Because he knew her, because she was so much like him—at the first sign of something potentially disturbing, he was likely to run. And it was clear from her actions that she was the same. She had run off when her family’s plans had countered what she wanted for herself. As had he. And neither one of them had thought the future out, at least as far as he could tell. Because if she had thought it out, she would be happily married to this Mr. Baxter and not currently involved with him.

Thank God she hadn’t thought it out.

“Right,” he said at last. “I should go.”

“You’re certain—?”

“No, I don’t want you to come. Stay here and make sure Hyland doesn’t get in trouble.”

“That’s a full-time job,” Clark rejoined.

Griffith grinned, then picked up the stack of bills he’d gotten from Fred and headed out the door and down the stairs.

“Baxter?” The woman behind the bar glared at Griffith. “If you see him, he owes me money for his lodging. I’m not running a charity house here, you know.”

Griffith glanced around the pub, which showed no sign of being charitable at all. “I can see that,” he replied, noting the worn tables, the sticky shiny floors, and the broken chairs that were stacked at one end of the room.

“You are sent by the duke?”

Griffith turned at the sound of the man’s voice.

“Here he is. Baxter, you owe me money,” the woman said, slapping her hand down on the bar. “I’ll take it now before you meet with your nob.”

A nob now, am I? Griffith thought. And just a few weeks ago he had blended right in.

“Ask him for it,” Baxter said, nodding toward Griffith. “Unless you want me to go somewhere else for it?” he added, a spiteful look on his face.

Griffith exhaled as he reached into his pocket for the funds. Do not punch him out, a voice that sounded like Clark’s said in his head. At least not until you have determined he will no longer be a threat to Della, another voice added.

The last voice sounded like his own.

“That’ll do,” the woman said as Griffith dropped a bill on the table. “You’ll owe more next week,” she warned.

“I’ll be leaving soon enough, and then you’ll miss my money,” Baxter replied. The innkeeper snorted. Baxter turned to Griffith, ignoring the woman entirely. Who, it had to be said, was doing the same to him. “Shall we repair to my room? It is exceedingly dirty,” he said pointedly, “but it affords some privacy.”

“Please,” Griffith replied, gesturing for Baxter to lead them.