Florence appreciated the good weather, because she struggled to keep up with Trajan, who appeared to struggle himself from time to time. But he was too stubborn to rest, and only agreed to stop when the horses needed to be fed and watered.
They reached Poole shortly before nightfall, having ridden for hours on end.
Florence’s legs buckled when she finally dismounted upon reaching the Redfern stable, but she could match Trajan for stubbornness and refused to admit she had reached the limit of her endurance.
Redfern was the jovial owner and the one who ran out to greet them. He was quite a character, portly, with a bright-red face and sporting a stark-white beard. He spoke in a thick Cornish accent that Florence had to concentrate to understand. But she easily caught the gist of what he and Trajan were saying to each other.
Trajan handed over a fistful of coins and instructed Redfern to give their horses his finest care. “One of my cousins will come to pick them up in a week’s time. Meanwhile, it is no one’s business they are boarded here. Understood?”
“Aye, Your Grace. My lips are sealed.” Redfern then called for his lads to take the reins and lead both horses to their stalls.
Florence had to admit the man ran an efficient and well-kept stable.
Their next task was to find lodgings, but Trajan did not appearworried about this either. “The Kenford Inn will suit,” he said, before calling for one of Redfern’s boys to follow him with their bags. “It’s just around the corner.”
Night was falling, but she was not worried. She could see they were in the finer side of town. The shops were elegant and the taverns they passed seemed to host a better class of gentleman drunk.
The Kenford Inn was indeed a beautiful lodging house that seemed to be a hub of activity.
“The mail coach to London stops here,” Trajan explained.
“Truly? It seems too fine an inn to be on the mail route.”
“There are several coaches that make their way along the seacoast route to London. This is one of the better ones. Fare is higher, so we will sweat and choke on dust with a better class of passengers,” he jested. “I’ll hire a private coach to bring us back to Weymouth once we finish our business in London.”
Florence did not care if they rode donkeys back to Weymouth. She just wanted Frampton brought down, his hopes of high office dashed.
Surely the man who had written those letters to Lady Simmons would want his revenge. Perhaps she could convince that powerful lord to take action against Frampton.
Unfortunately, she did not know who he was, and had solemnly promised the Princess of Wales that she would not peek at those letters.
Drat.Being honest had its drawbacks.
The innkeeper seemed to know Trajan. “Your Grace! It is an honor.”
But he cast furtive glances at Florence, no doubt wondering who she was. Since she felt weary to the bone and probably looked quite haggard, he could not possibly think she was some immoral seductress Trajan was taking to his bed for an evening.
“This is my wife,” Trajan explained, surprising her as much as he surprised the innkeeper. “Newly wed, and perhaps we took on a littletoo much travel all at once. Didn’t we, my love? Our baggage cart is days behind us. We’ll require your best chamber, of course. And meals brought up for us.”
“At once, Your Grace. I’ll have my lads bring up whatever bags you’ve brought with you.”
“We’ve only these small travel pouches. Make note for tomorrow that we’ll have an early breakfast in our chamber, and we will require seats on the next mail coach to London.”
“The mail coach?” The innkeeper appeared surprised by the last request. “Ah, but it leaves quite early in the morning.”
“Then wake us in time to catch it. Are there seats still available?”
“Yes, Your Grace. It is often full, but you are in luck. You’ll have only two riders with you to Bournemouth, and they have reserved the outside seats. I’m sure the coach will fill up at Bournemouth, though.”
This meant she and Trajan would ride alone inside the coach for most of tomorrow. This was an acceptable compromise and would get them further from Weymouth in the fastest possible way.
They followed the innkeeper, an earnest-looking man by the name of Doncaster, upstairs. Florence was surprised by the luxury of their accommodations, although her heart was pounding because she and Trajan were to share the one room.
And the one bed.
“Your Grace,” the innkeeper said, and it took Florence a moment to realize he was addressing her, “shall I send a maid up to assist you?”
“That is very kind of you, but my gowns are quite practical for travel. I’ll take care of myself. And I am certain His Grace will not mind helping me with anything I cannot manage on my own.” She smiled up at Trajan.
