Gently disengaging Henrietta, he sent her back to Lucretia after a quick kiss to her cheek. The girl, her previous enthusiasm dimmed, went willingly enough. “See you at supper, little sister,” he said.
Lord Gillinghamshire finally dismounted, smiling as he shook the Duke’s hand. “You have the best cook in the district, Sampson,” he said. “We do not come for your company, but his.”
The Duke laughed. “And here I thought you came for my brandy.”
Lucretia curtsied as both lords passed her, and upon rising, she caught the Duke’s eye.” Your Grace,” she said, diffident. “As your friends have arrived, I will refuse your invitation to eat with you this evening. I am sure you would rather I not attend.”
The Duke’s smile faded. “Of course you will attend, Miss Brent. I will not rescind my invitation.”
She bent into a curtsey. “As you wish.”
“What?”
Lucretia glanced up, dismayed, at the venom in the Baron’s voice. She looked first to the Duke, whose brows had lowered over his eyes and his lips thinned in disapproval. Then she discovered the Baron’s hot, angry gaze on her, his finger jabbed in her direction.
“You mean, you invited this—this creature to sup with you?”
Chapter 30
Watching Miss Brent and Henrietta hurry back to the garden, Sampson scowled. At his gesture, the grooms took all four horses to the stable, and only after they had passed the boundaries of earshot did he turn to George.
“Do you care to explain that last comment?” he asked, his tone as icy as a mountain lake.
George tried to laugh. “Surely you do not consort with commoners, Sampson. It is one thing to employ them as servants, but to ask a servant to sup with you? I think you have gone quite mad.”
“Since when did my supper companions become any of your affair?”
Oliver stepped between them, an uneasy smile splitting his face as he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, gentlemen, we are friends, right? Let us not quarrel, please. We have known each other too long to become upset over such a small thing. George, you have to admit, servant or not, Miss Brent is quite an eyeful, and I for one would not mind looking at that over my soup.”
“Beautiful or not,” George replied, some heat in his voice, “I do not dine with the staff.”
“Then that is your decision, of course,” Sampson said. “I will not retract my invitation, George, even if you are too blind to see her quality.”
“Quality?” George threw his hands into the air and turned around, as though he could no longer gaze into the face of utter stupidity.
When Sampson would have vented his rage at George’s rudeness, Oliver placed a hand on his arm, halting him. He relented, still furious over George’s condemnation of Miss Brent, and angry that his first day without worry in days had been dimmed by this useless argument over her presence at supper. Oliver placed a finger over his lips in a shushing gesture, then went to George.
Sampson heard his murmured words of tolerance and a comment this is not your house as well as let him do as he pleases, he will learn soon enough. When Oliver and George turned back to him, Sampson felt tempted to slam even Oliver for that last murmured remark. He opened his mouth to speak, to take umbrage with Oliver as well, but he caught James’ eye. He relaxed as James shook his head, but still wanted to swear no few choice oaths at both of his friends.
“I apologize for my rude behavior,” George said, his tone stiff. “It will not happen again.”
He extended his hand and Sampson clasped it, not entirely mollified by the apology. But he manfully accepted it, and gestured toward the house. “Shall we go kill a decanter of brandy, gentlemen?”
With a pleasant fire burning on the hearth in the library, a brandy in his hand, Sampson recounted the past few days of would-be horse thieves and housing his treasures in the old castle.
“You are a genius, Sampson,” Oliver said, his enthusiasm warming the cold atmosphere of the library. “No thief can get past those gates. Remember when we went there as boys? Playing pirates storming the castle, and rescuing fair maidens?”
Sampson chuckled. “I remember. That is how you, Oliver, got into trouble with your father when you fell off a battlement and broke your arm.”
“I believe I am lucky that is all I broke,” Oliver replied, laughing.
Although he chuckled and nodded at the reminiscing, George said little and drank his brandy as though it was water. Sampson eyed him from time to time. Surely he is not that upset over Miss Brent’s presence at supper. I remember as a youth he considered the butler’s son his best friend. Yet, George continued to drink heavily.
“I expect you have not yet caught the horse thief, eh, Sampson?” Oliver asked.
“Not yet,” he replied. “But I have set traps. If the thieves come again, they will be caught.”
“Jolly good.” Oliver sighed happily and poured himself more brandy. “Do invite me to the hanging, will you? There’s a good chap.”
At supper, with Henrietta in her best gown and her hair freshly washed, and Miss Brent in hers, the meal was a success in that all George accomplished were a few hot glares flashed in Miss Brent’s direction and a considerable amount of drinking. Sampson watched them both closely, as Miss Brent ate her food and pretended she did not see them, while George ate half his meal and drank twice as much.
“George, keep on like that and I will be forced to pour you into your bed this night,” Sampson quipped, smiling with feigned joviality.
