Trevor frowned into his glass. “They must be familiar with the landscape.”
“But they were also familiar with the Firth of Forth,” I pointed out, speaking up for the first time since my entrance. There was still a slight quaver in my voice from my continued chill. “I think it’s far more likely they simply did their research.”
“Which doesn’t sound like the typical body-snatching ruffians I’ve encountered,” Gage said, looking up from his unhappy contemplation of the fire. “So either we’re dealing with a group of men far more resourceful and organized than the typical grave robber, or someone has hired these resurrectionists to do their dirty work for them.”
Several of the men nodded and murmured to each other in agreement. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the innkeeper wiping down the tables nearby, his ears turned our way, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation. It was likely the most interesting discussion he’d heard in quite some time.
“And we still don’t have any clue as to why?” I added.
Gage’s eyes met mine, and his mouth flattened into a humorless grin.
If these body snatchers were more than simple street thugs stumbled onto a scheme to earn more cash, then the likelihood of money being the motive, or at least the only motive, was looking more dubious.
I stared into the depths of my mug. If the thieves were this clever, then how were we ever going to catch them? What if they decided to play it safe and quit now before they were caught? Had we just missed our last chance?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The ride back to Blakelaw House was nothing but misery for me. I’d just gotten comfortable in front of the fire at The Plough and had nearly dozed off in my warm nest of blankets, when the gentlemen decided it was time to go. Trevor offered to return home and send the carriage after me, but that would mean rousing the coachman and a footman or two from their beds. I could take a room for the night at the inn, but again that meant waking the innkeeper’s sleeping wife to ready a room—one with a cold hearth—for me.
Instead, I forced myself to my feet, spurred on by the promise of a warm bedchamber and the comfort of my own bed. Even so, every muscle in my body ached from the chill and the exertion of the long ride we’d already taken that night. At several points on our journey home, I nearly begged to turn back, too exhausted to go on. Gage and Trevor flanked me, blocking me from as much of the wind as they could manage, even though I knew they must have been just as cold and sore as I was. I endured, only because I really had no other choice.
They helped me down from my horse and into the house, where they handed me off to the capable hands of my maid. Bree, it appeared, had been up waiting for me all night, and it could not be many hours until dawn. She hustled me upstairs and out of my clothing, stiff with cold and the occasional mist of chilling rain we’d encountered during the last leg of our journey. I shivered in delight as she dropped a warm woolen nightgown she’d been heating by the fire around my shoulders and helped me push my arms into the sleeves. Then tucking me up under the thick coverlets on my bed, she went to answer the knock at my door.
I stretched my feet down toward the delightful heat of the hot cloth-wrapped bricks she had placed under the sheets. Earl Grey had already found that source of warmth and curled up at the bottom of the bed. Bree returned to hand me a steaming cup of tea, helping me to drink my first sip as my hands were still shaking. After they’d stilled, she left me to rest back against the pillows while she gathered up my discarded clothes.
I watched her bustle about, savoring the warmth of the bedding and the fragrant tea as it settled into my bones. But as the moment stretched on, I couldn’t help but compare it to a similar situation which had occurred just a few months earlier, when my previous maid and the Dalmays’ housekeeper tried to comfort me after Will’s death, and my own brush with mortality. The thought left a cold lump in my chest.
I set the half-full teacup on the nightstand, no longer able to stomach the drink.
It had been days since I’d thought of William Dalmay in more than passing, and that realization unsettled me more than anything. It was a good thing, a necessary thing, I knew, for my healing, but it still made me anxious. After all, it had been only a little over two months. Should it be this easy to forget such a tragedy, to forget a friend?
I swallowed hard against the sudden urge to be sick, and looked up in surprise when I felt Bree’s cool hand press against my forehead. I had not even noticed her approach.
“Not comin’ doon wi’ somethin’ from the chill, are ye?” she asked gently.
I shook my head.
Her warm, whiskey brown eyes were kind as she searched mine. “Sure?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and turned away, tossing another garment over her arm.