‘I assume the missing man is a criminal of one sort or another?’ James enquired.

‘We do not know that,’ his lordship put in. ‘Might be, might not. His wife’s family want him found.’

James laughed. ‘An absconding husband!’

‘We do not know that either.’

‘It is a mystery,’ Henry Fielding said. ‘And you are a master at solving riddles and can be trusted to be discreet.’

‘That is most kind of you,’ he said, bowing in response to the compliment. ‘But I am not at all sure I want to solve this particular riddle. Coming between husband and wife is not something I care to do.’

‘Let me tell you the story and then you can decide.’ Lord Trentham said.

‘Go on.’ He was availing himself of the magistrate’s best cognac and politeness decreed he should at least hear his lordship out.

‘The wife in question is the daughter of a very dear friend, Lady Sophie Charron—’

‘The opera singer?’

‘The same. Two months ago she was on a coach travelling to her relatives in Highbeck, in Norfolk, when the coach was held up by highpads, only for it to be overturned half an hour later. She has recovered from her injuries, but cannot remember anything leading up to the accident. Her memory is completely blank. And her husband has disappeared. The house where they lived is a shambles. We are of the opinion something happened.’

James had begun to listen more intently as the tale went on, realising they were talking about his mystery lady. He had often wondered what had become of her, had not been able to get her out of his mind, even after he had been to Peterborough and back. Her pale, frightened face haunted him. How could he be sure he had left her in good hands? Was this another occasion for guilt that he had done nothing to help her? Was his pursuit of Smith and Randle robbing him of his common humanity? He had toyed with the idea of calling to see how she fared, but Highbeck was remote and not connected with his own search and he could not be sure she was still there so he had put off doing so.

‘I met the lady,’ he said quietly. ‘I was travelling on the same coach.’

‘You were?’ Lord Trentham leaned forwards, his voice eager. ‘Then you know more than we do.’

‘Not about her husband I do not. I did not know she was married.’ He went on to tell them exactly what had happened and his impressions of the demeanour of the young lady. ‘She was at the inn being looked after by the innkeeper’s wife when I left. I was assured her relatives had been sent for and would take care of her, but I have often wondered if I was right to leave her.’

‘Oh, yes, her aunts, Lady Charron’s sisters, fetched her and she is staying with them at Blackfen Manor,’ his lordship explained. ‘But her husband has disappeared. They think if he could be found, her memory might be restored to her.’

‘What do you know of him?’ James asked.

‘His name is Duncan Macdonald.’

‘A Scotsman?’

‘I believe so, though he has lived many years in England. He is an artist, though not a very successful one. He also plays very deep and I believe the couple were in financial trouble. It might be why he has disappeared.’

‘A cowardly thing to do, to leave his wife to set off alone for her relatives, don’t you think?’ James remarked.

‘Yes, if that is what he did, but perhaps he had disappeared before she left. She might have been going to look for him,’ his lordship suggested.

‘She chose a singularly unattractive helpmate if that was the case. A surly individual in a rough coat and a scratch wig. She seemed terrified of him. Also, he was known to the robbers who held up our coach. And I believe she recognised them as well, although I may be mistaken in that,’ James said.

‘Oh dear, it is worse than I thought,’ said Lord Trentham. ‘Did you by chance learn the man’s name?’

‘Gus Billings, I think one of the highpads called him, but he died in the accident. Could he have been her husband under an assumed name?’

‘Unlikely. I only met Duncan Macdonald once when we attended the same opera and he and Amy came back stage to speak to Lady Charron, but he wore a bag wig and was dressed in a very fine coat of burgundy satin. He was charming enough, had exquisite manners, but there was something about him that made me wary. Amy was, is, a dear girl, certainly not a lady to consort with criminals.’

‘As you say, a mystery,’ James said, turning over in his mind what he had learned, which was little enough. At least he now knew the young lady’s name was Amy. He thought it suited her.

‘You will undertake to investigate, my dear fellow, won’t you?’ his lordship pleaded. ‘Her mother and her aunts are all anxious about her and I promised I would do what I could to help.’

