Henry was a man trapped in a gilded cage of his own making. He might have rattled the bars on the road, but men like him didn't break the locks. They had too much to lose. By the morning of the third day, the rain stopped, leaving the village steeped in a thick, clinging fog.
Norah dressed. The black gown was stiff from the soap, the collar scratching her neck. She walked downstairs to the taproom. The morning crowd was sparse, a few farmers drinking small beer, a merchant complaining about the roads.
The chatter died the moment her boot hit the bottom stair. Norah kept her spine rigid. She walked to the counter. "Mrs. Higgins, I require a seat on the mail coach to London tomorrow morning."
The innkeeper wiped a rag across the scarred wood, not meeting Norah's eyes. "Coach is full, Miss Lynfield." "It is a Tuesday. The coach is never full on a Tuesday."
Mrs. Higgins sighed, a heavy, tired sound. She leaned over the bar. "Word came down from the Penhalagon estate yesterday noon. The steward himself wrote through."
"Anyone who aids you, hires you, or transports you loses the Penhalagon business. I took the Duke's coin for your room, and I'll honor the three nights. But I can't sell you a ticket. I have a family to feed."
The trap had sprung. Victoria had not merely fired her. She was starving her out. It was a sterile, bloodless execution.
"I understand," Norah said. Her voice did not shake. She would not give them the satisfaction of a tremor. She turned and walked back up the stairs.
In her room, she sat on the edge of the narrow bed and opened her canvas satchel. She counted her coins. She had enough to walk to the next county and buy perhaps four loaves of bread. She would leave at dawn.
She did not need a carriage, and she certainly did not need a Duke. She was Norah Lynfield. She had survived cold houses, cruel aunts, and the bottom of a lake. She would survive the road.
She spent the rest of the day packing her meager belongings, folding the damp towel, ignoring the hard, tight knot of betrayal forming in her chest as the sun began to set on the third day. He was not coming. She was angry at herself for ever believing he would. Henry sat in the leather wingback chair in Lord Richard Penhalagon's private study.
He did not lean back. His posture was impeccable, his expression entirely devoid of emotion. Across the mahogany desk, Richard's face was the color of bruised plum. Victoria stood by the fireplace, her hands twisted in the silk of her skirt, her pale eyes darting frantically between her father and her fiancé.
"You are breaking the contract," Richard spat, slamming a fist onto the desk. The crystal inkwell rattled. "Over a clumsy servant? Over a hysterical misunderstanding by a pond?"