His secretary, Roderick, was not in evidence when he entered, and he closed the study door with a sigh. Sitting behind his desk, he forewent the reports, and instead pulled a book down from the shelf and soon immersed himself in it. Yet, he could not concentrate, as Miss Brent’s face and the problem with someone wanting to murder not just himself, but Miss Brent and Henrietta, keep appearing in his mind.
Giving up after nearly an hour, he pushed his chair back and went to the window. His study overlooked the stable and the rolling hills beyond, and what he saw down below sent him running to the door. Bolting through it, he took the stairs three at a time and raced across the entryway to the house’s main entrance. Had it not opened at that moment, his forward momentum might have caused him to crash into it.
“Your Grace,” gasped a groom, his livery torn and dirty. Blood ran down the side of his head and he smelled of smoke.
“What happened?” Sampson demanded. “I saw smoke rising at the stable.”
The groom coughed, gasping. “A fire behind the stable, Your Grace. A distraction. When the others ran to put the fire out, someone bashed me on the head. Took one of the horses and rode off.”
“What?”
Fury roared through Sampson. “Can you describe him?”
The groom shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I barely turned when I knew someone was behind me, then he hit me. All I saw was a man in a baggy grey coat, a scarf over his lower face and a hat pulled low. After that, I was on the ground, Your Grace, out cold for at least a few minutes.”
“How do you know he stole a horse?” Trying to keep his fury in check, Sampson kept his voice below a shout.
“I stayed behind to be ready to pull the horses out if need be, Your Grace. When I stood up, a stall door was open and the horse gone. Two of the lads said they saw a man riding away with a black horse beside him on a lead.”
“Get your injuries seen to.”
Sampson ran out of the house toward the stable, seeing grooms running with buckets of water. But already the fire appeared out, as many of the grooms dropped their empty buckets on the ground and trotted back inside. A few saw him coming, and shouted to the others. At once, the grooms clustered in front of the stable door, waiting for him.
“I was told there was another fire,” he said as he came up to them.
When several grooms tried talking at once, Sampson raised his hands and barked at them for silence. When quiet fell, he pointed to the groom in the front of the pack, and one whom he knew the others deferred to. “Tell me what happened.”
“Yer Grace, we saw ‘t smoke and ran from the stable to put ‘t out. ‘T were not the stable, but o’ bunch ‘o weeds. They were all smokin’ and such, as it were too wet ‘t truly burn. Thass when ol’ Ty gets to hollerin’ that a horse been taken.”
“Aye, Yer Grace,” exclaimed another. “I be dumpin’ my bucket o’ water on ‘t burnin’ weeds an’ saw a man riding hell fer leather wi’ o’ black horse alongside.”
“I saw ‘im, too, Yer Grace,” chimed in another. “He be long gone by now.”
“Which horse?” Sampson demanded, striding into the stable. As the grooms showed him the empty stall, both anger and relief poured through him. The stolen animal was a gelding of a considerably lesser quality than his other horses, and one he used to hack around his estate on. “Any of you who can ride, get on a horse. We are going to see if we can catch this bastard.”
Without waiting, he put a lead rope on his grey stallion and led him from the stable. Vaulting onto his bare back, Sampson glanced around, seeing five grooms scrambled onto horses in the same fashion. Kicking the stallion into a fast canter immediately, he struck a dead run within strides. Following the shouted directions of the grooms behind him, he galloped hard on the trail of the thief.
Cresting a tall hill, he reined in, gazing around as the grooms caught up to him and also halted their excited mounts. Yet, wherever he looked, he could not see a lone rider and two horses. Only wave upon wave of green grass over the rolling hills, and little else. “Bloody hell,” he swore. “Anyone see anything?”
The grooms all muttered negative replies, which only added to his anger and frustration. Reining his stallion around, he turned back toward home, grabbing a hold of the horse’s thick charcoal mane as he trotted back down the hill. The grooms followed behind him, talking in low tones. Sampson raged inwardly, fuming at a thief brazen enough to distract his grooms by setting a fire in order to steal a horse.
As he turned the sweaty horse over to the grooms who remained behind, he examined the fire, now dead. “See there, Yer Grace?” the head groom said, pointing at the blackened weeds. “He done need a rag soaked in oil ‘t get the ‘ting started a’tall, it be so wet. He rode from up yonder, see ‘is mount’s tracks? Tied ‘is mount ‘ere, then after ‘t fire be goin’, walk’t to ‘de fron’ ‘o the stable‘t hit ol’ Ty o’er ‘de head and take ‘de bleeder.”
Sampson studied the tracks left behind after the heavy rain, followed the man’s heavy footprints both going and coming back, with a second set of horse’s prints in the still damp mud. “What in the hell made him bold enough to steal my horse in broad daylight?”
The groom shrugged. “’T worked, eh, Yer Grace?”
“That it did,” Sampson admitted. “A crude plan, indeed, but you are quite right. It worked.”