‘Memory is a strange thing,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it shuts down simply to avoid a situation too painful to bear. One must be careful not to force it back. Mrs Macdonald might be happier not remembering.’

‘True, true,’ Lord Trentham said. ‘But if we could discover what is at the back of it without distressing her, then we might know how to proceed.’

James was torn between taking on the commission and continuing the search for his wife’s killers, but that had lasted so long and yielded so little reward he did not think it would make any difference if he set it aside for a week or two. He would do what he could to help, if only to make amends for not doing anything before. ‘If you would be so good as to furnish me with a letter of introduction to the lady’s aunts, I will go to Highbeck and see what I can discover,’ he said. It ought not to take him long and after that he must resume his search for Smith and Randle. He would not rest until they were caught.

Lord Trentham wrote the letter; once this was done and handed to him, James returned to Colbridge House to instruct Sam to pack for a stay in the country, realising, as he did so, that once again he had unwittingly found himself embroiled in uncovering crime.

Amy was just leaving the mill next to the King’s Arms, where she had gone to buy flour to make bread, when two horsemen rode into the yard of the inn and dismounted. The taller of the two hesitated when he saw her and looked for a moment as if he were going to speak. He was broad as well as tall, handsome in a rugged kind of way, with intense green eyes that seemed to take everything in at a glance, including her scattered thoughts. His tricorne hat covered sun-bleached hair, which was tied back with a narrow black ribbon. As with any gentleman who came to the village from outside it, she wondered if he might be Duncan, but when he sketched her a little bow and proceeded into the inn without speaking, she knew it was not the husband she looked for, for surely he would have spoken to her, taken her into his arms, called her by name?

The man had looked slightly familiar, as if she ought to know him, or at least was acquainted with him. Did that little bow confirm it? Or was it simply a courtesy? If only she could remember! She went on her way to make her purchase, intending afterwards to visit Widow Twitch, an old lady who lived in a cottage down a lane on the other side of the village who, according to her Aunt Matilda, had known her since she was in leading strings and was also recognised as a wise woman who had the gift of telling the future. Her advice might be worth listening to.

James had recognised Amy immediately and had been on the point of greeting her, but decided against it. He had wondered if she might remember him, considering he had held her in his arms on the ride from the scene of the accident to the inn. The memory of that had certainly stayed with him. He had spoken to her later and she had remembered his name then, but today, though she had looked at him, there had been no recognition in her blue eyes. Until he had spoken to the Misses Hardwick and ascertained exactly what they wanted of him, he would remain incognito.

He was glad to see that she looked well. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair, which had been so unkempt and tangled, was now brushed and curled into ringlets, over which was tied a simple cottager hat. She wore a striped cotton gown, a plain stomacher and a gauze scarf tucked into the front of it, an ensemble that would be decried in town, but was perfectly suitable for the country. She had filled out a little too, so that she bore little resemblance to the waif he had held in his arms. It was difficult to believe that her mind retained nothing of her past. Would reawakening her memory, even supposing it could be done, fling her back into that world of fear? She had been afraid, of that he was certain.

He did not need to eat, having dined at the Lamb in Ely not two hours before, so he left his baggage at the inn where he had booked rooms for himself and Sam, and hired a horse to take him to Blackfen Manor, leaving his own mount to be groomed and rested. He wondered if he might overtake the young lady, but there was no sign of her as he trotted along a well-worn path bordering fields of as yet unripe barley.

He passed the tower at the gates to the grounds and proceeded up a gravel drive until the Manor came into view. He did not know what he had expected, but the solid red-brick Tudor mansion with its mullioned windows and twisted chimneys was a surprise. He half-expected the drawbridge to be raised to repel raiders, but laughed at his fancies when he saw the bridge down and the great oak doors wide open. He trotted under the arch into a cobbled yard and dismounted at a door on the far side.

He was admitted by an elderly retainer who disappeared to acquaint the ladies of his arrival and take in the letter of introduction James had been given. He returned in less than two minutes and conducted James to a large drawing room where two ladies rose as he entered. He removed his tricorne hat, tucked it under his left arm and swept them a bow. ‘Ladies, your obedient.’

