Page 84 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“P . . . please don’t, N . . . Nash.” His name seemed to unleash a greater floodgate. She cried as though her heart had broken. He turned her toward him and she burrowed into his chest, crying in earnest. At a loss, he simply held her fast, willing calm into her body. At last she quieted.

Nash took a deep breath and raised her unhappy face, streaked with tears and blotched with red and white patches. Deep sorrow rimmed her eyes.

She drew a watery breath and said, “Oh, Nash. I’m ruined. I’m completely ruined.”

Chapter 29

“What do you mean, Charlotte? Is this about the other night?” Nash peered into her woebegone face, his heart aching. He couldn’t help her if she wouldn’t allow him to.

She shook her head and shrugged out of his arms. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Tucking her head down, she headed once again toward the woods.

“Where are you going?” He ran after her. The woods were still not safe. He had men stationed all around the festival, but if the gang attacked her now, his forces wouldn’t arrive in time.

“I don’t know. I don’t care.” She had reached the tree line when he snared her hand and jerked her to a halt.

“Then for God’s sake, come with me to see about Kelliam.” He gave her hand a comforting squeeze, but he wanted to do so much more. “I need to ride over to Wrotham to see what his runners report. Come with me. The ride will do you good.”

“But I can’t ride in this gown!” Her scandalized voice sounded stronger. With her mind off her troubles, she reverted to her normal, wonderful, stubborn self. “I’d have to raise my skirts and show my legs.”

He laughed. “I assure you, I won’t mind.”

She slapped his arm and rolled her eyes. “I suspect you wouldn’t.”

“I have seen them before, if you recall, although a fleeting glimpse only.” Her banter encouraged him. If only he could keep her focused on the gang or his patrollers or anything other than her own troubles, whatever they might be, she might return to normal. Perhaps flirtation would help. “I’d appreciate a longer look this time.”

“Wretch.” Her cheeks reddened and her face lost some of its haunted look. “I am not surprised at all that you’d make advances when I’m so distraught.”

“What self-respecting man would not want to save a damsel in distress?” He chuckled, encouraged at the way her eyes had begun to sparkle with their repartee. “And if sweeping you up onto my horse is the only way to do that, what does a little glimpse of leg matter?”

“All right. I’ll ride with you to Wrotham. I think it a good idea to see if the gang has showed itself yet. But we will ride in my carriage.” She nodded, her jaw set in its familiar determined line.

“As you will, my lady.” He offered his arm, but she shook her head. Without another word, she strode off toward the place where the vehicles waited. God, she could be exasperating, but what a magnificent woman.

The ride proved more silent than Nash would have liked. His few conversational gambits produced one-word replies until he gave up. She seemed to brood the rest of the way, her brow puckered as she stared out the window. Likely thinking on what had disturbed her about the corn dolly. He’d tucked the little doll into his pocket in case she wanted it later.

They swept up in front of the manor house as the late-afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen. He assisted her from the carriage, noting the pronounced lines in the set of her mouth. His intuition whispered if given half the chance she’d bolt for home. He’d listen to that voice. It had saved his neck a time or two. He tucked her arm securely in his and led her inside.

The quiet hall seemed eerie. Acres took their wraps and Nash led Charlotte toward his study, the base for his operation. When he opened the door, Kelliam stood behind his desk, a sheaf of papers in one hand, a single letter in the other.

“What news, Mr. Kelliam? Have they showed themselves yet?” He automatically swept a pile of books off the chair and motioned for Charlotte to sit. She shook her head and followed him as he approached the tall, thin man in a dark gray tweed suit.

Josiah Kelliam, late of Sir Nathaniel Conant’s Bow Street Runners, had come highly recommended. An imposing figure, Kelliam had impressed him in their interview in London by refusing the commission due to a conflict with a family gathering. Nash had managed to persuade him of the dire necessity of his presence—by doubling the original fee proposed. The ex-Runner now eyed him with disdain and waved the paper in his face.

“Nothing, Lord Wrotham. Not a speck of trouble either last night or today.” The man scowled, his bushy gray eyebrows forming a deep V. “I could have just as well attended my sister-in-law’s wedding as come here and saved you the expense.”

“Not a word about the gang at all?” Nash plucked the letter from the man’s hand and scanned it. Hiram Briggs, also a former Runner, in charge of the men stationed at Lyttlefield, reported that none of his patrollers had seen a thing out of the ordinary. They had ridden the perimeter of the property, crossed the fields and forests, spoken with the men guarding the tenant houses. No sign at all of any gang members. “Something’s not right.”

“Perhaps they have moved on to another county,” Kelliam suggested. “If you’ve made it too dangerous for them to operate here, the safest thing would be to leave. When did the last attack occur?”

“Almost three weeks ago.” Nash looked at Charlotte. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I haven’t heard of them showing themselves since they beat Mr. Courtland and stole his horse.” She cocked her head. “Has the horse turned up for sale, do you know? I’ve heard nothing about it.”

“No. You’re right, it hasn’t.” Nash eyed her keenly. Was she on to something?

“Well, if they knew better than to try to sell it around here, they’d have to travel a fair way to dispose of it. If it fetched a good-enough price—and it should have; that horse had impeccable blood lines—perhaps they’ve returned to their homes with the money.” Her voice held a note of exasperation. “The price of that animal could have fed and clothed the families of a gang of ten or more through the winter.”

Damned if she wasn’t right. He’d likely been chasing a ghost and spending a fortune in the process.