Simon bit back the disparaging snort that hovered on his lips. Nothing would be able to detract from her youthful beauty and he mentally shook his head at her innocence. “I don’t think it worked,” he replied ruefully. “Best not to bother with it again.” His thoughts latched on to her comment about the strange men appearing and he felt a surge of anticipation.
Francesca sighed, wondering if she would ever have the freedom to move about as she pleased. “Do you think –”
Whatever else she was about to say was cut off by the loud scream that broke the companionable silence in the sitting room. Francesca jumped and had barely had the time to grab hold of the arms of the chair she sat in, when Simon swept across the room in a flurry of black that was so swift, so imminently dangerous, that she could do little but gasp and find herself alone in the room.
Jumping to her feet she ran after him, careering into his back as she left the room.
“I’m sorry, oh dear lord,” Madeline gasped, clearly shaken.
CHAPTER FOUR
There, hanging off a hook at the back door lay the body of a dead rook. Its glassy eyes shone red with the blood that trickled down from the open wound on its feathered chest, and dripped steadily off its beak. The small pool gathering on the kitchen floor made Francesca’s stomach lurch and she stared in horror at the harbinger of death. She was so shaken by the sight that she didn’t notice the comforting arm Simon slid around her waist.
“When was the last time you went out?” Simon’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but the hint of steel beneath the cold tones was clear to both women.
“I haven’t opened the door since you arrived,” Madeline gasped around the hand covering her mouth.
“You haven’t seen anyone outside?”
Madeline shook her head jerkily. “No, but then I haven’t been looking. I have been preparing dinner, as you know.”
Simon knew she had, because she had been in full view of him at the time. Although it had been a companion’s thoughtful actions designed to protect the virtue of her charge, it had also confirmed her innocence of the macabre joke.
The soft scuffle of footfall in the corridor behind Francesca drew their attention.
An elderly man, still dressed in a nightshirt that obviously been pulled roughly over a hastily donned pair of breeches shuffled into the room. Unless Simon was mistaken, the man was a lot older than the seventy he claimed to be and he wondered if Bertie had fabricated his age in an attempt to persuade Francesca to allow him to stay on. He could understand Francesca’s reluctance to cast him out, and felt a sympathetic understanding with her decision.
“I take it that you are Bertie?” Simon raised one brow and met the older man’s watery eyes.
“Aye, that I am, sir,” Bertie replied, staring past them at the bird on the door. “Good Lord above.”
“This is some appalling joke, undoubtedly by those two ruffians we met on the road earlier this afternoon. I’ll deal with it,” Simon stated, nodding toward the upside down bird and the pool of blood on the floor. He was well aware of the silent look that passed between the other three occupants of the room. At the door he paused and turned back to them. “Then you are going to tell me just what the hell is going on here,” raising a hand when Francesca took a breath, he allowed his impatience to show in the crispness of his voice. “Don’t try and fob me off this time. It is clear that there is something going on that you aren’t telling me and, if I am not to get my throat cut if I wander out at night, then I need to know the details. Meantime, go and sit in the sitting room while I clear this up.” He watched as the ladies disappeared without a murmur at the same time that Bertie moved toward the door and released the dead bird.
“I’ll get rid of this,” the old man muttered, stepping over the blood carefully.
“I’ll do it, just go inside and stay warm,” Simon growled. Even from a few feet away, Simon could hear the wheezing in the old man’s chest. Holding the carcass away from his neatly polished boots, Simon stalked across the stable yard, his finely tuned senses searching the surrounding area for signs of the culprits. He knew that whoever had been sick enough to play such a prank, or issue such a warning, would undoubtedly feel the need to stay around long enough to see for himself that his message had been received. Simon couldn’t help but wonder what he would make of Simon’s involvement in not only dealing with the carcass, but the speed and efficiency in which the situation would be returned to normal.