‘Captain, you are very welcome,’ the elder said. She was in her forties, he supposed, tall and angular. The other was shorter and rounder, but both were dressed alike in wide brocade open gowns with embroidered stomachers and silk underslips. They wore white wigs, topped with white linen caps tied beneath their chins. ‘I am Miss Hardwick and this is my sister Miss Matilda Hardwick. We are Lady Charron’s sisters. Please be seated.’

‘Glad we are to see you,’ Miss Matilda said, as they seated themselves side by side on a sofa. ‘You will take tea?’

‘Thank you.’ He sat on a chair facing them as tea was ordered. While they waited for it, he used the opportunity to look about him. The plasterwork was very fine and so were the wall tapestries, though they were very faded and must have been hanging there for generations. Some of the furniture was age-blackened oak, but there were also more modern sofas and chairs. There were some good pictures on the walls, a fine clock on the mantel, together with a few good-quality ornaments. A harpsichord stood in a corner by the window. Of Mrs Macdonald, there was no sign.

‘Have you any news?’ Matilda asked eagerly. ‘Has Mr Macdonald been found?’

‘He had not been located when I left the capital,’ James said. ‘The word is out to look for him, but I have come to make your acquaintance and endeavour to discover how much Mrs Macdonald remembers.’

‘Absolutely nothing at all,’ Matilda answered. ‘We have tried everything.’

A servant brought in a tray containing a tea kettle, a teapot and some dishes with saucers, which he put on a table. Harriet took a key from the chatelaine at her waist and unlocked the tea caddy. James watched her for a minute in silence, as she carefully measured the tea leaves into the pot and added the boiling water. They were, he concluded, careful housekeepers, though whether from choice or necessity it was hard to tell.

‘Tell us about yourself,’ commanded Harriet, handing him a dish of tea.

He smiled. He was evidently not going to be taken on face value. ‘My name, as you will have learned from Lord Trentham’s letter, is Captain James Drymore. I am the second son of the Earl of Colbridge. I am twenty-seven years of age and have spent most of my adult life as an officer on board several vessels of his Majesty’s navy. Two years ago I sold out and returned to civilian life.’

‘Are you married?’ Matilda asked.

‘I am a widower.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ Matilda said. ‘But no doubt a handsome man like yourself will soon marry again.’

‘Tilly!’ her sister admonished. ‘You must not put the Captain to the blush like that.’

Matilda coloured and apologised.

‘Think nothing of it, Miss Matilda,’ he said with a polite smile—marrying again was the last thing on his mind. ‘It is natural for you to wish to know all about me if I am to be of service to you.’

‘Oh, I do hope you can be. Amy will be back directly and you will be able to judge her for yourself.’

‘Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have already met the young lady,’ he said. ‘I was on the coach with her when it overturned.’

‘You were?’ Matilda put down her tea in order to sit forward and pay more attention. ‘Then you must know all about it. What happened? Did you speak to Amy? Did she speak to you? Who was the man who died? My sister saw his body when they laid it out at the inn before burial and she is sure it was not Duncan Macdonald.’

‘Ah, that was the first question I meant to ask you,’ he said.

‘We have no idea who he could have been,’ Harriet said. ‘Or what he was doing with Amy.’

He told them about the journey, the highwaymen and the accident, but left out the fact that their niece was afraid of her escort and that he was known to the highpads. He saw no reason to distress them unnecessarily. ‘Will you tell me about Mrs Macdonald and her husband?’ he asked when this recital was finished. ‘It is necessary to know as much as possible, you understand.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Matilda put in. ‘We raised Amy. She is like a daughter to us. She met her husband, Duncan Macdonald, during a visit to her mother in London just over five years ago. We were shocked when she said she was going to marry him. We knew so little about him, except that he was a close friend of her father. She does not even remember that.’

‘He is an artist,’ Harriet said. ‘Or so he says, though we have seen nothing of his work.’

‘But you did meet him?’

‘Yes, the first time soon after they married and again about two years ago when they came to stay for a while. I am afraid I did not take to him. He was a little too charming to be sincere and he had Amy like that.’ She turned her thumb to the floor as she spoke. ‘But perhaps I do him a disservice. You must draw your own conclusions.’

