The carriage didn’t move and he raised his stick to bang again, irritated by the delay. ‘Where to, sir? Do you still wish to go to Brooks?’ Fletcher stared up at the roof of the carriage from which the disembodied voice of his driver spoke to him. ‘No, take me home, I have no wish to go anywhere else tonight.’ The carriage rocked forward, stretching out his long legs, he rested them on the seat opposite. He didn’t want to alarm Wydale by appearing like the wrath of God and demanding to know where he was holding Sarah. That would only exacerbate matters, make what was a private matter common gossip. He could not risk having their confrontation in public. What he intended to do to the bastard was best done away from prying eyes. He had no wish to dance at the end of a rope. Twenty minutes later the carriage jerked to a halt outside his house. A waiting footman flung open the front door and ran down the steps to open the carriage door.