One thing was for certain, he knew now that Francesca, Madeline and Bertie were the innocent party in whatever was going on. Not only had Francesca been attacked, the sick joke with the bird confirmed that someone was trying to make their lives as uncomfortable as possible, but were they also responsible for the murder of Francesca’s uncle? Even more importantly, did this have anything to do with the real reason why he had been sent to Much Hampton? He couldn’t see how the entire village was involved in spy smuggling, much less Francesca herself being involved.
Inside the stable block he paused for several moments, and retreated to the shadows at the rear of the building. Glancing through the crack in the wooden frame, he studied the wooded copse at the rear of the stable block. Although it was dark, he was fairly certain it had been used to cover the intruders from prying eyes. He couldn’t see anyone out there, but he could feel their presence as boldly as if they were standing beside him. Moving toward the doorway, he stood in the shadows and studied the rear of the house and the various outbuildings. The soft snicker of the horses behind him was ignored, as watchful eyes absorbed every nuance, every nook and cranny and hiding place possible to man. Anyone could have approached the back door of the house, and crossed the stable yard being only visible to the kitchen windows for the briefest time. Alternatively, they could approach from the burnt-out side of the property where nobody was around to watch, and they could disappear into the unkempt undergrowth that had once been a formal rose garden.
Making a mental note to study the gardens as soon as possible in the morning, Simon returned to the house, the loud rumblings of his stomach quickening his pace. He was unsurprised when he got there to find Bertie on his hands and knees, washing the last of the blood off the floor.
“I said I would deal with that, Bertie,” Simon scolded, shaking his head at the old man’s stubbornness. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m better now, but the darned woman won’t let me go about my business.”
Simon snorted, fully understanding the man’s disgust. Although he had never had any prior experience of being mollycoddled, he would assume that it would be sheer annoyance to be mollycoddled by any woman. Still, there was something disconcerting about seeing the old man on his knees while still in his nightshirt.
“Is everything alright out there?” Francesca entered the kitchen, gasping at the sight of Bertie rising to his feet. “What do you think you are doing?” she gasped, rushing toward Bertie who held up a hand to ward her off.
“I’m fine m’dear, not to worry now,” he mumbled, clearly abashed at being the centre of such determined female attention. “I’m not sure about anybody else, but that pie smells delicious.”
“Then let’s eat,” Madeline announced with false joviality that failed to match the wariness in her eyes.
Later that night, Simon lay awake in the large but shabby four poster bed, and stared blankly up at the canopy. Although Francesca had promised a tour in the morning, he didn’t need to see much more of the house to understand that it wasn’t only the burnt out wing of the property that was in disarray. The remainder of the huge stone building hadn’t been maintained for some considerable years and was showing advanced signs of wear to the point of being uninhabitable.
The bed he now lay in had creaked and groaned alarmingly when asked to bear his weight, and he was aware of the threadbare draperies that clung desperately to the window frames in a valiant attempt to be useful. He wondered just how much of a ‘fortune’ Francesca’s uncle had left her, and if
it was anywhere near enough to get the house habitable again. Somehow, he doubted it was proving to be enough for them even to live on, let alone stretch toward refurbishment on the scale that was required.
Immediately his thoughts turned to Ulverton Priory, the huge mansion he had called his childhood home. Although it had never been considered a home per se, it had been the house he had stayed in the longest, mainly because he had been a child at the time and had been unable to go his own way in life. Now though, the Priory was more of a burr in his side; something he had knowledge of and something that plagued him, but one thing he didn’t seem able to be shake off once and for all. He had no intention of going there again, and had been more than happy to hand over the routine maintenance of the place to his man of business in London, but something deep inside him had refused to sell it on and rid himself of the past once and for all. He wondered if the place was as frayed around the edges as Thistledown was.