‘How can he?’ Matilda said. ‘The man has disappeared.’

He smiled at the lady’s undeniable logic, and then turned as the door opened and Amy herself came into the room. She stopped uncertainly when she saw him scrambling to his feet. He bowed. ‘Mrs Macdonald.’

‘This is Captain Drymore,’ Harriet told her. ‘Do you remember him?’

Amy looked hard at the man who stood facing her. It was the one she had seen that afternoon at the King’s Arms, but underlying that was the feeling she had experienced then, that she had met him before. How could you forget someone as big and handsome as he was, a man with a commanding presence and clear green eyes that looked into hers in a way that made her catch her breath? ‘I saw him arriving at the King’s Arms this afternoon…’

‘Before that,’ Matilda said.

‘No.’ She turned to James. ‘Should I remember you?’

He smiled. ‘I would have been flattered if you had. We were both aboard the coach that overturned.’

Her sunny smile lit her face. ‘Then you must be my mysterious saviour.’

‘I did no more than any gentleman would have done.’

She sat down beside him, so close her skirts brushed his knee, and turned to face him. ‘Tell me what happened. Every little detail.’

Acutely aware of her proximity and the scent of lilacs that surrounded her, he repeated what he had told her aunts, no more, no less.

‘And did I tell you anything of why I was making the journey?’

‘No, madam.’

‘There was a man with me. I am told he died. Do you know who he was?’

‘I am afraid not. Perhaps he was a servant, someone your husband trusted to see you safely to your destination?’

‘Perhaps. But, you see, my husband has disappeared…’ She stopped. ‘Now, why should I bother you with my concerns when you have been so kind as to come and enquire after me?’

He bowed in acknowledgement, deciding not to set her straight on the reason for his visit. He felt he could learn more by not appearing an interrogator. ‘I have often wondered what became of you and, as I have business in the area, I decided to pay my respects. Are you fully recovered from your injuries?’

‘Indeed, yes, they were only a few scratches and bruises. The worst of it is my lack of recall, but my aunts assure me that is only temporary.’

‘I am sure it is,’ he murmured.

‘And is it not strange that the Captain is known to Lord Trentham?’ Miss Matilda put in.

‘Ah, then perhaps had we met before through his lordship?’ she said, turning to James.

‘I do not think so,’ James said. ‘I am sure, if we had, I should have remembered it. Someone as charming as you would not be easily forgotten.’ He had been so long out of polite society that he surprised himself with the ease with which the compliment rolled off his tongue.

‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She gave a tinkling laugh, which seemed to indicate she was not overburdened with memories of her fear and again he wondered if it were wise to interfere.

‘Where are you staying, Captain?’ Miss Hardwick asked him.

‘At the King’s Arms, madam. It is convenient for my business.’

‘If your business is not too pressing, would you care to have supper with us? We have so few visitors, especially from the capital, I am sure we have much to talk about.’

‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it.’ He rose to take his leave, as she rang for Johnson, the footman, to see him out.

‘Will seven o’clock be convenient?’

‘Perfectly.’ He bowed to each in turn, according to seniority and took Amy’s hand to convey it to his lips.

She felt a shiver of memory pass through at his touch, but it was gone in an instant. That was always happening to her, a faint flicker of recollection that was gone before she could grasp it. She repossessed herself of her hand and bent her knee in a curtsy. ‘Until this evening, Captain Drymore.’

After he had gone, she sat down with her aunts. ‘When the Captain said he was on that coach I hoped he would be able to enlighten me a little,’ she said wistfully. ‘But he does not seem to know anything.’

‘Perhaps we will learn a little more over supper,’ Harriet said. ‘He might jog your memory with some small thing that happened. I hope he is going to stay hereabouts for a little while. It is so agreeable to have visitors.’

‘And such a pleasant man,’ Matilda said. ‘He almost makes me wish I were young again.’

‘Tush, Tilly,’ her sister chided her. ‘You are too old for daydreams.’

‘I know.’ It was said with a sigh. ‘But he is a handsome young man, do you not think so, Amy?’

‘Yes, I suppose he is,’ she said slowly, unwilling to admit she had found him extraordinarily attractive. And somewhere in the back of her mind a tiny memory was stirring, a memory that made her blush to the roots of her hair. Not only had she met him before, she had been held in his arms!

