They still landed in a tangle of limbs on the stone flags, but neither was hurt.
Frederick cursed and fought to free himself from Stacie and her clinging robe as several instincts battled for supremacy. After launching Stacie at him, the intruder had turned and fled; Frederick could hear the thud of the man’s boots receding along the short corridor leading to the rear door.
He could also hear a thunder of feet coming down the servants’ stair, which settled the question of what he should do. The staff could give chase; he would see to his wife.
By the time Hughes and several footmen burst into the room, Frederick had lifted Stacie up, steadying her on her feet as he got to his.
“My lord!” Hughes started toward them.
Frederick pointed down the corridor. “Intruder!” he barked. “He went that way.”
Hughes and the footmen raced off.
Stacie was still gasping, with one hand at her throat. Gently, Frederick steered her to a bench beside the hearth. “Sit. I’ll get you some water.”
He was filling a glass when Mrs. Hughes came rushing in.
The housekeeper looked around wildly. “What’s amiss?”
“Some blackguard broke in. Hughes and the others have gone after him.” Frederick crouched before Stacie; although the light was poor, he could see she was abnormally pale, and there was a necklace of red marks ringing her throat. The sight sent white-hot rage surging through him, but he ruthlessly clamped down on the impulse to go charging after the man and, instead, gently urged Stacie to take the glass and sip, which she did.
Mrs. Hughes had been followed by several maids, including Stacie’s. Exclaiming, the girl rushed up, then patted Stacie’s shoulder and hovered solicitously, and Frederick saw Stacie rally.
He rose. Mrs. Hughes and the maids were setting things to rights—picking up the saucepan and rearranging things knocked askew. He turned toward the corridor to the rear door just as Hughes and the footmen returned.
“Anything?” Frederick asked.
“No sign of the blackguard himself, my lord,” Hughes reported. “But the scullery window’s been forced, and his footprints are there, outside the window, plain as day.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Stacie’s voice was hoarse. Everyone turned to look at her as she went on, “I came downstairs to get some warm milk.”
“I know just how you like it,” her maid chirped. “I’ll get some warming right away.”
The maid rushed to the hearth; Mrs. Hughes sent another maid to fetch the milk jug, then went to assist with the fire.
Stacie barely seemed to notice. She pointed to a gap between two of the kitchen cupboards. “He was hiding there, and when I passed on my way to the hearth, he leapt out and seized me.”
“Luckily,” Frederick said, “I’d followed her ladyship down.” He didn’t want to think of what might have been the outcome if he hadn’t sensed her leaving his side. Hadn’t given in to the prod of his instincts that had insisted he get up and go after her. Just in case she’d needed his help—and she had.
The bruises forming around her neck were proof of the intruder’s murderous intent.
Feeling consciously more like his warrior-ancestors than he ever had, Frederick looked at Hughes. “Until we find out what this was about—if the blackguard merely thought to try his luck and won’t be back, or if he was sent here for some specific reason and might try again—I want two footmen on guard duty overnight.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Hughes exchanged a glance with the footmen, who all looked determined. “We’ll see to it.”
Mrs. Hughes, meanwhile, had noticed the bruises marring Stacie’s alabaster skin. The housekeeper tutted. “Mercy me! That dastardly man! What is the world coming to? I’ve an arnica salve, my lady, which will make those come and go much quicker. Just let me fetch it—the sooner it’s on, the faster they’ll go.”
Frederick waited with what patience he could muster while Mrs. Hughes and Stacie’s maid fussed and applied the ointment to Stacie’s throat, and Hughes and the footmen organized a watch and devised a way to barricade the scullery window until it could be repaired.
Finally, Frederick was able to extricate Stacie. She was plainly still shaken, but had consumed the warm milk she’d come to the kitchen in search of; she rose and, leaning heavily on his arm, thanked the staff for their assistance, then he solicitously ushered her from the kitchen.
In the front hall, at the bottom of the stairs, she paused, drew in a deeper breath, then met his eyes. “Thank God you followed me.”
He clenched his jaw and said nothing, just waved her on, and side by side, they started slowly up the stairs. After a moment, he asked, “Does it hurt to speak?”
“Not as much as it did—the milk helped—and Mrs. Hughes’s salve is working wonders.”
“Good.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did you get any hint as to what the man was after?”
She shook her head. “I think I surprised him. I assume he was a burglar, and he didn’t want me to scream and raise the alarm.” As they reached the gallery, she shot Frederick a glance. “Do you think he was after your new book?”
Frederick’s brows rose. He contemplated the possibility.
“The book did arrive just yesterday, and tonight…” She paused, then asked, “Have you ever had someone break in before?”
“No.” He had to admit the coincidence was striking, yet… “I can’t believe Brougham would send a burglar to steal the book, and he’s the most likely culprit if the book was the man’s target.” After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “Did you see enough of the man’s face to be able to identify him?”
She shook her head. “He had his hat pulled low and a muffler about his face.” As if remembering, she tilted her head. “That said, I don’t think he was a gentleman of any stripe. Not a laborer, but not much higher.”