It’s none of your business what she chooses to do with Thistledown, Simon thought ruefully, wanting to turn onto his side but doubting the bed was strong enough to accept the challenge. The house groaned and creaked alarmingly as it settled into the night. The sounds of movement outside of his bedroom door had long since ceased, leaving a deathly silence that was almost claustrophobic.
Sliding his hands behind his head, Simon turned his thoughts toward the mission Hugo had given him. He had no idea if Francesca, Madeline or Bertie were involved, and certainly wouldn’t find out lying around in bed. With a deep sigh, he threw back the covers and slowly eased out of the bed, shaking his head at the deep groan that rumbled from the bedstead. He was certain that any moment now the entire thing was going to collapse in an exhausted heap of dust and splinters.
Within moments, he was standing in the corridor, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The wall sconces hadn’t even been lit; another sign that finances were tighter than they ought to be. He thought briefly to his own fortune, part-inherited and part-earned, that sat idle in his bank, and knew he owned enough to easily cover the complete refurbishment of both Thistledown Manor and Ulverton Priory. If he was inclined, which he wasn’t. Neither of the houses was of any importance to him, and he had no intention of laying down roots in either property, especially the one he currently resided in.
A quick inventory of the house revealed the usual plethora of rooms for a mansion of this size. Several downstairs rooms included a morning room, a sitting room, what appeared to be a large ballroom, one long conservatory that ran down the length of one side of the house and several smaller rooms as well as the kitchens and the rear sitting room he and Francesca had shared earlier, which appeared to be part of the housekeeper’s quarters.
On closer inspection, there was nothing out of the ordinary with the room. Its contents were an eclectic mix of decorative porcelain, fine china and expensive crystal, sitting atop plain and somewhat basic and shabby furniture. But the one thing that became apparent to him as he wandered through the lower floors was that there were very few portraits. The handful that hung on the walls in the entrance hall had been painted many years earlier, and were of long deceased descendants. He had no idea which, if any, was of Francesca’s uncle. There was nothing of Francesca or her sisters, or any children for that matter and for some reason that bothered him, leaving him to wonder if her childhood had been as cold and stark as his own.
Having toured the entire ground floor of the house, minutes later Simon eased out of the conservatory door, and silently vanished into the shadows. Once in the sheltered protection of the small copse of trees, he paused to gather his bearings and scout the area. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he could feel eyes watching him, and frowned. There was no way of scouting the area without being seen. Keeping a wary eye on the gardens, he slowly began to circumnavigate the perimeter of the house. Learning the layout of the land in the darkness would give him an advantage if he was chased, or needed to pursue anyone.
Several hours later, having gone as far as he could for the time being at least, Simon slowly returned to the house, approaching from behind the stable block. As was habitual for him, he didn’t walk straight up to the building, and instead paused in the shadows, studying the area carefully for any sign of movement. The house was truly in the middle of nowhere and left him feeling as though he could easily have been the only person left in the country.
He was about to leave the sheltered protection of the stable block when the sudden flurry of movement at the end of the block drew his attention. A dark frown swept over his face and he watched the heavily cloaked figure scurry across the side garden and disappear through the kitchen door.
“Well, well, well,” Simon whispered, noting that once inside the cloaked figure felt they knew the house well enough not to need to light a candle.
Within seconds he was entering the side door of the conservatory in pursuit of his quarry. He felt reasonably certain that Madeline and Bertie were, unusually, sleeping in the bedchambers upstairs, but couldn’t be entirely sure. Easing toward the kitchen, he was unsurprised to find two damp footprints on the otherwise clean kitchen floor. Unfortunately, whoever had just entered the kitchen had had the forethought to remove their boots before going any further. Turning around he carefully closed the kitchen door and slid the bolts closed. He studied the footprints as closely as possible in the dark, before turning toward the back stairs, undoubtedly the route the new arrival had taken moments earlier. He paused at the top of the stairs to listen. At the far end of the corridor, a soft thump of something hitting the floor drew him in that direction.
