Free Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue by Stephanie Laurens Page B

Breckenridge in sight from the corner of her eye. Martha, the least observant of her captors, sat alongside her. Fletcher and Cobbins sat opposite, from where they could see the door and through it part of the hotel foyer.
    Unbeknown to them, the real danger lay behind them.
    Increasingly assured, increasingly buoyed, she set herself to winkle further details that might shed some light on the identity of the mysterious laird from her dinner companions.
    “Did you dine with this laird—the one who hired you?” She widened her eyes at Fletcher.
    He gave her a look. “We met him in a tavern, and food wasn’t on any of our minds. It wasn’t a social meeting.”
    “Hmm . . . how did he arrive at the tavern?”
    Fletcher blinked.
    Cobbins, frowning, answered. “Don’t know—we were there when he walked in the door, and he left before we did.” He glanced down as the serving girl placed a plate piled with pie and steamed parsnip before him. “We stayed for a pint, to celebrate like.”
    Heather held her tongue while they all started to eat.
    A minute later, Fletcher looked up from his plate, a frown in his eyes. “I don’t know why you want to know more about the man—seems like you’ll know all you’ll want to once we hand you over to him.”
    “But when will that be?” When no answer was forthcoming, she pointed the tines of her fork at Fletcher. “See? That’s why I’m asking. If you’ll simply tell me what to expect, I won’t be so curious.”
    Fletcher grunted. “You’ll learn all soon enough. Until then, you’d do best to let it be.”
    Heather subsided and gave her attention to her plate. To assembling all she’d dragged from her unwilling sources during that day into a cogent report. Breckenridge would want to know all, of course, and she was keen to share her discoveries.
    Working her way steadily through her baked fish, she thought of Fletcher’s response, his tone. Cobbins’s words. She had to wonder just how much they knew of their employer.
    From beneath her lashes, she studied Fletcher. His expression was tightly closed, almost pinched. She doubted he’d tell her any more that night. It would, she sensed, be better not to ask. He was more likely to be forthcoming tomorrow if she let the matter slide for now.
    Breckenridge was sitting too far away, and the dining room was too noisy, for him to have overhead even the most recent exchange. Indeed, he wasn’t making the smallest effort to eavesdrop; he was leaving the interrogation completely to her, trusting that she would report later. So . . . where to meet with him?
    Almost as if he’d heard her question, he pushed back his chair and rose. News sheet in hand, he briefly looked her way. Her captors didn’t raise their heads, didn’t lift their eyes from their plates.
    Breckenridge captured her gaze, then turned his head and looked further down the dining room. Heather followed his gaze and saw a pair of glass-paned doors at the rear of the room. From what she could see through the doors, the room beyond was the hotel bar’s snug.
    Shifting her gaze carefully back, she checked her companions—still oblivious—then briefly raised her eyes to Breckenridge as he walked slowly to the dining room door. She didn’t dare nod, but she met his gaze, then he looked back at his news sheet and continued walking. He passed through the door; a second later, she heard his footsteps climbing the stairs.
    “I haven’t been along this road before.” She glanced at Martha and Cobbins. “I noticed there’s a ruined castle just down the road, overlooking the bridge. Are there any other particular sights we might pass in the coach tomorrow?”
    Martha shook her head but looked curiously at the other two.
    Cobbins shrugged. “Couple of old castles not far from the road, and a Roman fort or two, but there’s not much left to see of those, not from the road, anyways.”
    Fletcher scowled at her. “You’ll see what you’ll see.” Setting his