Frederick grunted. He was waging an uphill battle to confine his newly risen protective urges within readily explainable—excusable—bounds. The protective possessiveness he’d felt on seeing the blackguard with his hands wrapped about Stacie’s throat had all but blinded him with its ferocity; even now, if he could lay hands on the man…
White-hot fury still burned inside him, yet he had no outlet for it. Suppressing it, pushing it deep, he steered Stacie into their room—his room that they now shared—and guided her to the bed.
Once she was settled beneath the sheets, he joined her.
She seemed exhausted now, as if the energy that had carried her through the ordeal had run out and left her drained. She turned in to his arms and snuggled close, cushioning her head on his shoulder. He held her gently and brushed his lips across her forehead. Soon, her breathing deepened and slowed.
He closed his eyes; a roiling mix of emotions still churned inside him. Considering them, their power, and the effect they were having on him, he realized that love had changed that, too. Apparently, loving didn’t only create a gaping emotional vulnerability, it also catapulted all associated emotions onto an entirely new level of intensity.
He lay listening to Stacie’s slumberous breathing while his heightened emotions kept him wide-awake.
I should have had a glass of warm milk, too.
The day passed without any further sightings or clues as to the man who had broken into the Hall and left its mistress with a necklace of bruises around her throat.
Frederick dispatched grooms to inquire at the local inns, including those at Guildford, but none had played host to an unknown man the previous night, only their regulars. Given the proximity to London, it was possible, even likely, that the man hadn’t dallied but had ridden down, then ridden straight back, leaving no trail to be followed.
Stymied on that front, Frederick told himself the man could have been a would-be burglar who had imagined the newly-wed couple would be off somewhere on a wedding trip, leaving the Hall with a skeleton staff. He’d heard tales of such burglaries, apparently triggered by the wedding announcement in the news shee
ts.
Regardless, with nothing more to be done, he allowed himself to fall back into what was fast becoming his much-desired married life.
On Sunday afternoon, after lunching with Frederick, Stacie left him in his study and, after chatting with the head gardener, Storrocks, about the tree he was planting to replace the now-removed elm, made her way to the stables and asked the head stableman, Bristow, for the gray mare she favored to be harnessed to the gig.
While she enjoyed riding, she’d discovered that for visiting the estate’s cottages and the tenant farmers’ families, tooling herself around in the gig was preferable; once on the ground, she didn’t need to worry about how to get back into her saddle.
After her first round of visits, when Frederick had accompanied her to introduce his workers and explain what each family did, what acres they farmed or what service they performed for the estate, she’d taken to calling at the various cottages on a three-week roster. That didn’t seem too intrusive, and she continued to learn a great deal about how the estate functioned, and the people seemed to genuinely welcome her interest. She also hoped that knowing she would visit every third week meant people—the farmwives especially—would have an avenue to alert her to any looming problem. According to Mary, who ran a similar watching brief at Raventhorne Abbey, becoming a conduit for information was one very real way in which to assist one’s husband.
While she waited for the gig to be readied, she leaned against the stable yard fence and tilted her face up to the gentle sun. Eyes closed, she smiled; she was increasingly grateful that Frederick had suggested and argued for their marriage. Even had she tried to imagine her perfect life—the one that would best and most deeply satisfy and fulfill her—she could never have designed a position that suited her better than being his marchioness.
When she’d accepted his offer, she hadn’t fully appreciated all the benefits, but the past weeks had opened her eyes to what truly mattered to her—having a sense of place, of belonging, of having a role that others looked to her to fill. Having a purpose beyond herself, a larger role that contributed to so many, in so many different ways and on many different planes, and was significantly broader in scope than her desire to advance the cause of worthy English musicians.
Not even the recent incident with the burglar—who surely had to have been just some man trying his luck—could dampen her appreciation. Mrs. Hughes’s salve had worked miracles, and the bruises were already fading; she’d concealed the blotchy marks by looping a gauzy scarf about her throat.
The scrunch of steps on the gravel had her opening her eyes to see Frederick—his gaze on her—approaching.
She smiled, letting all she felt at the sight of him infuse her expression. “Hello.” She glanced around as the clop of hooves on the cobbles heralded Bristow, the mare, and the gig. She straightened from the fence and waved at the gig. “I was just about to drive out and visit some of the farms.”
Frederick returned her smile with a lazy one of his own, then joined her, and together, they walked to where Bristow had halted the gig. “I came hoping to catch you before you left. I’ve nothing I need to do this afternoon—do you mind if I accompany you?”
He had any number of business and estate matters sitting on his desk, but he was very certain that keeping her within his protective reach ranked much higher in terms of his peace of mind.
Her smile brightened. “I would be delighted to have your company, my lord.”
He took her gloved hand and helped her to the seat, then rounded the gig and climbed in beside her.
She’d already picked up the reins and looped them through her fingers. Then she paused and looked at him. “Would you prefer to take the reins?”
Smiling contentedly, he shook his head. “No. I know you’re more than competent, and with you driving, I can sit back and admire the view.”