He also noticed Henrietta ate with her usual enthusiasm lacking, as though she sensed the tension at the table. She kept her eyes downcast, but cut many uneasy glances toward George. That in itself seemed strange, as Henrietta usually paid him no mind at all when he visited. Oliver spent time teasing her, raising a few smiles from her and even brought her to laughter once or twice.
True to his word, Oliver ogled Miss Brent over the table, his eyes admiring, not caring a whit that he dined with a common governess. If she was beautiful, Oliver looked—it was part of his nature. Trying to jolly Henrietta into smiling more, Sampson covertly watched George’s face. And what he saw alarmed him.
George’s face, empty of expression, did not cause him that frantic and sudden deep concern. It was his eyes. Cold, calculating, as though he examined his latest kill and studied how best to cut it up. In all the years he had known George, he had never seen such malice in his eyes as when he gazed at Miss Brent.
“So, George,” he said, forcing heartiness into his tone. “How is your beef steak? Cooked to perfection, I hope?”
George snapped his gaze from Miss Brent to himself, and returned a sardonic smile. “Why, yes, it is. I think I should entice your cook from you, except I cannot pay him as handsomely as you do.”
“And he is worth every penny, I assure you.”
Noticing how George slurred his words, Sampson grew more concerned about his behavior. Surely he would not try to harm her? George is a kind soul, even if he does not like commoners these days. “Perhaps you should discontinue imbibing, my friend.”
George’s lip curled. “Are you concerned about having a drunkard at your table? I should think you care not whom you invite to it.”
Sampson saw, from the corner of his eye, Miss Brent flinch at the implied slight, yet she did not glance up from her plate. She, too, did not eat all she had been served, and pushed food around with her fork. He suddenly wished he had permitted her to uninvite herself, for the chilly climate in the dining room no doubt made her very uncomfortable. “Miss Brent,” he said, garnering her attention, “How is your dinner, if I may inquire?”
She smiled. “It is delicious, Your Grace.”
George scowled into his wine, gulping it down and emptying his glass. Thomas refilled it, though Sampson considered ordering him not to. If George wished to drink himself into a stupor, then Sampson would permit him. If necessary, he would help George to his room and let him sleep it off.
“I w
ish to be excused,” Henrietta said in a small voice.
“Of course,” Sampson replied.
As his sister rose from the table to leave, Miss Brent did as well. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, “for your gracious meal.”
He nodded as she gave him a respectful curtsey, then she and Henrietta left the dining room. Sampson wondered if her absence would cheer George up, but he appeared as morose as ever, and had downed the latest glass that Thomas poured for him. Even Oliver’s normal buoyant and cheerful demeanor had been dampened, for he finished eating in silence.
After finishing his supper, Sampson thought to ask them to the drawing room for port and hopefully lighter conversation. But when George stood, it became clear the only place he should go was his chambers. He swayed on his feet, his eyes half-closed, and Oliver grabbed his arm to steady him, laughing.
“I expect you have had enough, old boy,” he said, ducking under George’s arm to hold him upright. “Come, time for you to sleep it off.”
George tried to nod, and his legs all but buckled under him. Sampson put George’s other arm over his shoulder, and together they half-carried, and half-dragged George up the stairs to the room he normally stayed in when he visited. He began to snore almost immediately after they deposited him on the bed, and Sampson pulled off his boots while Oliver covered him with a blanket.
“He will be quite regretful in the morning,” Oliver said as they closed the door behind them. “Why should he be so upset over Miss Brent at supper?”
“I wish I knew,” Sampson replied. “This is not like him at all. He never used to be so antagonistic toward anyone.”
They walked down the corridor, Oliver nodding thoughtfully. “Do you suppose he is in financial hardships, Sampson?” he asked. “Perhaps he is under a great strain.”
“I do not know,” he replied, “and it would be tasteless to ask him. If his wealth is dwindling, then his behavior does make some sense. But I thought his cattle business thrived.”
“He has not spoken to me of his troubles,” Oliver said.
“Come,” Sampson said, clapping Oliver on the back. “Let us have some lighter conversation in the drawing room over port.”
* * *
Quite late in the evening, the house quiet and Oliver off to his room, Sampson prowled the corridors and hallways, too restless to retire for the night. George’s behavior troubled him more than he wanted to admit. If his conduct came from some financial stress, Sampson could and would offer to help. Try as he might, he could think of no other answer for George’s disturbing comportment.
As he walked, he wondered if George’s animosity toward Miss Brent stemmed from their first meeting where she slapped him for grabbing her arm. Yet, George had been in the house many times since that incident, and paid her no mind at all. Am I missing something?
He tried to convince himself that George did hold a grudge against her for that incident, and only revealed it now when she sat at the table with him.
But to become so emotional over her presence that he grew rude and so very drunk? That makes no sense at all. Sampson shook his head. Nearing Henrietta’s suite, he decided to take a peek into her rooms, just to make sure all was well. Turning the corner, he saw a shadow in the dim light of the hall lamps. A man, trying to turn the door handle to Henrietta’s apartments. Fear and rage rushed through him in a heartbeat.
