Page 8 of A Daring Pursuit

Noah stared into the fire, listening to the rustle of silk, aware of the door latching behind her. Aware of his lack of response to her chaste kiss.

That click rattled through the vast spaces in his chest. He held up his glass, the fire turning the color to a dark, murky shade he couldn’t name. So, this was what impending nuptials felt like.

A prisoner of one’s own body with no hope for reprieve for the rest of one’s sorry, vacant life.

Chapter Three

The price washell and Geneva was on her way to collect. With her dear friend Abra at her side, of course.

Geneva stared out at the passing landscape from the newly christened East Coast Main Line and let the anger roiling inside carry her determination to fruition. The Earl of Pender had stolen from her one too many times. The most important? Her mother.

The rail coach’s jerking motion left her feeling somewhat ill, but not enough to derail her mission. Besides, they’d been on this blasted train for ten hours. “I don’t see much hope for a future in passenger rail travel.”

“You need to calm down, Gen. This is the fastest mode of travel available, as you well know. Rail travel is here to stay, you mark my words. You’re just scared,” Abra added softly. “The earl you’re planning to confront is a very powerful man.” She pointed to Geneva’s tapping foot. “That hasn’t slowed once since we boarded. Did you even nap?”

Geneva’s foot stilled, knowing her friend was right—shewasscared. She glanced to the corner, where Pasha dozed without stirring. “No.” She turned a glare at her friend. “I did try.”

Abra moved her attention back to her periodical. “Mmm.”

A tap sounded on the door and a stiff porter looked in. His glance went to Abra with a frown then turned to Geneva. “Ten minutes to Alnmouth Station, miss.”

“Thank you,” Abra said. At which point the door shut a little too hard.

The unexpected episode struck the perfect degree of lightness Geneva required in the moment. She grinned for what felt like the first time since discovering her mother’s half-written note. “They hate when you do that, you know.”

“What they hate is my Jamaican heritage,” Abra returned.

“Yes.” Geneva took her hand and squeezed. “I just wish you managed your peers with such aplomb,” she added, scowling.

Abra sighed. “I know and I love you for it.”

As promised, the train pulled into Alnmouth ten minutes later. The station bustled with activity, travelers hugging loved ones, children running in all directions on the concrete platform. Geneva stepped onto solid ground, her body still vibrating from the train’s rough rhythm.

The early morning air was fresh and damp with dew. She drew in a bracing breath as she, Abra, and Pasha made their way past the small ticket office, through the moderate-sized, brick building. It appeared to serve as a waiting area of sorts with large, mullioned windows that lined the ceiling, the walls, even the doors that let in loads of natural light. Benches lined both walls of the long, echoing building, but hardly anyone was sitting through the mass of chaos.

They carried their own portmanteaus and once out the doors on the front side of the station, Geneva located the livery stable instantly. “This way,” she said. Cloaking herself in sheer determination, she threw her shoulders back and marched right up to the stablemaster. “I’m in need of a carriage.”

He looked her up and down, frowning. “Where ye headed?”

Abra answered in her poshest Lady Abra voice. “Stonemare.”

Geneva nodded. “We have urgent business with the Earl of Pender.”

The grizzled man tugged at his old-fashioned pointed beard, reminiscent of the Guy Fawkes era. “Won’t be seein’ the old earl, I reckon’.” His eyes grew calculating. “Ye drivin’ yerself?” To his credit, he didn’t appear to find umbrage with Abra. A sign Geneva took as encouraging.

“If I must,” she returned, impatience prickling her. She was so close, she could taste it.

“Ye ever handled the ribbons?”

She flashed a quick glance at Abra, whose eyes widened. “Yes,” Geneva lied.How hard could it be?

Harder than it seemed, she soon learned. The nag he’d let them was more inclined to graze alongside the road they traveled, based on the directions the stablemaster had provided, than remaining on the compacted, narrow dirt path. But Geneva was nothing if not persevering.

The hazy sun with which the morning had begun was disappearing behind darkening clouds. By the time Stonemare materialized, its turrets obscured in parts, exposing only battlements. The scene leaped from the pages of a Mrs. Radcliffe novel, complete with a pile of crumbled stone that may have actually been one of the turrets. The surprise was that the roof appeared intact atop tiles that should have withstood the elements. Even for Northumberland.

Though still early, even by country standards, a carriage was parked in the sweep.

She drew her dilapidated cart to a stop and hopped down.

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