"I recognised the crest immediately, your Grace," the owner of the pawn shop on Market Street declared, as he fawned over the signet ring that was laid out on the glass counter. "I was just about to write to your man of business, when I had word that you were in town. How fortunate."
"Indeed," Ruan replied, wondering just how much of a fortune the slippery man opposite him intended to make from the transaction.
He had been staying in Falmouth for the past two days, eagerly awaiting any news on Olive's whereabouts, as well as the whereabouts of the traitorous tar that had blown up The Elizabeth. Cornwall was not a county he frequented often, given the terrible way he had fled five years ago after Catherine's death. Over the past two days however he had found he rather enjoyed being amongst the familiar accents and eccentricities of the local population, not to mention the local ale which tasted just as good as he remembered.
"Who sold it to you?" the Duke asked, as the shop-owner held out the ring for his inspection. Ruan took the heavy, gold piece in his hand, barely glancing at it before he slipped it back upon his index finger. He had worn it every day for a decade, he did not need to examine it minutely to know that it was the Ashford Signet.
"A young woman," the oily man coughed delicately, "She did not seem keen to share her name..."
"And so you never asked it," Ruan growled in reply. "Well, what did she look like?"
"Red hair, and a most bewitching set of green eyes."
Olive.
Ruan heaved a great sigh, and looked at the man opposite him warily. The shop keeper in turn eyed him with a most innocent expression, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
"How much did you pay the woman for it?"
The shop keeper looked pained, as though speaking of money offended him.
"Nearly eight-hundred pounds, your Grace," he said without blinking.
Ruan resisted rolling his eyes, for he was sure that the price named was an astronomical inflation of what had actually been paid to his wife.
"I shall write to my man of business, and have him send you on what you're owed," he murmured distractedly; he had no time to quibble over money when his wife was still missing. Though at least now he had proof she was alive.
"Did the woman happen to mention anything else?" Ruan prodded, hoping that perhaps Olive had been kind enough to furnish the man with her exact travel itinerary. It would save him a great deal of time if she had.
"She did not, though she did head off in the direction of the Quays. However that's not unusual, for there's not really anywhere else to go in Falmouth."
He laughed lightly at his own joke, only stopping when he saw the dark glare that Ruan cast him. There might be nowhere else to go in Falmouth bar the Quays, but from there a person could find passage to any corner of England, or the world for that matter.
"My thanks for your time." Ruan donned his hat, and pushed his way out the door onto Market Street. It bustled with a mixture of women, servants and sailors, all out shopping on the quaint cobblestone road. Ruan absently followed the tide of people, and soon found himself on Packet Quays. He tried to imagine himself in Olive's place, and how she would have viewed the chaotic docks. She had seemed nervous during her short time at the Port of Bristol, overwhelmed by the sheer noise and scale of the maritime activities. She would not have boarded a ship, he decided, especially not after what had happened on The Elizabeth. He turned to assess the nearby buildings, which mostly housed the offices of shipping merchants, and his eyes fell on a smaller building at the end of the row: A stage coach office.
Feeling certain that he would find some new information there, Ruan pushed his way through a group of navy men, freshly disembarked and eagerly searching for an inn to wet their newborn land legs. He crossed the road in a few long strides, dodging carriages and carts.
"I need some information on one of your recent passengers."
The clerk, who was seated at a tall wooden desk, blinked curiously at the formidable giant standing opposite him.
"You're going to have to be more specific," he replied mildly, glancing down at the papers on his desk. "I have nearly twenty coaches a day leaving here, and I'll be deuced if I can recall even one of the passengers. They all look the same, when you've been looking at them for a decade."
Another man, sitting on a long wooden bench, gave a snort of laughter at this remark.
"Aye, they all look the same," he agreed, taking a hearty sip of the pint of ale he was nursing. "And they all sound the same. Do you know what they sound like?"
Ruan shook his head.
"Annoying," the man supplied helpfully. "I wish I'd taken my Pa's advice and set up as a small farmer. Sheep don't moan and complain like passengers do."
"They rather smell, though, sheep," Ruan offered, as way of consoling the man for his poor career choice.
"And so do some of my passengers," this was delivered as a grunt. The clerk, sensing that his driver was about to lose him some business, hastily interrupted their exchange.
"Have you any specific details about this passenger you are seeking, sir?" he asked, pushing his spectacles up his nose, and looking at Ruan inquisitively. "Where they were heading? What day? Man, woman...or sheep?"
This brought a reluctant smile to Ruan's lips, and the driver choked on his ale with mirth.
"The passenger would have been a woman," Ruan leaned an elbow on the clerk's desk, "She would have travelled about two days ago. Red hair, green eyes, striking features."
