Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty-Five, Part 2

It only took twenty minutes to make it to Charing Cross, but once there, they hadn't a clue where to look or even whether they were on the right track. The crossing was not just busy, but frenzied, horses and carriages everywhere and a steady stream of business on and off the river craft docked at the wharf. By Nick's pocket watch, it had been almost two hours since Bella had left his house.

Nick stared at Firthley in sheer bewilderment, unable to make the least decision out of fear of making the wrong one. Firthley took the reins and directed the carriage slowly through the crush to the Royal Mews.

"We need riding horses, and it will be fastest to borrow them from the king. I daresay Prinny won't begrudge the loan. If we are lucky, someone there will help in the pursuit."

Both the Duke of Wellbridge and the Marquess of Firthley were familiar, at least by name, to the equerry in charge of the king's stables, so they were quickly able to make their needs known. Without delay, two of the fastest available mounts were saddled, Nick's horse was being fed, watered, groomed, and stabled, and three soldiers had mounted to follow them. A contingent of half a dozen men prepared to take the Dover Road, another group left for Gretna Green, and another began a search of the Westminster docks.

Once mounted, Firthley turned his horse toward the nearest coaching inn, the Golden Cross.

"Where are you going?" Nick snapped. "We have no time to stop for a pot of ale."

Firthley held the reins tightly, his horse dancing to and fro in anticipation of a hard run. "With so little time, it beseems we should ask questions before making guesses. If you'd like to fly off willy-nilly, I will catch you up when I know something of use."

Firthley ducked his head walking the horse though the archway to the courtyard, where the activity was just as frenetic as the pier. Nick followed him into unending chaos. On two sides of the square, three floors of rooms were stacked like a layer cake, a cacophony rising from the walls—children crying, parents yelling, men and women in various stages of intimate congress, coachmen barking orders to grooms and multiple businessmen all demanding their loads be handled first. The third side of the building housed a stable and feed barn emitting its own earsplitting noise, and the fourth wall, through which Firthley had just entered, was the façade facing the tumultuous street.

Nick looked back toward the road as he entered the courtyard, hands sending mixed signals to his horse—forward, back, this way, that. The poor animal was only moments from shying in all the commotion. Two of the soldiers fell back to keep watch at the entrance, and the third followed Nick and Firthley to back up their claims.

Without dismounting, Firthley barked at the nearest groom: "I am the Marquess of Firthley, and this," he pointed at Nick, "is the Duke of Wellbridge. A gold crown to the first man to provide the information we require."

Suddenly, four different grooms and a stable boy no more than ten surrounded them, and a second ring of witnesses formed behind, interested parties who knew nothing but wanted to hear everything. The odor of the stable alone would not have bothered Nick, but added to the pungent privy holes that served the whole building, the aroma was almost more than he could stand, so covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Which still smelled of Bella.

"I'm looking for a Frenchman," Firthley announced, "dark hair and eyes, possibly dressed in black. He has a woman with him—red-blond hair; she may have appeared drunk or unconscious."

Nick added, "She was wearing red. Red and gold. Like her hair." Nick looked at Firthley through the imagined veil of her lavender-lilac hair. He had buried his nose in it not two hours since, and it smelled just like his sleeve. The marquess snapped his fingers before Nick's eyes, clearing the vision.