They nodded.
“Who did you say she’s with?”
Freddy scratched his neck. “Didn’t. She was alone when she set off, but she said something about a Mrs. Smith.”
The teary-eyed chit they’d hired to work at Hawthorne. Caroline had talked with her, comforted her, but about what she had refused to reveal. She had also allowed the young woman to stay at Hawthorne and share a bed with Polly. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out that the girl was in trouble of some sort. And Caro had decided to play savior.
How far would she go for such a role? He remembered Mr. Smith well, a big man who radiated irritation and set Felix’s nerves on edge.
“If Mrs. Dove-Lyon wasn’t entirely clear,” Felix snapped, “your sole purpose at Hawthorne is to guard my wife. That means following her about like you’re her damn shadow. Do you understand?”
They nodded enthusiastically.
“Even when she goes to town.”
“Oooooh.” They had the realization at the same time and turned with wide eyes to leave the folly.
“Which way’s the village?” Pat turned back to ask.
Felix stomped into his boots and flung on a shirt. “I’ll go after her now. You remain here and take stock of the premises, learn your way around. I’d like a full report on any safety issues you encounter. Do you understand?”
More nods, countenances clearing.
Felix finished dressing then took off for the stables. He could write to the Black Widow later, inform her he was not to be so easily controlled.
Will you leave then?
His brainbox could shut right the hell up. Of course he couldn’t leave! Which meant the old widow held just as much control over him as she thought she did.
He saddled Troy and took off. If he’d been needing distraction from memory, he’d certainly gotten it, hadn’t he? In the form of dread creeping up his spine.
Caro was fine. Surely, she was fine.
The village of Dorking rose before him quickly, but he had no idea how to find her. He did know who she was looking for though, so he followed his nose to a bakery and asked for Mrs. Smith.
The baker, a slender woman with silver hair, got a look not in line with the heavenly scent of warm loaves. “She’s not allowed here. Her husband makes trouble.”
He was a rope stretched too far, and the bits and pieces of him were fraying, breaking. His patience was on its death bed, and he was tapping a heated rhythm on the floor with the toe of his boot. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“She helps Mrs. Collington, the seamstress, some days. Check there. Or, because Mr. Smith likes to keep his woman on a tight leash, try the smithy. He’s helping there today. Down the street and to the right.”
“Thank you.” Felix left the shop and led Troy down the street, soon finding the smithy—a sign flapping in the wind, its steel wares glinting in the sunlight. He saw Caro, too. “That was easy.” He tethered Troy to a hitching post and loped toward her.
Something was wrong. Her posture stiff and angular, her hands fists. He quickened his steps, pushing through two men and almost knocking a woman down.
He was stuck behind a cart when Caro bolted into an alley beside the smithy.
Felix climbed over the cart, darting and dashing. Where was she? What was happening? He reached the alley and peered into the shadowed dark beyond the forge fire burning nearby. Soot and metal and heat burned his skin and heightened the fear thumping his heart into an erratic rhythm.
There—shadows, sideways silhouettes, at the end of the alley. Three of them, two smaller—much smaller—than the third. Caro, Mrs. Smith, and the brawny husband. Who had his hand around Caro’s wrist. She stood between the husband and wife, her posture straighter than a blade forged by a master.
Mr. Smith walked her backward. He’d soon pin both women against a damp stone wall.
Not if Felix broke his damn legs first.
An attack hadnot been in the plans for the day, yet here Caroline was. Derailed once more. At least this detour had a purpose. Protection. When she’d discovered Mrs. Smith had left for the village to retrieve some personal belongings while her husband worked, an insistent worry had compelled Caroline to follow. She’d abandoned theAckerman’s Repositoryshe’d been perusing for furniture and set off to ensure the safety of Hawthorne’s newest maid. Truly, though Mrs. Smith didn’t realize it, Hawthorne’s firstguest. A woman in need of protection, a safe home.
“Release me,” Caroline demanded, “or I will call for the constable.” She would call for the constable anyway, not that Mr. Smith needed to know that.
