The Flight to the Crown and Chisel
The travel from Davenport Manor — the Duke’s private study to The Crown and Chisel Inn — a modest country roadside hideout on the moors consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The hand over his was warm, a counterpoint to the cold stone of the study. Xavier’s gaze dropped to her fingers, slender and pale against his own. The last time he had touched her, she had been wearing a sprig of lavender in her hair, and the scent of summer had clung to her skin. Now, she smelled of dust and old paper, and her eyes held the furious light of a cornered general.
“We show him,” Xavier repeated, the words low. He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers. The gun on the desk between them was a black, oiled promise. “But we do not show him everything. Not yet.”
A sharp knock at the study door cut the silence. Owen’s voice, muffled but urgent: “We have five minutes before the household staff begins to stir. The livery is ready, and the carriage is at the postern gate.”
Aurora’s grip on his hand tightened. “What about the letters? The evidence?”
“We bring what we can.” Xavier released her, striding to the far wall. He pressed a carved oak panel, and a hidden compartment slid open, revealing a thick leather satchel. He had prepared it long ago, in the months after she had vanished, a testament to a hope he had refused to name. “The rest stays. A house of secrets is best left to bury its own.”
Toby was a small, silent shadow in the doorway, his fine-boned face pale. He clutched his satchel to his chest, the one with the patched elbow and the crude stitching Aurora had done by candlelight. He didn’t ask where they were going. He simply looked at the gun on the desk, then at his father’s face, and his mouth set in a familiar, stubborn line.
They moved through the manor like ghosts. Owen led the way through the servants’ passage, a narrow, rough-hewn corridor that smelled of lye and cold ashes. Dust motes danced in the sliver of moonlight that filtered through high, grated windows. The silence was profound, broken only by the rustle of their clothing and the soft scrape of their shoes on stone. Aurora kept a hand on Toby’s shoulder, her touch steadying them both. She did not look back at the portrait of her at nineteen that hung in the east corridor, the one with the naive, trusting eyes. That girl had been a fool. She was not that girl any longer.
The postern gate was a squat iron door half-swallowed by ivy. Owen pushed it open. The night air hit them, damp and cold. Fog was rolling in from the moors, thick as sheep’s wool, obscuring the world beyond a few yards. A black carriage, unmarked and unadorned, sat waiting. The horses, two dark geldings, stamped their feet and blew plumes of steam into the chill. Owen handed Aurora into the carriage, then took Toby and hoisted him up. Xavier paused before climbing in himself, his eyes scanning the swirling fog. A lone horse and rider sat silhouetted on a distant rise, watching. When Xavier blinked, the figure was gone.
He said nothing.
Inside the carriage, the world shrank to the rhythmic clatter of wheels and the jingle of harness. Thick velvet curtains blocked the cold, and a single oil lamp swung from the ceiling, casting dancing shadows. Toby fell asleep against Aurora’s side, his small body a familiar weight. She did not speak, her gaze fixed on the dark drape across the window. Xavier sat across from her, the satchel clutched in his arms. The distance between them was the width of a carriage, and the space of seven years.
The ride was long, the roads rough. They did not ask where they were going. Owen knew where to take them. When the carriage finally rolled to a stop, the fog had thickened to a near-solid wall. Xavier stepped out into a world of grey, the Crown and Chisel Inn little more than a dark, low-slung shape clinging to the edge of the moor. It was an ancient place, its stone walls thick and its windows shuttered tight. A wooden sign creaked overhead in the wind, the painted crown and chisel barely visible in the gloom. No other lights were visible. No other signs of life. It was a place a man came to be forgotten.
Owen secured the horses in a lean-to stable, while Xavier carried a half-asleep Toby over the threshold. The common room was a single large space, dominated by a massive hearth. A fire had been laid but not lit. The innkeeper, a stooped man with rheumy eyes and no questions, led them to a suite of rooms upstairs without a word. The floors were thick with dust, the furnishings heavy and dark. It was not the Rotherham, but it was shelter.
Aurora set a sleeping Toby on a narrow bed and drew the blankets up to his chin. She watched his face for a long moment, the familiar curve of his cheek, the way his lips parted in sleep. Then she turned to the window. The glass was cold. Fog pressed against it, obscuring everything but the faintest smear of grey where the courtyard below should be. She could not see the road. She could not see the moor. She could not see the man on the ridge.