“’E be fast, dat one, Yer Grace. ‘Ad ‘t know the ins and ‘de outs of yer stable, so ‘e does.”
Sampson halted dead in his tracks. “What did you say?”
“Dat thief, Yer Grace. ‘Ad ‘t know all ‘de ins and outs of ‘de stable to be dat quick.”
“And the number of grooms I employ,” Sampson said slowly, thinking hard. “He must have known how many would rush to put the fire out and how many would remain inside to start getting the horses out, if it proved necessary.”
The groom nodded. “Aye, Yer Grace.”
Stalking to the front of the stable, he found the grooms busy washing the sweat from the horses, walking them out, then returning them to their stalls. Though feeling the sting of loss for losing a horse, he felt glad that among them all, it was an animal whose only true value was sentimental. “I will still find you,” he muttered. “I want my horse back.”
“Yer Grace?”
Sampson shook his head. “Never mind. But, for your loyalty and your dedication for caring for my stock, I will raise your monthly salaries. All of you.”
Cheers exploded from the grooms, and they, despite what they held in their hands, offered him bows, grins abounding on their weathered faces. Sampson nodded to them, smiling a little, appreciating their loyalty and dedication to their jobs as never before. Starting back toward the house, movement on the hills captured his attention, making him tense.
A horse and rider.
Then he relaxed, recognizing James returning from his afternoon of inspecting the hills for the position atop them his enemy possibly used to spy on his home and staff. Deciding to wait for his steward, Sampson stood where he was, still fuming over the brazen theft. James cantered across the fields of green grass to the stable, then turned the bay horse over to the grooms to be cared for.
Often glancing over his shoulder at the grooms, his grizzled face puzzled, James walked toward him. “Is something wrong? The grooms appear excited.”
“One of my horses was stolen.”
“What?”
Gesturing for his steward to follow, Sampson explained the ruse, the assault on the groom, the theft, and the chase. “We did not catch him, damn it all.”
“Could this be the work of our lunatic?” James asked.
“I am not seeing the connection,” Sampson replied, frowning. “What does trying to kill me have to do with my horse being stolen?”
James shook his head. “I do not know. But it is too strange to ignore, lad. Setting a fire to distract the grooms, then stealing the most useless beast in the stable.”
“Excuse me?” Sampson glared at James. �
�I happen to like that beast. A great deal.”
James waved his hand. “You know what I mean. It does not seem worth the effort. It is as though he stole what he thought might be a valuable animal.”
“Well, of course, he did,” Sampson snapped. “Everyone in England believes all my horses are prize horses and worth hundreds of quid apiece. No one seems to care that I keep a few hacks here and there. I just happen to like that particular hack.”
“Yes, but he intended to steal a Breckenridge, obviously,” James replied, unmindful of the Duke’s ire. “But he did not. So what do we intend to do about it?”
“I gave the grooms a raise,” Sampson said, then glared as James opened his mouth. “It will help keep their loyalty mine, James, as well as reward them. They will be extra alert now, and will exercise more caution. I gain more by paying them more, than I might lose in the transaction.”
James raised his brows, his eyes wide. “Did I say anything to the contrary?”
“You did not have to.”
“I was going to tell you that was an excellent idea,” James went on. “Such a raise in salary will discourage bribes, as well as keep them loyal. They will protect your horses to the last man, after this.”
Sampson ran his hands through his thick dark hair. “So how do I protect the stud farm? I have only the stud manager and a few grooms caring for them. The most valuable horses are there, James. What if this fellow has friends who can aid him in taking more of my horses?”
“You are right, lad. We need to do something and right now.”
“But what?”
“Give me a moment, lad, I am thinking.”
Permitting James to pace around him despite the breach in protocol, Sampson thought hard about where to hide broodmares, foals, and stallions from a thief who seemed to know everything about him. As though I did not already have problems with someone trying to murder me, my sister, and Miss Brent.The instant he completed this thought, he knew what to do. The answer came to him, clear and shining. He swung toward James. His steward turned toward him in the same moment, his mouth open.
“The old castle,” they said together, in unison.
“Go.” Sampson shoved James toward the house. “Gather as many servants who can traipse across the hills, leading a horse, as you can. I will get the grooms mounted up. And the carriages hitched.”
Chapter 29
Lucretia, hearing shouts in the corridors, walked toward the doors to the solar, leaving Henrietta to gape at her back. Upon opening the door, she found footmen running past, their powdered wigs askew. When she tried to stop one to inquire as to what was going on, the man all but tripped over his feet trying to stop, apologized to her, then ran on.
“Mr. Kelley,” she shouted, seeing him hurrying toward her. “What is happening?”
Mr. Kelley skidded to a stop near her, his shoes sliding on the slick tiles. “His Grace needs every hand to help move horses,” he gasped. “He fears someone may try to attack the stud farm and steal the stock.”
