Chapter Five

The old woman across from him wasn’t knitting.

It had taken him half the trip to London to realize it, but the tiny woman wasn’t actually knitting. It was a very good facsimile. The rhythmic click of the needles and the steady looping of yarn would have fooled almost anyone into thinking the bag tucked neatly in the woman’s lap was being steadily filled with some sort of shawl or scarf similar to the one wrapped over her head and shoulders.

Only two things marred her ruse.

One, she’d snagged the yarn a bit about half a mile back, nearly sending one of her knitting needles to the floor. The flawed section of yarn had just passed through her fingers for the third time.

Two, Derek knew how to knit. Once he’d given the woman his attention instead of trying to understand the strange scene he’d left behind in Wiltshire, it was soon obvious that she was only going through the motions. Literally.

Derek turned the page on his book, using the excuse of the tightly packed mail coach to pull his arms closer in to his sides and lift the book just a bit higher so he could peer over the top of it at the old woman.

When she’d boarded the coach at the last moment, she’d been nothing more than another faceless passenger headed for London. Derek’s mind certainly hadn’t been on picking apart his travel companions.

He’d been too busy trying to understand why, when Jess had been in such an all-fired rush earlier in the day, yesterday evening she’d calmly suggested he travel to London to seek out one of the paintings and find the connection.

Alone.

With a scowl and a shrug, she’d said, “I do believe one of us might not arrive if we attempted to travel together, Mr. Thornbury. Go to London. Write me what you find.”

Go to London? Write her? When he’d informed her that he couldn’t simply up and leave, she’d raised one of those perfect, delicate eyebrows at Lady Chemsford, who had immediately agreed that his cataloguing of the house could wait.

He’d nearly refused on principle, but the combined scrutiny of the women in the house convinced him that leaving was in his best interest. He would go to William, Lord Chemsford, who was currently in London. Perhaps the man would have some insight into why Jess was acting the way she was. He could at least explain his wife’s part in the circumstances.

Even if Derek did manage to find one of the paintings and match it up to the diary, what would he do with it? There were numerous paintings described in the diary. Would one painting tell him anything?

No, the more he thought about it, the entire exchange made no sense. He’d been over and over the entire conversation, and all he’d gotten was a sore head.

Perhaps the non-knitting woman was a puzzle he could actually unravel. Learning the secrets of one woman might give him the confidence and insight to solve those of another.

At first glance, she was an older woman. At second glance as well. He narrowed his gaze. The assumption even held on closer inspection.

Her shoulders were rounded and lumpy. Her short, stocky body was covered in several thick layers, despite the warmth of the full carriage. The knitting needles moved continuously, a slight tremor making them click more.

In rare moments of silence when the road was especially smooth and their coach companions especially quiet, the slight rattle of her breath joined the clack of needles.

Hidden treasure, coded diaries, and Jess herself had obviously addled his mind. Why else would he be trying to turn this little old woman into something else? Admittedly, the false knitting was strange, but it was keeping her occupied, so why did he care?

He turned back to his book, but still something about the old woman nagged at him. His gaze wandered her direction just in time to see the snagged yarn slip through her fingers again.

Something was definitely wrong.

This woman obviously wasn’t a painting—the movement and rattled breathing clearly indicated that she was among the living—but perhaps he could examine her as if she were.

Starting at the top, he inspected details. Strands of silver hair poked around the edge of the knitted head scarf, which, combined with the down-turned position, blocked the entirety of the woman’s face from view.

Assuming it was a woman. If he was going to start thinking that all was not as it appeared, he had to welcome all possibilities. What if it were a man dressed as a woman for some obscure, ridiculous reason?

Before he could stop it, his hand slid along the front of his coat, ensuring that the diary was still tucked neatly inside his pocket.

The suspicion that it might be otherwise left him feeling ridiculous. He wriggled uncomfortably and let his gaze drop to the busily knitting hands. Or rather, the busily not-knitting hands.

Like the head and shoulders, the hands were covered in yarn in the form of knitted gloves that left only the dirty tips of her fingers exposed.

A shudder rolled through him as he looked at the filthiness of the fingertips. Most of the travelers had grabbed a meat pie at the last inn, where they’d stopped to change horses. Had she eaten with such grubby hands?

The satchel in her lap told him nothing. Neither did the drab skirt that could have been either black or dark blue. She wasn’t any wider than her bag, though, so it was unlikely to be a man.

Probably she was exactly who she appeared to be. A bit light in the attic, perhaps, but harmless in the way most little old ladies traveling home from taking the medicinal waters in Bath would be.

With a shake of his head, Derek lowered his book and tried once more to read. He spared one last glance at the old woman to complete his perusal.

Only the toes of her worn brown boots peeped out from beneath the dark hem, but it was just enough to see that one of them bore a long, thin, familiar scratch across the top.

Loop, loop, loop. Click, click, click.

Jess acknowledged and then ignored the line of sweat down her back that had turned from a trickle into a steady stream of discomfort. With its thick wig and abundance of wool coverings, her old lady disguise was overly warm at the best of times.

