Reid walked fast, practically striding, his arm taut beneath Letty’s hand. She stretched her legs to keep up and glanced at his face. A magnificent man when he was angry, with those blazing silver eyes, that knotted brow, those flared nostrils. She could imagine him facing Achilles on the battlefield at Troy—and winning.
Reid’s pace slowed. He exhaled, and almost visibly shed his anger. His arm relaxed. He glanced at her. “Luncheon?”
“Luncheon.”
Now, he no longer looked magnificent; he looked gaunt and weary. Letty had a flash of memory: Reid as she’d seen him last night, in the throes of his nightmare, crying out in anguish.
She soberly matched her steps to his, along Beadle Street to the Plough. Reid bespoke a room for Green and then they ate a silent lunch. “Will you come to Wiltshire?” Letty said, when they’d finished. “Talk to Tom Matlock?”
Reid shrugged. “May as well.”
“And then what?”
Reid ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “I made some enquiries before I left London. Houghton’s from Bristol. He’ll have gone back there.”
“Bristol’s not far from Wiltshire . . .”
Their eyes met.
“To try a trick like this once is rash,” Reid said. “To try it twice . . .” He grimaced. “Foolhardy.”
Very foolhardy. “I want to go to Bristol.”
“Do you know anyone there? Could you perhaps visit—”
Letty shook her head. “I don’t know anyone in Bristol.”
Reid frowned, and raked a hand through his hair again. “Do you think you can get away with it a second time?
“I don’t know that I’ve got away with it once,” Letty said.
The frown vanished. Reid huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “That’s true.”
Letty’s heart gave a thump. That fleeting smile, the barely-glimpsed amusement in his eyes . . .
“Colonel Cuthbertson sold out after Vimeiro,” Reid said. “Which is odd.”
“But surely a colonel wouldn’t be a traitor?”
“Why did he sell out?” Reid countered. “I understand why Grantham sold out, but Cuthbertson? He was a career officer. More than twenty years’ service.” He frowned, and looked down at his napkin, folded it in half, folded it again. “He was wasteful with his money—always outrunning the constable—but I can’t imagine him selling information . . .” His frowned deepened. He shook his head. “Inconceivable!” And then he hesitated, and said, “And yet I can more readily believe it’s him than Matlock or Houghton.”
The landlord entered the parlor. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Reid, but your man’s arrived. I’ve settled ’im in his room, and he’s wishful to see you.”
“Excellent.” Reid stood. “Come on in, Green.”
Mr. Green stepped shyly into the room. Clean-shaven, he was even younger than Letty had thought. Twenty? Twenty-one? No scent of the stables accompanied him into the parlor. He looked as if he’d scrubbed himself to within an inch of his life.
“Your wages,” Reid said, placing the money on the table. “Plus what Busbee owed you for your belongings. Plus your watch.”
Letty almost laughed at Green’s expression. He couldn’t have looked more incredulous if Reid had conjured the items out of thin air.
“Are those the only clothes you have? Did Busbee sell the rest?”
Green swallowed, and found his voice. “Most of them, sir.”
“I suggest you spend the rest of the afternoon replenishing your wardrobe. I shan’t need you until evening.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”
Letty waited until the boy had gone. “You’ve acquired a worshipper.”
“Me?” Reid’s face stiffened, as if she’d slapped him. “I’m the last person anyone should worship.”
Letty eyed him thoughtfully—and returned to the subject they’d been discussing. “Where does Cuthbertson live? Do you know?”
“Near Exeter.”
Exeter? Letty was dismayed. “Exeter is . . . rather far.”
“Yes.” Reid leaned his shoulders against the wall.
They looked at each other for a long moment. Letty thought about the deception required to travel to Exeter in Reid’s company—and then she thought about the three scouts and the justice they were owed. “It could be done,” she said, finally. “West to Bristol, south to Exeter, back to London. A week. Maybe ten days.”
“Eliza?”
Letty considered this question. “She’ll come with us. I shall take her to the lying-in hospital myself, when I reach London.”
Reid’s mouth compressed.
“What?” Letty said. “Have you something against the girl?”
Reid lifted his brows. “Eliza? Of course not.”
“Then, what?” Why did he not look pleased? “Have you changed your mind? Do you not want to pursue this?”
Reid looked away from her.
“What?”
Silence grew in the room, then Reid looked back at her. “I want to pursue it.” His voice resonated with truthfulness. “But I dislike the risk to your reputation. I dislike being indebted to you.”
“I suggest you reconcile yourself to it,” Letty said briskly. “Because I want to see this to its end.”
Later that afternoon, while Reid was at the posting inn arranging conveyance to Wiltshire on Saturday, Letty slipped out to visit the apothecary. A bell tinkled above her head as she stepped inside the cool quietness of the shop. Mingled scents filled her nose: lavender and sal volatile and a dozen others she didn’t recognize.
The shop was a small one, with row upon row of shelves crammed with bottles and flasks and jars and vials. A thin, balding man stood behind the counter, mixing a liquid. To one side of the counter, in an upright chair, sat an elderly woman tucked all around with shawls, busily knitting. She had the sunken mouth and cheeks of the toothless, and large arthritic knuckles. Letty spared her a glance, and stepped up to the counter.
“Won’t be a moment, ma’am,” the apothecary said.
Letty waited while the man poured his liquid into a tiny flask and inserted a stopper. Click click click, went the knitting needles.
The apothecary brushed his hands tidily together and smiled at her. “How may I help you, ma’am?”
“My husband suffers from insomnia,” Letty said. “He refuses to take laudanum. Have you something else that would help him sleep?”
“Sleep,” the old woman cackled.
The apothecary pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has he tried valerian?”
“I don’t know.”
“Valerian,” the old woman cackled. Click click click.
“The taste is . . .” The apothecary’s nose wrinkled. “I’ll let you smell it.”
He crossed to one of the tall shelves, took down a flask filled with dark brown liquid, and removed the stopper. A smell wafted out, pungent and musty.
“Not very pleasant, is it?” The apothecary reinserted the stopper.
It was very unpleasant, in Letty’s opinion. And overpowering; the valerian had quite smothered the other scents in the shop. “How does it compare to laudanum?”
“Laudanum,” the old woman cackled, her knitting needles going click click click.
“Oh, much milder, and not at all addictive. It’s not an opiate. It won’t put him out, but it will help him drop off. The effect isn’t instantaneous; it might take an hour or more.”
Letty thought about it for a moment. “I’ll take some,” she decided.
The apothecary carefully poured some valerian into a vial and sealed it with a cork.
“How much does one take?”
“One teaspoon.”
Letty took her purse from her reticule and paid. Click click click, went the knitting needles.
“I hope it helps your husband to sleep,” the apothecary said politely, handing her the vial.
“Sleep?” cackled the old woman. “There’s two things as make men sleep. Liquor and sex. Liquor and sex.”
The apothecary blushed a puce color. “Please excuse my mother, ma’am. She’s a little touched. Doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Letty assured him, choking back a laugh.
Click click click, went the knitting needles. “Three husbands I had, and they was all the same. The feather bed jig allus sent ’em straight to sleep.”
Letty bit the tip of her tongue. The apothecary’s blush intensified. Even his balding pate reddened. He hastened out from behind his counter, ushered Letty to the door, and opened it for her. Tinkle, went the bell, and click click click, went the knitting needles. “Nothing like a good tumble to put a man to sleep,” the old woman said.
The apothecary practically pushed Letty out the door. The bell tinkled again as it shut. “Mother!” she heard him say in a faint, anguished voice.