Lucretia whirled, her hair streaming across her shoulders. “Rosemary,” she snapped. “Take Lady Henrietta to her quarters, then bolt the door behind you. Do not open it for anyone save His Grace, myself, Mr. Kelley, or James. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Luce,” Rosemary said, her face pale. “But surely you are not going—”
“I am, Rosemary. Go now.”
As Henrietta and Rosemary hurried past her, Lucretia nodded to Mr. Kelley. “Take me to His Grace.”
“Are you sure you should—?” he began.
“Yes,” she growled, impatient. “I can certainly lead a horse. Take me to him.”
Hiking her skirts to give her legs room to run, Lucretia followed John Kelley down the stairs and outside the house where perhaps fifty or sixty servants—footmen, housemaids, kitchenmaids, the gardener and his assistants, the coachman, grooms—all assembled on the lawn. In front of the assembly, the Duke sat his grey stallion, with James at his flank aboard a bay, facing them.
The Duke saw her amid the crowd, and dipped his chin once in a nod. Lucretia nodded back.
“Everyone,”he said, his voice carrying to the back. “I am in need of your assistance. I have reason to believe my stud farm will be attacked and my horses taken. With your help, we can move the animals to a safe and protected location—Marbridge Castle, the old derelict castle of my ancestors.”
Mr. Kelley bent to Lucretia’s ear. “Marbridge lies three miles from here,” he murmured. “To the south. His Grace’s ancestors refused to rebuild it, and instead built this house. The walls are mostly intact, and thus he can keep the horses safe.”
Lucretia grinned. “Ready to walk a few miles, my friend?”
Mr. Kelley looked affronted. “Can you keep up, Miss Brent?”
“Watch me.”
As some of the older servants climbed into the carriages, Lucretia, with Mr. Kelley at her shoulder, hurried toward the Duke. The rest began the short trek to the stud farm, a mere half mile down the road. The Duke gazed down at them, his expression grave, and regretful.
“Are you up for this, Miss Brent?” he asked.
She set her hands on her hips. “If I was not, I would not be here.”
Her lack of his title was not lost on him, or on those nearby. James grinned openly, while Mr. Kelley tried to hide his. The Duke merely smiled, rueful.
“Have you ever ridden a horse, Miss Brent?”
“No, Your Grace. My feet will serve me just fine. Your sister is safe, locked in her rooms with Rosemary. They are not to open the door to anyone save us four.”
“You should have been a battlefield general, Miss Brent,” the Duke said, smiling. “Will you consent to ride in a carriage?”
“I will walk, Your Grace, thank you. Keep the carriages for those who are less hardy.”
“Forgive me, but James and I must ride ahead to the farm and start the proceedings there.”
Lucretia waved them on. “Go. We will follow.”
The Duke, James, and a dozen mounted grooms cantered their horses down the road as Lucretia and Mr. Kelley led the servants in their wake. Glancing behind, she noted that the younger, healthier servants walked a fast pace while other less stout crowded into the carriages. “Can they walk leading a horse?” she asked.
“They may not have to,” Mr. Kelley replied. “They may only need to hold a lead rope while riding inside. The people in one carriage alone can lead more than ten horses. Perhaps a dozen.”
“This is a rather extreme time to learn how to handle a horse,” she muttered, walking quickly down the graveled road.
“Have you never handled a horse before, Miss Brent?”
“Never. The London orphanage did not teach that among their education classes.”
“If you need assistance, I will be ready,” he said. “I will also work to ensure you are given a docile one.”
Lucretia smiled up at him. “You are a dear friend, Mr. Kelley.”
“If we are friends, then please call me John.”
“Happy to meet you, John. I am Luce.”
He smiled. “I like that. Luce.”
It took almost thirty minutes for the crowd of servants to arrive at the farm. Covering several acres in size, it held more than a dozen stables, sheds, and outbuildings. A small cottage stood back from the stables where Lucretia assumed the stud manager lived. Lucretia stood upon a low hill, watching as the organized chaos commenced. The Duke, the stud manager rushing to assist him, directed everything with shouted commands.
“Listen, everyone,” he yelled from the back of his grey. “Listen close, now. Experienced and mounted grooms only take the stallions. Keep them in the front of the group and start now. When you arrive at the castle, the stallions are to be quartered in the west wing of the keep. Go.”
“Those in the carriages, you will be handed the ropes of the pregnant mares. Coachmen, travel slowly and keep a close watch on your horses, please. They carry very valuable cargo. The rest of y
ou will be handed mares with foals. Fear not, for they are quite docile and will walk quietly with you. Does anyone have an urgent question I may answer now?”
Lucretia gazed around, but other than murmurs, she heard no questions raised.
“Very well.”
The Duke gestured for the mounted grooms to be handed the leads of the prancing, proud-necked, high-spirited stallions. The Duke himself and James each took the rope of a priceless Breckenridge breeder. They set off up the dirt track to the south, hooves kicking up clots of mud. The stud manager then organized the pregnant mares, perhaps thirty of them, to the hands reaching for ropes from the carriages.
The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 24