A hot, confined carriage during the heat of a waning summer was far from the best of times.

The monotonous motions of her fake knitting efforts weren’t enough to fully occupy her mind, but they were all she had. Her fellow riders didn’t require a lot of attention. Even if those threatening her brother had managed to track Jess to Marlborough, they couldn’t have known she was going to be on this mail coach or have had time to plant an informant among the people who had climbed aboard ahead of her.

She herself hadn’t decided to travel this way until last night, or, really, very early this morning.

Even if they’d been watching and suspected she was the hobbling old woman, the mail coach would arrive in London long before they could follow it. She would be so lost in the bustle of the large city that they would never find her in time.

Jess stifled a yawn and peeked across the carriage at Mr. Thornbury. He was reading a book, pulling his arms in close and holding it high in the confines of the carriage.

He’d looked suspicious at her urging that he travel to London alone in search of the paintings. She couldn’t blame him. In the end, she’d insisted and he’d given in, packing his bags to catch the mail the next day.

There had never been any question of Jess going to London as well, even though she had no intention of remaining in that irritating man’s company while she did so. She would keep an eye on him while he did his searching, which would likely take him a while. In the meantime, she would do some of her own investigating, learning more about the situation and the direness of interpreting the diary.

The noise outside the coach grew as they approached the outer edges of London. Jess resisted the urge to straighten her back and stretch. Every inch of her ached from holding this hunched position, but it was hardly the first time she’d suffered for a disguise. Aches would fade. Anonymity wouldn’t.

If only there’d been more than one mail coach headed to London from Marlborough today, she’d have been able to use one of her more comfortable disguises. The old lady was the best at disguising her face, though.

Finally, with a loud holler and the clatter of wheels, the mail coach pulled into its first London innyard. Jess waited, meticulously tucking her knitting into her satchel with shaky hands while the rest of the occupants disembarked. As she climbed down last, the trembling she’d had to work at earlier in the day was a good deal more authentic than she would like, given the ache in her muscles and the burning desire to stretch them properly.

She collected her second satchel from the baggage pile and hobbled toward the inn head down, dragging her foot slightly the way the old shopkeeper in Marlborough did.

That old lady scared Jess a bit, with her exuberant insistence on nosing her way into Jess’s life, never the slightest bit intimidated by scowls or silence. That frail determination made a fabulous inspiration, though.

Just a few more steps. Once she found a secluded spot, she’d switch disguises and be able to walk freely into the city.

“May I help you with your bag, madam?”

Jess nearly groaned. Of course the scholarly Mr. Thornbury wouldn’t be so caught up in his own business that he would neglect an old lady struggling a bit with her bag.

Making a point to cough loudly before talking and keeping a great deal of air in her words, she said, “Quite all right, young man. I’m not in any hurry. Either I’ll get there eventually or the Good Lord will take me on the way.”

Mr. Thornbury snickered. “Delightful. Did Mrs. Lancaster help you with that line? I could see her saying such a thing.”

As a matter of fact, that had been a saying Jess had picked up from the shopkeeper. The way she spouted Bible verses as if God was concerned about the condition of her bread was a bit strange but gave evidence to the source of her inner strength.

But how could Mr. Thornbury possibly have recognized the old woman in Jess? He couldn’t know. Was he assuming she was a resident of Marlborough? Everyone who lived there knew Mrs. Lancaster.

“Afraid I don’t know a Lancaster, son,” Jess said with a bit of extra rasp. “Run along. Don’t let me keep you.”

He sighed and moved his own satchel to his left hand before reaching down to grasp her larger bag in his right.

It was either give up the ruse and wrestle him for it or let him take it. Little old women who shuffled across courtyards didn’t have very strong grips. If she’d had her knitting needles out, she’d have poked him with one.

She let him take the bag. It wasn’t as if he weren’t a trustworthy fellow. He was almost annoyingly—and dangerously—honest. “As you wish, then.”

He laughed again. She wasn’t sure she’d heard him do that much at Haven Manor. Grudgingly, she admitted it was a nice sound. Too many people sounded grating when they laughed. His was mellow, even, warm.

His head lowered until she had to hunch over farther to keep him from seeing her face. “Do you intend to maintain this pace for your entire visit to London? That should make it easy for whoever you’re hiding from.”

Jess gritted her teeth. No one ever saw through her disguises. This man couldn’t possibly be the first. “Can’t walk any faster than I’m able. But don’t let me keep you. Just set my bag at the door and be on about your business.”

Another sigh. “Jess, must we continue this? What are you doing in that mess of wool?”

Apparently sweating herself to death for no reason. Giving up the rasp, she whispered, “Get a private dining room and order a meal. I’ll be there presently.”

He waited for a moment, keeping pace with her shuffling gait. “Is there actually anything in this bag?”

“Wouldn’t bother carrying it if there weren’t,” Jess grumbled.