‘You are a married woman, Amy,’ Harriet said, making her wonder if her aunt could read her mind. ‘Just because you cannot remember your husband, does not mean he does not exist.’

‘Is Duncan handsome?’ Amy asked.

‘Some think so.’

‘Did I?’

‘Oh, I am sure you did.’

‘I wish I knew where he was. I wish…’ Oh, she had too many wishes to enumerate them all, but above all, she wished she could remember who she was. Widow Twitch had talked in riddles about trials to come and a search for treasure that would end in a death, but not her death. She was to put her trust in those sent to help her. Who they might be, the old lady could not tell her.

‘Patience, my dear, patience,’ Matilda said, as Harriet hurried off to confer with the cook about the supper menu. ‘It will all come right in the end, I am sure of it. Now, what will you wear tonight? You must look your best.’

The question gave her another problem. The clothes the aunts had found for her were a mix of some she had left behind when she married because they were worn or outdated, some of her aunts’ that had been altered to fit and some bought on a shopping expedition to Downham, the nearest town. Not wishing to be a financial burden on her aunts, she had been careful not to be extravagant. She could not understand why she had embarked on the journey to Highbeck without money or baggage. Aunt Harriet had said it must have been stolen from the wrecked coach before it had been retrieved, or perhaps the highwaymen had taken it.

That was another thing. The coach had been held up only minutes before it overturned, which must have been a frightening experience, but she did not even remember that. She would ask the Captain more about that at supper. Thinking of supper reminded her of her aunt’s question.

‘I think the Watteau gown we altered will do well enough,’ she said. The soft blue taffeta sack dress had been one of Harriet’s and was not intended to fit closely. Its very full back fell in folds from shoulder to floor and the front was laced over white embroidered stays and finished with a blue ribbon bow just above her bosom. The same ribbon decorated the sleeves, which fitted closely to the elbow and then frilled out to her wrists in a froth of lace. It had been easy to alter it to fit her.

‘Yes, it becomes you well enough,’ her aunt said. ‘Susan will dress your hair and you may wear my pearls. They will be yours one day in any case.’

‘You are so very good to me,’ Amy said, jumping up to hug her aunt. ‘I am not at all sure I deserve it.’

‘Nonsense! Of course you do. You are my dearest niece and have been a joy to me ever since you came to Highbeck as a little girl. Now run along and take a rest before you dress. You must be in fine fettle when Captain Drymore comes back.’

James rode back to the inn in contemplative mood. He found himself going over and over what had happened on the fateful day when he and Mrs Macdonald had been travelling companions. She had behaved strangely, her face a mask, lacking animation, but the eyes were a different matter. Her distress was obvious in them. To undertake a journey of that length with no baggage and no money was reckless and foolish, and indicated she had left home in a great hurry, though whether voluntarily or not, he could not say. Lord Trentham had said the house she lived in had been a shambles and he had gone and seen it for himself before leaving London. Something had happened there, something violent. But that did not necessarily mean she had come from there when she boarded the coach. It could have happened after she left.

The man with her had been a queer sort of escort, a rough character with no manners at all, one of the lower orders, someone a lady would certainly not choose to take care of her. Where had they met? What hold did he have over her? He was certainly known to those two highwaymen. Did she know them, too? She had certainly been afraid of them, but any young lady would be frightened under the circumstances, so that did not signify. And where was her husband? The mystery intrigued him, the more so because a lovely and seemingly innocent young lady was involved. But was she innocent? Was she perhaps an even better actress than her mother?

He had been dealing with the criminal fraternity long enough to know you could not tell by appearances. Some seemingly innocent young ladies were bigger criminals than the men, deceiving, thieving, pretending to be the victims of the crime when they were the perpetrators. He had come across such women more than once and had hardened his heart to turn them in. But was Mrs Macdonald like that? Had she been fleeing from justice when he first met her? The more he thought about it, the more he realised he would not rest until he had the answers to all these questions.

