Sheri Cobb South Read Free Page A

argument.
    The journey recommenced a short time later, and it must be stated that this stage passed far more pleasantly than the one which had preceded it. Two of the passengers had disembarked at Littledean and only one newcomer replaced them, to the patent relief of the other travelers. Of those who remained, the stout man, now fully awake, ceased to snore, and the child, his hunger satiated, fell asleep on his mother’s bosom. James returned to his book, but was startled and slightly disturbed on two occasions when he glanced up from the page and saw the wiry man in the rear-facing seat staring malevolently in his direction. James quickly dismissed this fanciful notion as the result of reading gothic novels, and resolved that the next time he travelled, he would purchase a newspaper instead.
    As the coach neared the village of Montford, it veered unexpectedly around a curve. James, bracing himself in order to avoid tumbling against the mother and child, glanced toward the window, and beheld a vision. Framed against the horizon, a massive brick house built in the Palladian style sat atop a distant hill, its numerous arched windows blindingly reflecting the afternoon sun. Instinctively, James leaned toward the window for a better view.
    Seeing his reaction, the mother shifted the child higher on her lap and bestowed a smug smile upon James. “That’s Montford Priory, seat of his Grace, the duke of Montford,” she said with all the pride of a native. “It’s empty now, so far as I can tell. The old duke died several months back, and we’ve not yet seen hair nor hide of the new one.”
    “I hope he proves worthy of such magnificence,” James murmured, his eyes never straying from the house until a bend in the road once again hid it from view.
    A short time later the coach barreled into the village proper and lurched to a stop before the Pig and Whistle. James disembarked, along with the woman, her sleepy child, and the two men in the rear-facing seat. Having glimpsed his destination, James did not linger inside the posting-house to ask for directions, but collected his belongings and set out for Montford Priory on foot, his portmanteau thumping out a rhythm against his knee with every step.
    He had traveled perhaps a quarter of a mile when he realized that he was not the only one of the stagecoach passengers heading in that direction: the wiry little man and his stout companion followed at a distance of some fifty yards. As James could not recall having passed any more likely destinations, he wondered if they too had business at Montford Priory; if so, theirs could only be business of a temporary nature, as they had apparently left their bags at the Pig and Whistle.
    Whatever their destination, James observed a few moments later, they were in a remarkable hurry to reach it. The fifty yards between them had quickly closed to a scant twenty feet. As the afternoon sun threw the two men’s lengthening shadows across James’s path, he looked over his shoulder to speak to his fellow travelers. Before he could make eye contact, however, a beefy fist connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards amid an explosion of stars.
    Ordinarily, James was blessed with the sweetest of temperaments, but as a scrawny shabby-genteel boy attending school with the sons of England’s aristocracy, he had developed a finely honed instinct for self-preservation. Still half-blinded by pain, he nevertheless swung the heavy portmanteau with all his might. A thud and a grunt indicated that he had hit his mark, but a second vicious blow, this one to his nose, robbed him of any satisfaction he might otherwise have derived. Another arc of the portmanteau met only empty air, but the force of James’s swing was sufficient to overcome the locks. The ancient bag flew open, disgorging its contents across the road and rendering itself useless as a weapon. He flung it away and balled his fists, but before he had a chance to use them, a blow to