inn. He half-expected the inn to be named Purgatory, but a splintery sign suspended on creaking chains over the door proclaimed it the Cat and Rat. Max could only hope it was a tribute to the faded black cat with a rat hanging out of its mouth painted on the sign and not what they served for supper.
The establishment had plainly seen better days, but the cozy glow of the lamplight spilling through the windows promised a haven for the weary—and wet—traveler.
Max watched as the coachman’s outriders piled his trunks beneath the overhang of the inn’s roof, where they would at least be out of the worst of the weather. He supposed he should be grateful the lunatic hadn’t dumped him and his baggage in the middle of the moor.
The coachman scrambled back up into the driver’s seat, drawing an oilcloth hood up over his hat to shelter his dour countenance. He must be in a great hurry to escape this place, Max thought. He wasn’t even lingering long enough to change out his team or allow his outriders a bit of refreshment.
As the man gazed down at Max, shadows hid everything but the sharp glint of his eyes. “God be with you, m’lord,” he said before muttering beneath his breath, “You’ll have need o’ Him where you’re goin’.”
With that enigmatic farewell, the coachmansnapped the reins on his team’s backs, sending the carriage rocking away into the darkness.
Max stood there in the rain gazing after him, not realizing until that moment just how weary he was. This weariness had little to do with the hardships of his journey and everything to do with the thirty-three years that had preceded it. Years spent chasing a single dream only to have it slip through his fingers like a woman’s sleek blond hair just when it was finally within his grasp.
Max’s expression hardened. He wasn’t deserving of anyone’s pity, especially his own. Forcing himself to shake off his ennui along with the droplets of rain clinging to the shoulder cape of his greatcoat, he went striding toward the door of the inn.
M AX ENTERED THE INN on a tumultuous swirl of wind, rain, and damp leaves. The common room was far more crowded than he had anticipated on such an inhospitable night. Well over a dozen patrons were scattered among the mismatched tables, most of them nursing pewter tankards of ale. Max hadn’t seen any other coaches in the courtyard. Since it was the only establishment of its kind in these parts, the local villagers probably assembled there nightly to indulge in a pint—or three—before seeking out the comfort of their own beds.
A thick haze of pipe smoke hung over the room. A cheery fire crackled on the grate of the stone hearth, making Max wish he were an ordinary man who could afford the luxury of drawing off his damp gloves and warming his hands by its flames before settling in to enjoy a pint and some companionable conversation with his mates.
He tugged the door shut behind him. The wind howled a protest as it was forced to retreat. An awkward silence fell over the room as the gaze of every man and woman in the place settled on him.
Max returned their gazes coolly and without a trace of self-consciousness. He had always cut an imposing figure. For most of his life, he had only to enter a room to command it, a trait that had served him well when negotiating peace treaties between warring factions in Burma or assuring Parliament the interests of the East India Company were also the interests of the Crown. He could feel the curious stares lingering on the plush wool of his greatcoat with its multilayered shoulder capes and brass buttons, the ivory handle of the walking stick gripped in his white-gloved hand, the brushed beaver of his top hat. The last thing the patrons of the tavern had expected to blow through their door on this night—or any other—was probably a gentleman of means.
He gave them ample time to take his measurebefore announcing, “I’m looking for someone to transport me to Cadgwyck