The clerk frowned as he tried to recall if he had lately seen a beautiful red-head, he shook his head from side to side, indicating that the description meant nothing to him. Ruan had just begun to heave a sigh, when the driver spoke.
"Mayhaps it was the woman who went to St. Jarvis," the driver said, looking at his colleague, "The one who saved me from the lass with the spectacles. Remember her? She gave me a whole bloody history on the morals of the Romans, all the way from Truro to here. I thought she'd never stop yammerin', then the red head booked her passage and I foisted Miss Boring off onto her."
St. Jarvis, Ruan almost dropped dead at the name of the town. It was where he had spent most of his youth, as part of a marauding trio of hellions, which had consisted of him, Lord Deveraux and Lord Somerset. It was where he had met Catherine, where he had married her and, in the end, where he had buried her. He often thought of it as the last resting place of Ruan Ashford, for he had left it five years ago, to forever more be known as The Duke of Ruin.
"This woman," he spoke urgently, "Do you remember anything else about her? Did she give her name, or have many belongings? Did she say if she was staying in St. Jarvis or just passing through?"
The driver started at the intensity of Ruan's questioning. The Duke was a large man, his shoulders broader than most, and at six foot three he dwarfed both the driver and the clerk. His size was intimidating, which he mostly used to his advantage, but even when he was not trying to frighten or scare, the sheer mass of him did it anyway.
"She didn't say, sir," the driver held up his hands, as though Ruan had a weapon pointed at him. "She got off at St. Jarvis, and as far as I know she's still there. There's only one coach that services the town, and that's mine. I haven't seen her since I left her, so you can deduce from that what you will."
Ruan took a calming breath, and tried to quell the restless urgency that had begun to hum in his very bones. He needed to get to St. Jarvis, and now, but he had other matters to attend to before he left Falmouth.
"My thanks, gentlemen," he said, pivoting on the heel of his Hessian to leave. He knew that behind his back the two men would be exchanging shocked glances, or perhaps mouthing obscenities to each other, but he didn't care. He now knew where Olive was, and that was all that mattered.
"Black," he called once he reached the inn, banging furiously on the door to the Captain's room. The Captain opened the door quickly, his face surprised by the ferocity of the Duke's hammering.
"Your Grace," he said, his face confused. He was half dressed, in simple breeches and a white shirt, undone to reveal a glimpse of his chest. Ruan was just about to accuse him of being bone idle, when he caught sight of the Captain's desk over his shoulder. It was covered in maps, letters and important looking documents.
"I have been corresponding with your man of business in Bristol, and the insurance company," Black said by way of explanation for the mess. He invited the Duke to come in, with a simple gesture of his hand. Ruan saw that the room, apart from the desk, was spotless. The bed was made to navy standards, the Captain's boots stood polished by the doorway, as though waiting inspection.
"I think I know where her Grace has gone," he said shortly, standing before the fireplace, despite the fact that the grate was empty. June, like May before it, had brought relentlessly hot weather, punctuated only by the occasional storm attempting to break the heat.
"Wonderful," Black beamed, genuinely glad, it seemed, of the news. He had been sending men daily to search the coastline, near where The Elizabeth had gone down, despite Ruan's protests that his wife was alive. All the Captain's searches had turned up was Olive's portmanteau, battered and a little sodden, but still whole.
"I'll be leaving in the next hour," Ruan continued, but was cut off by the sudden arrival of a breathless cabin boy.
"Beg pardon Captain," the boy rushed, then caught a glimpse of the Duke, "Oh sorry, your Grace I did not know you were here."
The young boy was struck dumb at the sight of the Duke, and Black had to prod him to share what had brought him there in the first place.
"There's a messenger from Southampton, Captain," the boy said nervously, "He says that the tar you think blew up The Elizabeth is being held at the Port. He was caught trying to board a ship to France."
The Captain glanced at Ruan speculatively.
"Is this something you wish me to deal with, your Grace?"
"No," Ruan shook his head slowly; he didn't want anyone else dealing with the villain, bar him. He had plans aplenty for the cur, plans which included running him through with a sword, or flaying him alive with a whip.
"But, the Duchess?"
"I'll look after that," Ruan brushed away his Captain's concerns. He still had a few friends in Cornwall, and he could think of one who would be perfect for keeping an eye on his runaway bride until he returned.
"Find my valet," Ruan instructed the young cabin boy, "Have him ready the horses. Black meet me outside in half an hour, I'll want you there to help identify the man...and to hold me back in case I try to strangle the blighter before he tells me who hired him."
Ruan stalked from the Captain's room to his own; he needed to pen a quick letter before he left, with instructions to his friend to not let Olive out of their sight until he returned. And then --he smiled-- then he would take his errant wife over his knee if he had to, to convince her to come home.