The man glanced up at the same moment Sampson yelled, “You! Stop!”
The shadow bolted, running in the opposite direction, and turned the corner. Sampson ran after him, fearing the man had just left the rooms and he had not caught him trying to enter. Skidding on the tiles, he raced down the set of stairs, chasing the shadow, who remained several yards ahead of him. He often lost sight of his quarry when he turned corners, but kept running through the house, thinking he would catch him within minutes.
Once, he turned a corner and saw nothing ahead of him. Turning about, frustrated, he found two potential paths for the man to have gone into—yet another hallway and a set of stairs leading down. Expecting that his quarry would have gone down into order to leave the house, Sampson ran downward, following them.
Speeding around yet another corner, he slammed face first into a hard fist. The blow knocked him flat on his back, pain rushed through his cheekbone. Stunned, he lay there for a few moments, trying to collect his wits. Those moments gave the man the time he needed to escape. From a distance, as he fought to get to his feet, he heard the front doors slam. Blood trickling down his cheek, Sampson tried to run again, and this time he crashed headlong into James.
“What the hell?” James exclaimed, grabbing Sampson by the upper arms. “What is going on? I heard running feet.”
“Intruder,” Sampson gasped. “Trying to get into Henrietta’s room.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he snapped.
Pushing his way around James, Sampson ran on, heading for the front doors. Hurling them open, he, James at his side, rushed out into the darkness. The moon rode high and the stars gleamed in their bed of inky night, but despite their clarity of vision, neither saw the man Sampson chased. Together they trotted around the house and the stable, seeing no one, checking the shrubs in the garden for any hidden visitors. They found no one.
“I do not see the groom who is supposed to patrol the grounds at night,” James said.
“Nor do I,” Sampson replied, gazing around, his fists on his hips. “Keep looking for him. I am going back in to check on Henrietta and Miss Brent.”
“Where you go,” James said firmly, “I go.”
“Not this time,” Sampson said, his tone harsher than he intended. “I will be fine. I need you to find Jack Hopper and make certain this intruder did not harm or kill him.”
When James opened his mouth to protest, Sampson scowled. “Do not make me order you, James.”
Leaving James to mutter behind his back, Sampson walked quickly back into the house and found no few servants, including Thomas and John Kelley, talking quietly in a small crowd. No doubt the noise of the chase roused them from their beds and they milled about, asking each other what could have happened.
“We had an intruder,” Sampson explained, keeping his voice calm. “James and I chased him off.”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Kelley said, gazing hard at Sampson’s cheek. “Do you know you are bleeding?”
Sampson swiped at the blood with his fingers. “The fellow struck me to stop me chasing him. It is all right, I am fine. All of you, go on back to your beds. It is over.”
While the others bowed and departed, Mr. Kelley remained behind. Sampson glanced at him. “Our night patrol groom is missing,” Sampson told him, his voice low. “James is searching for him. Will you go help him look?”
“Perhaps I should remain with you, Your Grace.”
“I am going to check on my sister and Miss Brent,” Sampson said, glancing around at the now quiet house. “I found the intruder outside their door.”
At Kelley’s sudden dark scowl, Sampson nodded. “I fear I may have found him after his deed, not before. Go, I need to go up.”
Before Sampson took three strides toward the stairs, the doors opened behind him, and he wheeled. James came in, a body slung over his shoulders, his face grim.
“I found the groom.”
Chapter 31
The dragon in her hand, cocked, Lucretia listened at the door. The shouts and the sounds of running feet faded, but that did not ease her worry. Behind her, Rosemary slept soundly on her pallet, and beyond in her bedchamber, Henrietta snored softly. Neither had awakened at the strange sounds that woke Lucretia, and the shadow of feet under the door cast by the faint lamplight in the hall.
Do I go or do I stay? She had debated with herself to leave and find the Duke to tell him someone tried to enter Henrietta’s private chambers. Or stay, guarding the girl and Rosemary. If the intruder came back, and she was not there – she shuddered at the image that came to her mind. Both of them dead
while she ran for aid. Deciding to stay behind a stoutly locked door seemed the best course, for here she had some protection. As did Henrietta and Rosemary.
After what seemed like ages, she heard footsteps outside again, and braced herself.
If it comes to it, can I kill to protect them as well as myself?
The door handle turned, rattling softly. Taking a deep breath, Lucretia seized a hold of the knob in her left hand, raising the pistol in the other. Jerking the door open, she shoved the dragon into the intruder’s face.
“Miss Brent!”
Lucretia instantly lowered the pistol, recognizing the Duke. His face as shocked as hers, he raised both hands up, his eyes wide. Drawing a long shuddering breath, she leaned against the door jamb. The Duke stepped toward her, and gently took the pistol from her hand and slowly let the hammer back down.
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