“We should not have come here,” she said, her breath misting the glass. “Victor Sterling has informants everywhere. It would have been safer to keep moving.”
Xavier stood in the doorway. He had shrugged off his heavy coat and turndown the collar of his collar. A sheen of cold damp still clung to his dark hair. “Victor is in the village, a mile away. He is expecting a panicked duel at dawn, or a chase down the London road. He is not expecting us to be stationary.” He gestured to the satchel. “He is not expecting us to have proof.”
Aurora turned from the window. “Proof of what? That he tried to have me killed? That he has been manipulating the courts and the banks for years? We are two people in a drafty inn on the moor. He owns the magistrates. He owns the constables. He even owns the inkeeper’s silence.” She paused, her chin lifting. “But he does not own the horse that can outrun his message.”
A gust of wind rattled the windowpane. Xavier moved to the fireplace and knelt, coaxing a flame from the dry tinder. “The fire will be seen. A lonely chimney on a night like this is a beacon.”
“Owen is downstairs, bolting the doors,” Aurora said. “If anyone comes, he will give us time.”
The fire caught, and light danced in the room. Xavier rose, dusting off his knees. He looked at her then, full and open, and Aurora felt the familiar lurch of her heart. He had been a boy when she knew him, all coiled energy and rebellious charm. Now he was a man, with a hard set to his jaw and a weariness in his eyes that had not been there before. He had been waiting for her. She knew that now.
A floorboard creaked in the corridor below. Xavier’s head snapped up. A moment later, another creak. He moved to the door, his body a study in controlled stillness. Aurora felt her pulse quicken, a sharp, hot rush. She looked at the hearth, at the dancing flames, and cursed her own practicality.
“Two men, standard footfall,” Xavier murmured, his ear almost against the door. “Owen. And another, heavier.”
A low, familiar voice drifted up the stairs. “We’re secure. The north road is clean, but there was a rider on the ridge an hour past. He headed east.”
Aurora’s blood ran cold. She moved to the door, pushing past Xavier’s arm. “An informant. He’s gone to the village.” She looked at the bed, at Toby’s sleeping form. “Victor will know where we are by now. We have to move.”
The last word died in her throat. From outside, rising through the fog like a hunting horn, came the sound of hoofbeats. Many hoofbeats. The thunder of harnessed riders. Then a voice, young and mocking, cutting through the night.
“Davenport! Come out, Duke. I know you’re in there.”
Xavier was already in motion. “Flynn.” The name was a bitter curse. “He’s a full day earlier than I calculated.”
Owen burst into the room, a cudgel in one hand and a flintlock pistol in the other. “Six riders, armed,” he said. “Flynn Sterling at the lead, mounted on a black stallion. They’ve dismounted and are surrounding the inn.”
Aurora was beside the bed, shaking Toby awake. “Up, sweetling. We must ride.” The boy came alive with a start, his eyes wide with understanding. He did not cry. He did not ask why. He simply swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his worn boots.
Xavier crossed to a wardrobe and flung it open, revealing a pair of leather saddlebags and a long, unadorned rifle case. “Owen. The barricade. Buy us time.”
The security chief nodded, a grim set to his mouth. “You’ll take the stable horses.”
Below, the front door splintered with a violent crack. A shower of wood shards flew inward. A man’s voice, cold and commanding, called out, “This is the law. By order of the magistrate, we are here to reclaim property belonging to the Sterling estate.”
Flynn. He wasn’t just a thug; he was a corrupt son of a privileged line who knew how to wield the language of authority. Aurora grabbed the saddlebags and draped the heavy wool travel cloak around her shoulders. She picked up the rifle case, feeling its cold, deadly weight. She was not a fighter. But she could carry the weapon. She could be the line of defense.
A gunshot cracked downstairs. The sound was flat and startling, drawing a choked gasp from Aurora. She froze, her hand on Toby’s shoulder, her eyes locked on Xavier’s. He moved then, not toward the stairs, but toward the window. He shoved the shutters open. The fog poured in, thick and cold. Below, she could see the vague shapes of the horses in the lean-to, saddled and stamping.
“Out the back,” Xavier commanded, his voice a lash. He vaulted the sill, landing with a soft thud in the damp grass below. He turned and raised his arms. “Toby. Come to me.”
Toby scrambled to the sill without hesitation, leaping into his father’s arms. Xavier set him on his feet, steadying him. Aurora handed down the rifles, then followed, her skirt catching on the sill for a terrifying second before Xavier’s hand closed around her wrist and pulled her clear. The ground was cold and wet.
