The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Pfftt. The wooden arrow hit the apple, the impact pushing it over the edge of the table. It hit the floor with a soft thud. A direct hit.
Sighing, Violet put down her crossbow and went to fetch the fallen fruit. Since sleep had eluded her, she was trying to distract herself with target practice. Unfortunately, the crossbow reminded her of Richard and all the uncertainties in their future.
How were they going to save Wick? Would Ambrose ever forgive them for hiding evidence? And why had Richard acted so angrily—so unreasonably—in the churchyard? Was there something he hadn’t told her about his past? Because she had an inkling that his failed courtships might have had something to do with his reaction…
Placing the apple back on the table, she took another shot, driving it over the edge once more.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t you ever sleep?”
Rosie’s grumbling voice, which emerged from the bedchamber adjoining the sitting room, broke Violet’s reverie. She was sharing a suite with Rosie and Polly.
“Sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I was trying not to make too much noise.”
A sound like “grrr” came in reply.
Not wanting to disturb her roommates further, Violet decided to take her target practice outside. The watery light of dawn was already slipping through the curtains; it was early enough that no one would take note of her. She wrangled on a front-lacing corset and her simplest dress, throwing her blue cloak on top. Lastly, she tucked her crossbow and sticks into a knitting bag and slipped from the room.
Given the hour, the corridors of the inn were deserted, and she made it past the dozing clerk at the reception without waking him. Outside, she inhaled deeply; the invigorating, greenery-scented air reminded her of Chudleigh Crest. Feeling marginally better, she headed toward the courtyard. She turned the corner… and stopped short. A familiar figure was adjusting something on the outside of a mud-splattered carriage.
“Goggs?” she said, startled. “Is that you?”
He spun around. His chubby face had a sheen of sweat. “Violet! Lord, you gave me a scare.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She ambled up to him. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes darted around the environs. He tugged on his waistcoat, which had ridden up on his belly. She noticed that his hands and the garment were streaked with dirt.
“I came to find you,” he said.
“Me? What for?”
“Carlisle—he sent me. He has a plan, you see, to free Wick. And he needs your help.”
Excitement shot through her. Richard had sent for her… and he had a plan to save Wick!
“What does he want me to do?” she said eagerly.
Goggs unlatched the carriage door, held it open. “Get in. I’ll explain on the drive back.”
She went to the door, tossed her knitting bag inside. As she was about to climb in, a thought stopped her. You can’t just leave without telling the others, you pea wit.
Turning, she said, “Wait, I have to tell Marianne first—”
“There’s no time. We have to leave. Now.”
“But my family will worry.” Something in Goggs’ expression gave her pause. “Why… why didn’t Richard come himself?”
“You ask too many questions.”
Goggs’ face had lost its amicable mask, a hard and foreign glint in his eyes. He looked like… a stranger. Sudden fear welled inside her. Before she could gather the breath to scream, something crashed into the side of her head. Through the exploding pain, she felt herself being shoved into the carriage and then she knew no more.
~~~
Richard was the first to arrive at the Red Lion. The inn was the first on the road to London, the obvious place to stay given Mrs. Kent and the girls’ late departure last evening. Goggston would look here first. Pulse racing, Richard tossed Aiolos’ reins to a waiting stable hand just as Kent and McLeod thundered in on horseback. The three of them entered the inn. After a quick exchange with the innkeeper, they headed for Mrs. Kent’s suite.
She opened the door on the third knock, still tying the belt of her silk wrapper.
“You’re all right.” Relief threaded Kent’s voice. “Where are the girls?”
“In the suite next door.” Frowning, she said, “What is going on, Ambrose?”
Kent was already headed to the next room. He banged on the door.
After the fourth knock, Richard said impatiently, “Move aside.”
“I can kick down a bloody door,” Kent snapped.
Just as the investigator reared back to do so, the door opened.
“Papa?” a sleepy-eyed Primrose Kent said. “Why on earth are you pounding like that?”
“Thank God. You’re safe.” Kent exhaled as a drowsy-looking Polly Kent appeared behind the other girl. “And Violet’s in there with you?”
“Actually… she isn’t.”
At Primrose’s reply, Richard’s gut turned to ice.
“Where is she?” he said roughly.
Primrose frowned. “I don’t know exactly. When I woke up just now, she was gone. Earlier she couldn’t sleep and was keeping everyone awake with that dashed crossbow of hers. Maybe she went outside to practice?”
Panic roared through Richard. “She went outside? Alone?”
“I-I’m not certain of it,” Primrose said, her voice quivering. “It wasn’t like I told her to go—”
“Concentrate, Rosie,” Kent cut in. “What time did Violet leave the room?”
“Maybe… an hour ago? I don’t know.” The girl’s bottom lip trembled. “I was half-asleep, Papa.”
Unable to wait a moment longer, Richard turned and strode to the nearest exit. He heard Kent saying behind him, “Keep the girls with you, Marianne, and lock the door. Strathaven will be arriving shortly to escort you all back to Traverstoke.”
Outside, Richard jogged along the perimeter of the inn, McLeod going in the opposite direction. They met at the side of the building. McLeod crouched, staring at markings in the dirt.
Peering over the other’s shoulder, Richard said grimly, “Footprints?”
“Two sets. One larger, one smaller, the latter leading from the hotel. And look here, see how they’re smudged?”
“A struggle.” Richard’s heart kicked against his ribs.
“There’s fresh carriage tracks, too.” McLeod pointed to the markings as Kent joined them. “Wheels are wide, a heavy conveyance. Wouldn’t go faster than five miles per hour, I’d guess.”
Kent followed the tracks to the end of the drive. “Looks like they’re headed to London.”
“We can catch up to them,” McLeod said.
Richard sprinted to his mount. Grabbing the reins from the stable hand, he leapt into the saddle.
“Go, Aiolos,” he urged. “We’ve got to get to Violet.”
The Thoroughbred whinnied, tossed its mane in understanding.
They took off, dust churning in their wake.