He didn’t respond, simply strode on toward the inn, presumably to follow Jess’s instructions. Nerves and indignation joined the aching in her muscles, making the shaking more pronounced as she plodded on.

Had Daphne told him what to look for? No, she didn’t know Jess’s ability to disappear in plain sight—hadn’t even known Jess intended to go to London.

Jess felt a bit bad about that, actually. The poor woman might not know she didn’t have a cook in residence until someone informed her no one was fixing dinner.

There was a note for her to find when she went looking for Jess, telling her not to worry.

Not that it would do any good. Daphne always worried.

Once in the inn, Jess stopped by the retiring room for a moment of privacy, as much to stretch her back properly as anything else. She couldn’t shed the disguise, though, not until she’d dealt with Mr. Thornbury.

Was he more than he appeared? She knew some spies who cultivated a single disguise for years, buried so deep it altered who they were. Was he one of those? Had danger been under her nose?

The man wore a self-satisfied smirk as she shuffled into the room he’d secured. That smirk gave her a sense of peace, even as it irritated her. A professional informant wouldn’t be crowing over his success at identifying her. He’d be stoic, ready to interrogate her.

The smirk wasn’t taunting. It was the look of a child excited that he managed to get the best of his parents.

No, the man wasn’t a spy.

Perhaps that meant she’d lost a bit of skill in her years of hiding.

He said nothing as she hobbled into the room, maintaining the ruse in front of the maids delivering the food. As he rose to hold out a chair for her, she prepared to kick or poke him if he said anything in front of the servants.

All he did was thank them for seeing to the comfort of his grandmother as she settled in the chair.

Her foot twitched in a desire to kick him anyway, but he circled the table quickly to return to his own seat. Well, she’d always freely admitted that the man was smart.

Once the door closed behind the servants, she lifted her head to spear him with what she hoped was a withering glare that showed not an inkling of the unbidden respect she felt that he was able to see through her disguise. “How did you know?”

He paused. “Aside from the fact that you weren’t really knitting?” He reached for the food with a slight shrug. “Your boots.”

Her boots? Jess pushed the chair back and lifted both her feet out in front of her. She saw the telltale sign immediately—a slash across the toe of her left boot. Who knew where it had come from?

That thin white line was a sign that she had gotten much too comfortable in her country seclusion. She knew never to wear anything with identifiable markings, but it hadn’t even crossed her mind to check her normal clothing items before using them.

With a grumbling sigh she lowered her feet back to the floor. “Now I’m going to have to buy new boots.”

Mr. Thornbury laughed and pushed a bowl of stew and chunk of bread in her direction. “That’s all you’re going to say? That you need new boots?”

Jess reached for a spoon. What else did he want her to say? “Someone is trying to find me and the diary. If my boots give my identity away, they need to be replaced.”

He shook his head. “If someone is trying to find you, as you say, they wouldn’t know about a mark on your boots. We’re working together, so of course you weren’t hiding from me. I’m sure you had every intention of revealing yourself once we were safely in town.”

She glanced up to see if he truly believed his words. He didn’t. His eyebrows were lifted in exaggerated innocence even as he glared in accusation.

The last thing she could tell him, though, was the truth. If he knew there were parts of this situation she had no intention of sharing with him, he’d refuse to help her.

Already he was far too curious for her own good. If he learned how much of a past she really had, he’d be even more so. “I wasn’t sure if you would be able to manage not saying something while in the coach.”

Close enough to the truth to be believable. He didn’t need to know how deep her lack of trust went.

“You think the other person who wants this diary was on that coach?” he asked with a frown.

Did the man not have any pride? She’d all but accused him of having loose lips and no discretion, and he wanted to focus on her potential danger?

“I don’t know who the other person is,” she said with a shrug. The memory of the man with a scar caused a spurt of childlike fear. It was almost enough to make her abandon the search for the hidden object, whatever it may be. Her memory of family, though, particularly the memory of her father’s conviction that the past could preserve the future, spurred her on.

Even if she, more than anyone, knew the past could never truly be recovered.

They fell into the quiet rhythms of hungry travelers until he broke the silence by saying, “Now that we are both here, does that change the plan moving forward?”

“We are not here,” Jess said, picking up her bread. “You are here. Go on to Chemsford’s. Continue on as you intended.”

“And what will you be doing?”

Hiding and spying on him probably wasn’t the best thing to admit. “I have a few contacts who might know something.”

She gave a nonchalant shrug, even though she was anything but blasé about the situation. Mr. Thornbury knowing she was in town made her task a bit more difficult, but nothing overly worrisome. Returning to the people she disappeared from when she went into hiding three years ago, though, was going to be less than pleasant.

It didn’t escape her notice that they’d tracked her down when they had a warning to deliver, but not before. Perhaps they were too angry at her to help much more.

She took a bite of crusty bread, ripping her teeth into it more forcefully than necessary before relaxing enough to chew with a bit of delicacy. The bread might as well be savored. It was going to taste a good sight better than the humble pie she would soon be eating.