The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Twenty-Eight
T
he Kimptons’ country house was quiet. There would be no opportunity to nab the younger child. Not with Brockway, Kimpton, and a hoard of servants in residence. God knows he’d never make it past her most ardent protector—her mother.
Loren rubbed the base of his neck. The throb had subsided to a low pulse but was still palpable. Not a speck of wind stirred the trees, but he still made out the low intonations that had followed him throughout the English countryside. The nonsensical words were a jumble of harsh sounds, yet softly spoken and barely discernable. He glanced over at Farcle and wondered if the man could hear them as well.
Loren shoved away the question. He must be mad to even care. “I’m returning to Colchester for a couple of days. The child is too well protected for us to make off with, but perhaps you should stay close by in the event an opportunity arises.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I’ll meet up with you in London. What of Harlowe?”
“He’s been deposited aboard the Woodlark at Rotherhithe under the care of her captain, Middleton. I threw the boy from the park on there as well. Too many questions to use the hulks. Middleton’s awaiting orders from you to sail but strongly implied his need to launch.”
“Very good, Farcle. If I fail in my efforts to apprehend the child, I fear I shall be sailing off with him as well. I vow, if we survive this Markov debacle, I’ll retire to the country. That is if I can keep from killing my mother,” he muttered. With a short wave, he kicked his horse into a hard gallop, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to outrun the relentless incantations chasing him.