As his gaze rested appreciatively on her as he said the words, she read his meaning accurately. She arched a brow in a gesture intended to be quelling, which only made him grin unrepentantly, then, lips lifting, she faced forward, shook the reins and clucked at the mare, and set the horse trotting out of the stable yard and onto the track that wound through the wood at the rear of the Hall, eventually leading to a lane that would take them to three of the estate’s farms.
Frederick relaxed against the seat. He stretched out one arm along the seat’s back behind her and did as he’d said and watched her as she managed the horse, drinking in the picture she presented in a lightweight, pale-lemon carriage gown with a froth of gauze rising from the upstanding collar. She looked fresh and delightfully summery against the green of the trees and bushes they drove past.
He glanced ahead as she steered the horse around the last bend before they met the lane.
His gaze fell on the rocks strewn across the track.
The mare was going too fast to halt.
He didn’t think—he just reacted, gave himself wholly over to his instincts, half rose, seized Stacie, and as the mare danced over the rocks and the gig’s wheels hit the first line of small boulders, flung them both out of the carriage onto the rising verge.
He twisted and landed mostly on his back, holding her against him, as a sharp crack shattered the bucolic peace, followed by an ominous splintering sound. The landing jarred him, but the bank was inches thick in leaf mold and, thankfully, free of sharp objects.
Stacie lifted her head from Frederick’s chest and searched his face. “Are you all right?” The most important thing.
He nodded. As she watched, his lips and the lines of his face settled into a grim mask. His eyes met hers. “You?”
“No damage.” She slipped from his hold, sat up, and looked at the gig. “The same cannot be said for the gig.”
The small carriage was a wreck. The axle had broken in two, and one wheel had shattered to shards. The seat sat tipped at a skewed, drunken angle, while the other wheel had wedged tight between two rocks.
The mare had halted just beyond the bed of stones and, with the shafts at an odd angle and the harness dragging at her, stood looking about her uncertainly.
Frederick had also sat up and looked. Now, he pushed to his feet. “The mare looks to be unharmed.”
He walked to the horse, ran assessing hands down her legs, then rapidly unbuckled the traces.
Stacie got to her feet and stood staring at the remains of the gig. Then she looked at the rocks and frowned. “These have been deliberately placed. They aren’t part of a rockslide or anything like that.”
“Indeed.” Frederick walked the mare around the rocks and the wreckage.
Still frowning, Stacie waved at the rocks. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”
“I don’t know.” Frederick halted beside her. His only thought was to get her back to the safety of the house; the fear behind the thought grew claws and pricked at him. “Regardless, we need to return to the Hall.”
He didn’t want to spend even a minute more in the vicinity of a trap that might or might not have killed her; he had no idea if whoever had set it had lingered, waiting to ensure the outcome. To his ears, his voice sounded as if it came from a long way away; his senses were elsewhere, scanning the area around them for the slightest hint of threat. “I’ll send out some stable boys to retrieve the wreckage and clear the track.”
He’d shortened the traces and offered them to her; the mare couldn’t carry them both. “You ride. I’ll walk.”
Stacie looked at him, then shook her head. “I’d rather walk as well.”
He wasn’t going to argue. He offered her his free arm, and she looped hers in it, and they set off.
Initially, they walked briskly—he tried to be surreptitious about constantly scanning the woods to either side—but once they left the trees’ shade, he eased the pace and turned his mind to assessing possibilities and options.
Stacie withdrew her arm, but promptly laced her fingers with his. Looking ahead, she asked, “Do you think this was about the book?”
He frowned. “I don’t see how that could be.”
“Well”—she tipped her head in that considering way she had—“if you were killed, then it’s possible—indeed, many would see it as likely—that your library would be auctioned off.” He met her gaze as she said, “Someone wanting to get their hands on that book might be unscrupulous enough to consider murder as a viable means of gaining access to it.”
He blinked and refrained from pointing out that anyone who had watched to see who drove around the lanes in recent weeks would have seen her and not him. He rarely drove about the estate; in fact, he couldn’t remember when he’d last done so. And that was the cause of the ice in his gut; the accident had been aimed squarely at her.
Combined with the incident two nights before… He had to accept that the “burglar” might well have been sent to harm her, and entirely unintentionally, she’d walked into the man’s arms in the kitchen. If the man had been sent to kill her, he wouldn’t have expected to come across her there but to find her asleep in her bed in the marchioness’s bedchamber. If whoever was directing the man held to the old and still generally accepted ways of married noble life, that’s where he would have directed his henchman to look for her.
Regardless, at that moment, the images dominating his mind were of her flung lifeless from the wrecked gig or possibly crushed beneath its weight…
He shoved the images aside and looked ahead. He felt his jaw firm, and he forced himself to nod. “I suppose that’s a possible motive.” Not a complete lie; it was just an option both his rational mind and his instincts rejected as unlikely.
Indeed, his rational mind questioned whether he was overreacting and the two incidents were, in fact, entirely unrelated—that the intruder had merely been some non-local chancing his luck in the hope of picking up a few choice valuables, while the rocks had been some idiot-children’s prank—but his instincts were having none of it.
As they neared the rear of the house and veered toward the stable yard, he found himself pondering a prospect he’d had no inkling might ever hove on his horizon. Was someone trying to kill Stacie? And if so, who and why?
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 30