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composure, he discovered his escort was already out the gate and walking back into town, whistling a most unbecoming tune, and swinging her basket as if she hadn't a care in the world.
    "Now wait just a damn minute," he said, crossing the yard and not caring two farthings if he disturbed Mrs. Roundsfield's sacred dreams.
    It didn't take him long to catch up with Miss Tate. "That wasn't funny," he said, pointing back at the graveyard.
    She paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. "No, I suppose not," she said, before continuing down the road.
    "Miss Tate," he ground out. "You offered to help me."
    "Yes, I suppose I did. But did it ever occur to you that Miss Briggs doesn't want to be found?" She folded her arms over her chest again. "And if you are truly doing a favor for her solicitor then I think you would have her
complete
directions instead of having to ask around like some cheaply had Bow Street runner."
    Bow Street?
This is what she thought of him? Obviously his town charm didn't translate very well to the countryside.
    Then to his further chagrin, Miss Tate didn't wait breathlessly for his reply, instead she left him standing in the road, like one might say… a cheaply had runner.
    At this point, Cochrane came walking up to the churchyard, leading their horses. He glanced at the departing Miss Tate and then at Rafe.
    "No luck, sir?"
    "In a manner of speaking," Rafe told him, as he pointed at the lonely plot in the corner. One that was now decorated with a small bouquet of blue flowers.
    Cochrane tied up the horses and crossed the graveyard, tiptoeing through the grass as if he feared someone was going to reach up and grab his offending toes. When he reached Miss Briggs' headstone, he pulled off his cap and bowed his head in respectful observation.
    But Cochrane's good graces for the pegged out spinster ended quickly. He heaved a sigh and then settled his cap back on. "So are we bound for London?" Hope filled his question.
    "Not yet," Rafe said, grabbing up his horse's reins. The road where Miss Tate had been ambling along moments earlier was now empty. He couldn't very well go about town banging on doors to find the infuriating
little minx or to find the elusive
Miss Darby
author either.
    Oh, she was nearby, there was no doubt in his mind and Miss Tate knew exactly who she was.
    If it wasn't the lady herself.
    He hadn't survived all those years behind enemy lines, dodging French piquets by not listening to his instincts, and right now they were clamoring that this seemingly innocent spinster needed closer inspection.
    He let out a low growl and swung up into his saddle in one effortless movement.
    "The way I see it," Cochrane began, having scrambled out of the graveyard, then up onto his horse. "If this gel is dead, then we can tell Lady Tottley that we've done our work and collect your house. Just because the reaper beat us to the business doesn't mean we shouldn't get something for coming all the way out here. Especially since there doesn't appear to be any pies about."
    It wasn't a bad plan, but Rafe preferred to earn his money by doing what he'd been hired to do.
    And that was stopping the publication of any more
Miss Darby
novels. Suddenly his earlier promise to Cochrane that they weren't here to break any limbs seemed rather empty.
    Especially after meeting Miss Tate.
    "Seems our work is done," Cochrane said, turning his horse toward the road north.
    "No," Rafe told him. "We aren't finished yet." Not by a long shot.
    Bribing clerks with drinks was one way to find someone. The other was to use one's connections.
    Connections…
    Demmit, why hadn't he thought of that earlier?
    While Bramley Hollow may boast one of England's most infamous matchmakers, it also could claim one of England's greatest busybodies.
    "Time we pay a social call," Rafe said.
    "Will there be food?" Cochrane asked.
    "Most likely," he told his relieved assistant. And hopefully a serving of Miss Briggs' address.
     
    Miss Rebecca Tate