He arrived back at the inn to go over it with Sam, but his servant had no more idea than he had what had happened, and he was more wary. ‘Sir, ‘tis my belief you’re being conned by a pair of fetching blue eyes,’ he said.

‘Why do you say that? Our presence on that coach could not have been predicted, nor that I should visit Mr Fielding when I did.’

‘True,’ Sam admitted. ‘But you didn’t have to say you’d come here, did you?’

‘I was curious.’

‘Ah, now we have the truth of it. And I’ll wager my best wig you wouldn’t have been so eager if she had been an old witch with long talons and a pointed chin.’

James laughed. ‘Witches fly about on broomsticks, they do not need coaches.’

Sam appreciated the jest. ‘So, what are you going to do?’

‘I am going to have supper at Blackfen Manor. I suggest you get to know the locals. You never know what you may learn.’

‘You will need your best coat, then. ‘Tis as well I fetched everything out of your bag and hung it up in your room to let the creases drop out.’

‘Good man. I think I will sleep for an hour or so. I am wearied with travelling. You may rouse me at six o’clock with a dish of coffee and hot water to wash.’

Promptly at seven, he was shown into the drawing room at Blackfen Manor where the three ladies waited for him. They had obviously taken trouble with their attire; Mrs Macdonald in particular looked very fetching in a gown whose colour exactly matched her eyes and, though wigless, her hair had been carefully curled and powdered. He executed a flourishing bow. ‘Ladies, your obedient.’

They curtsied and Aunt Harriet bade him be seated, offering him a glass of homemade damson wine while they waited for supper to be served.

‘Are you comfortable at the inn, Captain?’ Amy asked. He had, she noted, taken trouble with his appearance. Gone was the man in the buff coat and plain shirt; here was a beau in a coat of fine burgundy wool, trimmed with silver braid down its front and on the flaps of the pockets. Rows of silver buttons marched in a double line from the neck to well below the waist, though none of them was fastened. His waistcoat was of cream silk, embroidered with both gold and silver thread, above which a frilled neckcloth cascaded. A silver pin nestled in its folds and a quizzing glass hung from a cord about his neck. He wore his own hair, arranged with side buckles and tied back with a black ribbon.

‘Yes, it suits me well enough, thank you.’

‘Where do you live? Ordinarily, I mean.’

‘When I was at sea, I had no permanent home, so my wife stayed with my parents at Colbridge House in London, but just before I left the service I bought a small country estate, near Newmarket, intending to settle down there. But it was not to be.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘My wife died.’ He spoke flatly.

‘Oh, I am so sorry, Captain,’ she said, noticing the shadow cross his face and the way his hand went up to finger the pin in his cravat. ‘I would not for the world have distressed you with my questions.’

‘Do not think of it, Mrs Macdonald. It happened while I was away at sea. I did not even see her before the funeral.’

‘That must have been doubly hard for you to accept.’

It surprised him that she used the word accept and had hit upon exactly how he had felt, still felt. ‘Yes, it was.’

‘That is all we can do, is it not?’ she said. ‘Accept God’s will, though we do not understand why it should be. I have to accept there is a divine purpose in my loss of memory, but for the moment it eludes me.’

He was grateful for her insight and for the way she had changed the subject so adroitly, allowing him to become businesslike again. ‘I have no doubt your memory will return, perhaps suddenly, perhaps slowly, little by little.’

She blushed suddenly remembering the only memory that had flitted into her mind earlier that day, that he had held her in his arms. When and why? And had she been content or outraged? She was glad when the butler came to announce that supper was on the table, and the Captain offered his arm to escort her into the dining room behind the aunts.

It was a big oak-panelled room with heavy dark oak furniture that had probably been there since Elizabeth was on the throne. They took seats at one end of a long refectory table and were served with soup, followed by a remove of boiled carp, roast chicken, braised ham, peas, broccoli and salad, together with several kinds of tartlets.

‘Do you know if those two criminals have been brought to book?’ Amy asked, after they had all helped themselves from the dishes, and was surprised when he appeared startled.

‘Two criminals?’ he repeated to give himself time to digest what she had said. Surely she knew nothing of Randle and Smith? It was not that he wanted to keep his quest for them a secret, but simply that if she had known of them, it would give the lie to her loss of memory and set her firmly among the ne’er-do-wells.

