Through the Storm

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

JACK STROLLED INTO the Pig’s Foot tavern in the town of Brockenhurst. It was a tiny place, as one might expect in the middle of the New Forest in the south-east of England. He felt distinctly out of place. He was not one for the country, having been born and raised in London, but he was here on business—very important business.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted the gentleman standing at the bar.

“Afternoon,” the man said with a brief nod.

“I was told this was where I could pick up a letter from Lord Brockenhurst,” he said, giving the man a smile and an expectant raise of his eyebrows.

The man stopped wiping down the gleaming wooden counter in front of him. He frowned at Jack. “I don’t believe a letter was left for anyone.”

“But this is where Lord Brockenhurst’s mail goes and comes, is it not?”

“Well, yes, naturally. We’re the only posting house in town. The mail comes through at ten in the morn and six of an evening.”

“Ah, perhaps then it was accidentally handed off with the day’s post when it went out. A natural mistake, I’m sure,” Jack said, being as friendly as he could.

The man shook his head. “Don’t believe there was anything going out from the manor this morning. Usually sends things down later in the day.”

“I see,” Jack said, nodding. “In that case, I suppose I’ll be back in the afternoon to see if it’s been delivered.”

“Thomas usually brings it down around four,” the barkeep said, helpfully.

“Excellent! I’ll be back then.” Jack tipped his hat to the man and strolled out as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He stole a glance at his pocket watch. He only had three hours to kill. This wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought. Perhaps he would take the time to see what he could of the estate.

Brockenhurst Manor was rather hard to miss. It was the only huge pile of stone just beyond the town. Jack turned on to the grand drive and nearly made it past the gatehouse without being stopped. The gatekeeper, however, came running after him, shouting a fuss, forcing Jack to rein in his horse.

“Good afternoon,” Jack said, looking down at the man.

“Good afternoon, sir. Are you expected?” the man asked, panting slightly.

“No, and you haven’t seen me either,” Jack said, filling his voice with magic.

The man’s eyes glazed over.

Too strong! Jack chastised himself. Even after so many months, he was still getting used to the extra powers the Seventh, Morgan Vallentyn, had given him right after he’d been made High Priest. He would adapt. He just needed to be more careful.

He lowered the level of his magic, holding back so there was only the slightest bit in his voice. “Go on back to yer house. Ye ain’t seen nothin’ and will not notice me again.”

The man turned and walked back to the gate house without a word.

There, that wasn’t too difficult, Jack thought with some satisfaction.

The main house was quite impressive, as he was certain it was meant to be. An “L” shaped house that loomed four stories up, riddled with chimney stacks and gables galore. But Jack wasn’t here to be impressed.

A groom came running at the sound of Jack’s horse on the hard-packed ground. Jack took advantage of the fellow and left the animal with him while he went for a walk around. It was ridiculously easy. He supposed they didn’t get many thieves this far from, well, any major city. Southampton wasn’t too far, but he wasn’t sure he would venture all the way out here just to see what there was to be had. Not with the ripe pickins along the road from the port.

He doubled back toward the groom as a thought occurred to him. “Hey there,” he called out.

“Yes, sir?” the groom stopped on his way to the stables to rub his horse down.

“Who’s livin’ here now? Is, er, Lord Brockenhurst at home? Lady Brockenhurst?” Jack really had no idea who might be here. He only knew that Lord Brockenhurst wasn’t in town—his feelers had told him that much.

“Lord Brockenhurst is in residence, sir. Um…there is no Lady Brockenhurst,” the groom answered, looking oddly at him as if a visitor to the house should know these things.

“Right. Of course,” Jack said, with a little laugh, as if he’d known he’d made a mistake. “Thank you.”

The groom nodded and went off with the horse.

Jack wondered how many staff members there were. He probably could have gotten at least an estimate from the groom, but he hadn’t wanted to raise his suspicions any more than he already had.

Jack strolled past the mullioned windows not more than a foot from the ground. He could only shake his head in wonder. It would be easier than swiping an apple from a cart to break into this place.

His ramble through the garden elicited no response from anyone inside the house— there was either no one to see him, or no one cared or questioned who he was. As he collected his horse from the groom twenty minutes later, he could only hope that Brockenhurst’s seaside cottage in Whitstable was this easy to get into. He briefly considered leaving the incriminating documents he was going to create here. The problem was that it would make more sense for the earl to be running his smuggling ring closer to the operation from his seaside residence.

IT WAS A lonely little stretch of road between Brockenhurst Manor and the town. Jack decided it would be easiest if he just waited there for the footman, who was bound to come through sometime soon with the earl’s mail. Happily, he didn’t have very long to wait.

The man came along in a gig, the horse walking along at a lazy pace as if he and the fellow at the reins had all the time in the world. Jack responded likewise, meandering out into the roadway where he waylaid the vehicle.

“Can I help you?” the footman asked, looking quizzically at Jack and taking in his less than fashionable brown coat and leather breeches.

“Yes, I believe ye can,” Jack said, smiling at the man. “Do ye happen to have a letter from Lord Brockenhurst wit’ ye?”

The man drew down his eyebrows. “Who wants to know?”

“I do.” Jack added a touch of magic to his voice and then asked again. “Do you have a letter from Lord Brockenhurst wit’ ye?”

“Yes, I do,” the fellow finally answered. He pulled out three letters from his pocket.

“Excellent. Let’s have a look, then.” Jack held out his hand.

The man handed over the letters but didn’t look happy about doing so. “What do you want with them?”

“Oh, I just need one o’ them.” Jack looked through the three missives. One was going to his solicitors—Jack made a mental note of the name and address—one to his bank, and the other to Lord Somebodyorother. Jack pocketed that one. Handing the other two back to the footman he tipped his hat. “Thank ye ever so much. Ye’ll forget this ever happened. Ye were only handed two letters to post,” he said, infusing his words with slightly stronger magic this time. “On yer way now. Ye never saw me.”

The footman shoved the remaining two letters back into his pocket and clicked his tongue for the horse to get moving once more, not giving Jack a second look.

With a slow smile stealing over his lips, Jack turned his own horse in the same direction, gave her a good kick in her side, and passed by the gig without a glance.