Slowly easing open the last few doors revealed nothing more unusual than room after empty room. That is, until the last door on the left. Easing open the door, he was immediately aware of the soft glow of embers from the fireplace that bathed the room in an orange glow. Unlike the other rooms, this bedchamber bespoke warmth and occupancy. It felt as though something deep inside him was already linked to her, and he knew without entering the room that this was Francesca’s bedroom. He had no idea about scents, but could immediately identify the sweet yet slightly musky scent as Francesca’s.
Sure enough, she lay in sleepy abandon in the middle of the bed and, if her boots sitting next to the chair beside him were any indication, she hadn’t been out for some considerable time. Something inside him was relieved to be able to remove her from suspicion, but the warrior in him still refused to be fooled so easily. During his time in the Star Elite, and before, he had seen more than one good soldier be struck down by a duplicitous female. He had no intention of becoming one of those unfortunate souls who was ensnared by beauty, only to find himself stabbed in the back.
Well aware that his back was open to attack from the corridor, Simon decided to take the opportunity to search her room. Keeping a wary eye on her slumbering form, he eased into the room, silently closing the door behind him. It didn’t take long to search her belongings. Unless she was very good at hiding things, there were really very few possessions at all with most drawers remaining empty. The few items she did have were soft and well worn.
He studied the room carefully, before his eyes turned toward her. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest remained unchanged. She was still beautiful, even with her features relaxed in slumber and he felt the unfamiliar urge to lie down next to her. Tiredness began to slow his movements and, even though he could go on for several hours yet, if he had any chance of being of any use tomorrow night, he had to get some sleep. He was about to turn toward the door when the creaking of a floorboard in the hallway outside broke the silence. At the same time, Francesca moaned and rolled over in bed.
Staring at the door for a moment, Simon turned to study the woman on the bed. She looked like a goddess with her hair fanned out across the bed. The white of her nightgown lay in stark contrast to her dark golden hair. He thought about the white strands he had seen earlier and was inordinately pleased that the grey wasn’t her natural colour. His fingers itched to stroke the ho
neyed strands and see for himself if it really was as soft as it looked. He instinctively clenched his fingers into a tight ball to prevent himself from crossing the room and finding out.
Outside the door, the gentle rustle of fabric snapped him away from temptation. With all of his senses tuned to movement beyond the door, Simon eased around until he was standing with his back to the wall. Whoever was moving around, was looking for something, of that he was certain, but what?
One hand was placed on the holster of his gun as he watched the knob on the door slowly begin to turn. As silently as a ghost in the night, the door to the otherwise ramshackle house swung silently inward. There was no creaking or groaning like his bed, Simon thought wondering if someone had taken the time to oil the hinges.
Standing behind the door, Simon caught a glimpse of the back of a black cloak. It was undoubtedly the same person who had snuck into the house earlier. But where had they been, and what did they want with Francesca? Was it Madeline, or Bertie?
Quickly scanning the room, Simon knew he couldn’t be seen through the mirror at the far end of the room but he was at a distinct disadvantage. He waited for what seemed like an age before the door slowly began to close. The cloaked figure hadn’t entered the room. For some reason they had been checking on Francesca, but was that to check which room was hers, or was it to assure themselves that she was safely tucked up in bed, fast asleep and oblivious to their activities?
The door was only partly closed when he yanked it toward him. Determined to get answers, he lunged through the door and raced after the cloaked figure, down the stairs and through the house toward the front door. He made no noise as he flew down the stairs, gaining valuable ground when the figure was delayed at the front door by the heavy iron bolt. They almost managed to get outside, but Simon was quicker and grabbed hold of the thick woollen fabric, tugging it harshly. The figure spun around and began to flail wildly with skinny arms. Their fight was hampered by the voluminous folds of the heavy cloak, giving Simon the opportunity to use his height and weight to his advantage. Unfortunately, his attempts to wrench the hood away from the face were dashed when the material suddenly went limp.
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