Luke and Jack, the Pengarron estate’s head groom, were breakfasting in a small inn, situated some distance from the main thoroughfares, on the outer reaches of Plymouth. The shabby confines reeked of stale ale, pipe smoke, the fug of tallow candles and body odours, but they were dim and appreciably private. The planked door was heavily scratched and pitted, as if recipient to a number of kicks and knife blades, and the two men warily scrutinized every coming and going. The patrons included workmen and farm labourers, the occasional sailor or merchant, and quiet travellers like themselves.

Luke and Jack kept a whispered conference, knowing that they themselves provided an extraordinary sight, both bearing bandages on their hands, scorched and blistered in the fire. Jack also had a dressing across his forehead.

‘Has the lady risen from her bed?’ Luke’s voice was hoarse from the lingering effects of smoke.

‘No. She spent the darkness in nightmares again. She’s worn out and went straight to sleep after the maid brought up her breakfast.’

Jack gingerly broke off a chunk of tough, greyish-coloured bread but did not carry it to his mouth. Luke was devouring the cold meat and duck eggs like a hungry dog, but Jack had no appetite, although this had nothing to do with his split bottom lip and bruised chin. Every so often he was overcome by a wave of nausea, an outbreak of sweat. When he held his head up, the inadequacy of the dressing revealed a gash on his left temple, the flesh red and purple and swollen.

‘Unfortunate for us to have had to pass so many days in the saddle, but to travel by post coach was a risk we could not take. We need to be circumspect.’

Jack remained quiet, still not eating but drinking from his tankard of porter.

Luke surveyed Jack’s temporary disfigurements and the similar ones on his own hands. His chest ached from a cracked rib and he braced himself as the need to cough overwhelmed him. He wiped at his mouth in disgust. Would he never get this foul taste of smoke out of his throat? He sipped his porter, savouring this more soothing burn as he swallowed.

‘My mama will not be pleased with me, Jack. When I talked you into accompanying me to London, I promised her I’d look after you. We’re both returning exhausted and dishevelled and injured. I apologize for the miserable times you’ve had. Horses are your forte, not acting as a manservant… and our other activities. I took you away from your little cottage a sober Methodist and have turned you into a hearty imbiber, and worse. We planned to look over stock for the horse stud, and never did. Nor did I look up my cousins; Miss Cordelia will not be pleased with me.’