The innkeeper, McGrath, saw her and, from his position behind the bar, nodded respectfully.
After directing Sally, who had followed at her heels, to claim a large unoccupied table set to one side of the fireplace, Addie headed toward the bar and McGrath.
She could barely drum up sufficient enthusiasm to ask McGrath and his serving girls the now-standard questions, and as she’d expected, they returned the now-standard answers. No one had seen any massive bay stallion. No horse of that description had been stabled at the inn over recent days or, indeed, ever.
With that established, she confirmed that Mrs. McGrath was still manning the kitchen and would be delighted to serve their company of eight with suitable and sustaining fare. The others came in, crowding in the doorway. Addie waved to where Sally sat waiting and, with one of the serving girls in attendance, followed the group to the table.
They sat and gave their orders for food and drink, which the serving girl cheerily informed them would be delivered as soon as maybe and whisked off to see to it.
Seated at one end of the table, with Sally beside her and Nicholas and Dickie opposite, Addie shifted on the wooden bench. She’d been doing rather a lot of riding over the past days, far more than she was accustomed to, and her thighs had started to protest.
The drinks arrived and provided a momentary distraction. She took a long swallow of her cider; riding the roads in summer was thirsty work.
“I suppose,” Dickie said, staring at his ale, “that if we find no sign of The Barbarian over the next few miles, we’ll end up all the way back at Barkston.” He glanced at Nicholas. “What then?”
Nicholas grimaced. “Then, we come north again, but we’ll have to stop at every cottage and farm. There has to be someone who saw the horse being led along the road.”
The serving girls appeared with their meals. As their group settled to eat, Addie considered the possible directions a man leading a horse could take from Barkston or, more specifically, from the last known sighting of the horse by a farmer harrowing his field. “Our last sighting was just north of Barkston, meaning past the lane heading west toward Marston and also past the lane going north to Brownlow. The next intersection on that road is where it forks.” She looked at Nicholas. “We took the road to Lincoln, so our thief—for whatever incomprehensible reason—must have gone to Sleaford.”
Nicholas met her gaze and arched a brow. “Once past the fork and heading toward Sleaford, aren’t there lanes leading off the road?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “But those going south lead more or less to Aisby and the estate.”
“Except for the road through Ancaster,” Dickie put in. “But you’re right. Why would he turn south along that when he’s already crossed it farther south while on his way toward Grantham?” Dickie frowned. “That would truly be leading us in circles, and surely he’s done enough of that already.”
“What about lanes going north?” Nicholas asked.
Addie grimaced.
Dickie did, too, and admitted, “There are several. The lane through Ancaster to Byards Leap, and farther along, there are several lanes that lead to Rauceby.”
Addie wanted to ride directly to Sleaford. “Are we all agreed that, from where the thief was last seen in Barkston, then given we’ve found not a single sighting of him all the way along the Lincoln road, then at the fork, he must have gone to Sleaford?”
Most of the company nodded, but imperturbably, Nicholas amended, “TowardSleaford. We can all agree that he took that turn and continued along the road that leads, ultimately, to Sleaford.” He caught Addie’s gaze. “But we can’t afford to lose his trail again. While I agree that in the circumstances, it’s unlikely he took any of the lanes leading south, we need to ask all along the way and, by finding sightings, ensure we remain on his trail.”
Addie sighed and looked at her brother. “You would think that being so close to the estate, and in a locality where the Sommervilles are well-known, if anyone had seen The Barbarian go past, they would have sent word.”
Dickie brightened. “How do we know they haven’t?” Then his enthusiastic expression almost comically collapsed. “But no. That couldn’t have happened.” He glanced at Nicholas. “People around about know us by sight, but they don’t know The Barbarian at all or that he’s ours. Papa wanted the horse’s presence at Aisby kept quiet, and we all agreed.”
Rory, Jed, and Mike were nodding. Rory added, “Everyone thought it a good idea. Anyone who knows horses can see he’s valuable. Seemed sensible not to let it get around that he spent a lot of his time alone in a paddock.”
Nicholas inclined his head. “That was wise.”
They finished their meals, and the serving girls came to clear the table.
As the girls departed, ferrying away the empty plates and promising to return with jugs of ale to refill the men’s tankards, Addie noticed a neatly dressed man tentatively waving in an effort to draw her attention. She smiled in reply and, to Dickie, said, “Farmer Conran’s over there, and he’s seen us. We’d better go over and say hello.”
To Nicholas, she explained, “Conran owns and runs a farm near Honington, which you might recall was the hamlet we passed, close to the junction with the Sleaford road. He’s a neighbor of sorts.”
Dickie got to his feet, turned, spotted Conran, and raised a hand in greeting. Addie rose and followed her brother to where the middle-aged farmer sat at a table by the door.
Conran rose as they approached, and he nodded in greeting.
“Good afternoon, Conran.” Dickie offered his hand.
A tall, heavily built widower, Conran smiled, clasped Dickie’s hand, and shook it. “Mr. Sommerville.” Conran’s gaze shifted to Addie, and his smile deepened. He bowed his head. “Lady Adriana. It’s good to see you both.”
“Indeed.” With an easy smile, Addie sank into the chair Dickie held for her, and at her wave, Conran resumed his seat.
