His proud “I won’t vary my itinerary one iota” was soon revised to “There’s no point dawdling in little villages.” He stopped at Amiens long enough to peep into the cathedral, but of the ramparts, the wall, and the five gates he had only a glimpse in passing. Pronto didn’t even get to see the head of Saint John the Baptist in the church, which he’d been looking forward to with keen interest. The whole flat plane of northern France passed in a blur. Belami didn’t know what route Mrs. Sutton meant to take, but he knew she would stop at Paris. Belami’s groom, Pierre Réal, was in alt. Here he was in the home of his fathers, with a better grasp of the language than his master. He was not only permitted but actually urged to set a hot pace. To add to his joy, he was told to keep an eye peeled for Sutton’s carriage. He never did see it, but any time twelve miles an hour became too slow for him, he could whip up the team and let on he had. They arrived at the city gates in the fading light of day, fatigued and bounced to a jelly from their mad dart.