Another gunshot, closer now. A man’s cry of pain, muffled by the fog. Owen was holding his ground, but he couldn’t hold it forever.
Xavier led them to the lean-to, where two riding horses, a bay and a dappled grey, were saddled and ready. He tossed the saddlebags across the grey’s back, tied the rifle case behind the saddle cuff. Then he lifted Toby and settled the boy in the saddle, swung up behind him in one fluid motion. He extended a hand to Aurora. “Ride with me.”
She grabbed his forearm and pulled herself up, settling behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking Toby between them. The boy’s small hands gripped the coarse wool of his father’s coat. Xavier wheeled the grey around.
At the corner of the inn, a figure emerged from the fog. Flynn Sterling, a pistol in his hand, long dark hair wet with mist. A cruel smile twisted his handsome face.
“Going so soon, Duke?” He raised the pistol, aiming not at Xavier, but at the boy.
Xavier did not hesitate. He slammed his heels into the grey’s flanks. The horse bolted forward, a powerful surge of muscle and sinew. Flynn fired, the crack of the shot reverberating through the fog. The bullet whizzed past, close enough to tug at Xavier’s sleeve. The grey surged past the building, out into the open moor.
Behind them, Owen appeared in the inn’s doorway, a smoking pistol in his hand. He fired once, a covering shot that sent Flynn and his men diving for cover. Then, the sea of fog swallowed him whole.
The moor was a vast, disorienting emptiness. There was no road, no landmark, just the endless rolling hummocks of heather and gorse stretched into a wet, grey infinity. The fog muffled sound, distorting the beat of their horse’s hooves and the frantic thumping of their hearts. Toby was silent in the cradle of his father’s arms, his face buried in the warmth of Xavier’s coat.
Aurora clung to Xavier’s back, her cheek pressed against the solid plane of his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat, a strong, steady rhythm against her own frantic pulse. The wind was cold, seeping through her thin riding clothes. She felt the miles stretching out behind them, an invisible thread linking them to the violence at the inn.
They rode for what felt like an eternity, the grey horse moving with a tireless, ground-eating gait. The fog began to thin, a paler grey seeping into the darkness. The first hints of a bruised purple and gold stained the eastern sky. Dawn was breaking.
The horse slowed, its flanks heaving. They crested a low rise, and below them, a cluster of the ancient standing stones that dotted the moor stood silhouetted against the light. Xavier dismounted, lifting Toby down first. The boy stumbled, catching his balance, his wide eyes absorbing the wild landscape. Aurora felt the cold stiffness in her limbs as she slid off the horse, her boots sinking into the wet peat.
Xavier walked to a large, flat stone, brushing away the dew. He unsaddled the grey, draping the saddle over the stone to let the horse rest. His movements were efficient, calm. He looked over at Aurora, his gaze searching her face. A faint, ghost of a smile touched his lips. His eyes were dark, rimmed with exhaustion, but alive. “We made it.”
Aurora moved to him, her legs unsteady. She stopped a hand’s breadth away. They were soaked, breathless, and alive. She saw the flecks of grey in his dark hair, the new lines around his eyes. She lifted a hand, touching the torn sleeve of his coat where the bullet had grazed.
“You were in the way,” she said, her voice rough. “You reckless fool.”
“I was exactly where I was supposed to be.” He covered her hand with his own. “I’ve been trying to get back to this spot for seven years.”
Aurora’s breath caught. She looked up at the waning stars, at the fierce, promising light of the dawn. She looked at the sleeping boy curled against the saddle, a dark head pillowed on a leather bag. And then she looked at Xavier.
A sound shattered the morning’s peace. A hard-edged click. The unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked. But it did not come from the inn. It came from the treeline at the far edge of the moor, where a single rider was emerging from the gloom. Then another. And another. They were not Sterling’s men. Their dark coats were familiar—they belonged to the Crown. They had been waiting. An informant’s whisper had carried.
Aurora’s hand flew to the empty holster at Xavier’s hip. A low voice, callous and amused, carried across the morning mist. Her blood went cold as she heard the name she knew too well.
“As dawn broke over Bronwen Moor, Flynn’s voice carried across the mist from the ridge: ‘I missed you last night, Duke. But the boy’s not home yet. The hunt is only beginning.'”