Smiling, she faced forward. “Squire Westerfield is an old friend and a trusted neighbor. We can rely on his discretion.”
As they neared the gate, Martin murmured, “All right. I’ll follow your lead.”
His acceptance of her judgment put a spring in her step as they crossed the yard, and Blackie, the collie, sent up a bark in welcome.
Sophy paused to greet the black-and-white dog, then leaving her to welcome Martin, straightened and went to meet the squire, who had appeared in the farmhouse’s doorway.
A stout man with a shock of white hair, he smiled delightedly and came to meet her. “Sophy, my dear! It’s always good to see you.” He took her hands and squeezed them, then glanced at Martin as he rose from petting Blackie.
Sophy quickly made the introductions.
Martin nodded respectfully. “Please overlook my rather crumpled and less-than-appropriate attire.”
Squire Westerfield considered Martin assessingly. “Well, m’dog likes you, and she’s an excellent judge of character, so welcome to Westerfield Farm, sir.” Westerfield had noticed their lack of a conveyance and turned a questioning look Sophy’s way. “Don’t say you walked over?”
“Not entirely.” Briefly, Sophy told the story of their abduction from the manor gardens and their incarceration in and escape from the shepherd’s hut.
Westerfield was instantly solicitous. “Shocking! Utterly shocking.” He patted Sophy’s hand. “Anything I can do, my dear, just ask, and I’ll see it done.”
Sophy glanced at Martin. “If we could borrow a gig to get us home?”
Martin nodded, and Westerfield assured her that of course they could. He sent up a shout for his stable lad, and when the youth poked his head out of the barn, sent him to harness a horse to the farm’s gig. “I’ll send Johnny with you to bring back the gig. He’s young, but reliable.”
Sophy mentioned the tiles they’d been forced to remove from the hut’s roof.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Westerfield said. “I’ll send two of my workers up to set the tiles back in place.”
“Given we’ve left two thugs with sore heads at the hut”—Martin glanced at the western sky—“and it doesn’t look like there’ll be rain overnight, you might want to leave repairs until tomorrow.”
Westerfield met Martin’s eyes and nodded. “Aye. I’ll do that.”
The clop of hooves on the cobbles had them turning to see Johnny leading out a dappled mare harnessed between the shafts of a simple gig.
“Thank you.” Sophy pressed Westerfield’s arm.
“My pleasure, my dear.” Westerfield patted her hand, then waved her to the gig.
Martin went forward and accepted the reins. He waited while Westerfield helped Sophy to the seat, then Martin joined her. As Johnny scrambled up behind, Martin nodded to Westerfield. “My thanks as well, sir. I plan to remain in the area, so I look forward to seeing you again.”
Westerfield smiled and inclined his head, and with a flick of the reins, Martin set the horse trotting out of the yard and on down the short drive to the road.
Once they were bowling along the macadam, he said, “I’ve been thinking. Our recently acquired acquaintances and presumably the man who hired them are targeting you. They knew you were at the manor. Now that they’ve lost you, the first place they’ll look for you will be at the manor.”
Sophy wrinkled her nose. “So we shouldn’t go back there.”
“No. And the second place they’ll look is in Portobello Street, and they’ll also keep watch on the steelworks.” When she glanced at him, he caught her eye. “I was wondering whether your grandmother’s house might not be the best bolt-hole, at least for the moment.”
She thought about that, then nodded. “She’s not in town all that often, so I rarely visit her house. She usually drops in at Portobello Street, rather than the other way around.”
“So they might not know about her house at all. Where is it?”
“St. James’ Street, not far from St. James’s Church.”
Martin consulted his mental map of Sheffield. “That’s just north of Church Street, correct?”
“Yes.” Wryly, she added, “And of course, Grandmama will be delighted to have us seek refuge with her.”
* * *