‘Yes, those two who held up the coach. My aunts are sure they stole my baggage, for I had none when I arrived.’

He breathed again. ‘Oh, those two,’ he said. ‘No doubt they followed us and looted the coach after we left it. It was in a sorry state and everything scattered. Unfortunately we were not able to gather anything up.’

‘There, I was sure that was what had happened,’ Harriet put in, busy cutting up the chicken, ready to be offered round. ‘You would never have set off without a change of clothes.’

‘It is strange that so momentous an adventure can have slipped my mind,’ Amy said. ‘You would think it of sufficient import to be unforgettable, would you not? Were they masked? How did they speak? Did they injure anyone? Were they gentlemanly?’

‘Certainly not gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Rough spoken and in black cloaks and masks, impossible to identify. They were armed and each fired once, but hit no one. I think they took pity on you, for after they had robbed me, they let us go.’ He was, he realised, being sparing of the truth. He did not want to give her nightmares.

‘Did you lose much?’ she asked.

‘A few guineas that were in my purse. The rest of my money and valuables I had concealed about my person.’

‘How clever of you!’ she exclaimed.

‘I do a great deal of travelling, Mrs Macdonald, and have learned to be as cunning as the criminals.’

She wondered why he travelled and if he had more knowledge of lawbreakers than he had admitted. He might even be one of them, for all she knew. Except of course her aunts had accepted him as being known to Admiral Lord Trentham, who had sent a glowing introduction. That, of course, could be a forgery. How suspicious and untrusting she was! Had she always been like that or was that something she had learned recently?

‘But you have not heard of them being apprehended?’ she queried.

‘No, unfortunately I have not.’

‘Tell me again about the man who died. What manner of man was he?’ Amy asked.

‘I know nothing of him. He boarded the coach with you and your tickets were in his pockets, so one supposes he was looking after you. He certainly bought your refreshments whenever we stopped.’

‘So I was totally dependant on him,’ she mused.

‘It would seem so.’

‘How did I react to his death?’

‘You were unconscious and knew nothing of it at the time,’ he pointed out.

‘How long was I unconscious? And how did I get from the overturned coach to the inn?’ she pressed.

‘I rode one of the coach horses with you in front of me. Have you no memory of that?’ he asked curiously.

‘None at all,’ she said swiftly. But that was her memory. A slow ride, cradled in front of him on a horse with no saddle. She had felt warm and protected, with his arm about her and his coat enveloping them both. She did not remember arriving at the inn, so she must have drifted into unconsciousness again. ‘How difficult and uncomfortable that must have been for you.’

He noticed the colour flood her face and felt sure she had remembered it. How much more was she concealing? He would have it out of her, one way or another, before another day was out. ‘It was my privilege and pleasure,’ he said, lifting his glass of wine in salute to her and looking at her over its rim.

Quizzing him was making her feel uncomfortable and she changed the subject to ask him what he thought of the village and its surrounds, to which he replied he had not yet had the opportunity to explore, but intended to do so when his business permitted, and on that uncontentious note they finished their meal with plum pie and sweetmeats.

He declined to stay in the dining room alone and repaired with them to the drawing room for tea. Noticing the harpsichord in the corner, he enquired if anyone played it.

‘I used to years ago,’ Matilda said. ‘But I have not touched it in years. Amy is the musician here.’

He turned to look at her. ‘Will you play for us, Mrs Macdonald?’

She went over to the instrument, sat herself down at it and, after a moment’s hesitation, played ‘Greensleeves’ with unerring accuracy and sensitivity. As the last notes died away, she turned towards him, eyes shining. ‘How strange that I remember that,’ she said. ‘I know I have always loved music, just as I know I love flowers and can tell their names and recognise birds by their song.’

He smiled. ‘That is a good sign, don’t you think. And can you ride?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I love to ride.’

‘Then would you like to ride out with me tomorrow and show me the countryside? I am sure I shall enjoy it the more for having you to guide me.’

She readily agreed and, having arranged a time for him to call, the evening was brought to an end. He took his leave and rode back to the inn, feeling more benign than he had done for years.

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