by Allison Lane
“You have no business confronting an intruder yourself,” he snapped.
She leaned the poker against the wall. “There wasn’t time to fetch you.”
“Of course there was.” He pulled her around to face him. “It would have taken less than a minute.”
“And risked losing him. Your room is at the far end of the hall. He would have heard my footsteps. The only chance of catching him was to reach him before he realized people were awake.”
Alex opened his mouth to deliver a blistering lecture on her lack of sanity. But the footman arrived, hastily dressed and carrying a poker. Two maids crowded behind him, similarly armed. Undoubtedly the rest of the staff was on its way. The hall resembled a gathering of pikemen.
Drawing in a calming breath, he studied the wreckage of the collection room. “Did he take anything?” He should have searched the house upon arrival.
“I’ve no idea. You can’t have been more than a minute behind me.” While Simms lit candles, she pulled the window closed on a new screech of hinges, then locked it. Firmly.
Alex turned to the footman. “Return the chair to its usual place, but don’t touch anything else.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Simms, check every door and window. I want to know how this fellow got in. Mrs. Marlow and I will straighten up in here.”
Simms left as the footman shoved the chair against the wall. The intruder had moved it only a few feet, positioning it so that anyone coming downstairs in the dark would run into it. It made an effective alarm. Another chair sat between the collection room and the servants’ stairs.
“Is anything missing out here?” he asked, pointing to the display case that stood in the hall between the collection room and the study.
She frowned. “No.”
“Let’s check the collection, then.” Not an easy job. Cabinets were pulled out and cases shifted. A bookcase leaned drunkenly against a chair, its contents scattered across the floor. Drawers from a chest lay in a heap in the corner.
Alex castigated himself for not setting grooms to watch the grounds. More evidence that he was a failure. He knew someone was after them. Where had his wits been? Grooms could have caught the intruder outside, ending the case once and for all. Instead, he’d fallen into maudlin self-pity, abrogating his responsibilities.
His list of errors was growing. Discovering that X had killed both Higgins and Sir Harold had shaken him so much that he’d put off addressing Ridley’s security until morning. Only the thief’s own wariness had saved Eden’s life tonight. If she’d actually confronted him…
“You had no business coming down here alone,” he repeated, closing the door to the hall. “You could have been killed.”
“I was armed.”
He laughed without mirth. “Unless you dispatched him with one blow – a highly unlikely occurrence – he would have overpowered you in an instant. And once you saw his face, he would have killed you. Do you think he would let anyone live who could identify him? He probably killed Peterson and set the inn on fire. If he is also X – which now seems likely – he killed Christine, Sir Harold, and your father. And he might have killed John, untold accomplices—” He ran out of breath. Fury burned his chest, stronger than he’d ever experienced
She glared. “I’m not as helpless as you think. I could have knocked him out.”
“It’s dangerous to overestimate your abilities,” he warned.
“I’m not.”
“Prove it. Hit me.” He tossed her a cane from the jumble spilling from an elephant’s foot.
“I couldn’t!”
“Of course you can’t. But I dare you to make contact with anything that might incapacitate me.”
“It’s not the same. You are expecting an attack.”
“And he wasn’t? Poppycock! He was poised to repel an attack from the moment he entered this house. Every sense was alert to the slightest sound. He would have reacted the instant you touched the door handle.” He turned his back, opening the window to check for marks on the casing. Another screech jangled his nerves. X could not have entered this way. Everyone at Ridley would have heard him.
He locked the window, then turned to a display case that had not yet been disturbed. It—
Whirling, he caught the cane in one hand, twisting it from Eden’s grasp. Before she could react, he pinned her to the floor, his arm banded across her throat.
“Satisfied?” he asked, ignoring the heat that had instantly suffused his body. He helped her up.
“H-how did you do that?”
“Danger hones a man’s instincts, Eden. Don’t ever think you can win a physical confrontation with one. If you hear a noise in the night, wake me.”
“I will not stand idly by when danger threatens. I am not one of those helpless society ladies who fall into hysterics at the least thing. This is my home. No one is going to destroy it.”
He grabbed her shoulders. “You don’t have to do everything when there are people available who can share the load. Either let me quit or let me do my job. I can’t concentrate if I must constantly worry that you will rush into danger. Do you want me to regret for the rest of my life that you died while in my care? What would happen to your sister?”
She sagged.
He pulled her against him, gently this time. “Relax, Eden,” he murmured into her ear. “There are many ways you can help apprehend X. But battling him face to face is not one of them.”
“Very well. Let’s see what he’s done.” She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “Why are you sure this was X himself and not another collector or a servant?”
“Whoever was here knows the house. X, in his guise as Sir Harold, trysted here with Christine.”
“But that was before John moved here.” She pulled away to pace the room. “Tonight’s intruder went straight to the collection room, which makes me suspect Jeremy. I wish I’d had a clearer view of him.”
“Jeremy knows the room well enough to avoid noise. He also knows where every item is stored, so he could retrieve what he wanted in silence. This man was clearly searching for something. All he knew on arrival was which room housed the collection, which he could have discovered by visiting the house.”
“You mean I know him?” She sounded appalled.
“Or he posed as a traveler wanting a tour. Or he befriended one of the servants. I must question your staff.”
“Of course.” She paled.
He made no attempt to soothe this new shock. It was time she faced that she could trust no one, not even her faithful servants.
Once he returned the cabinets to their places, he passed her the contents. It took an hour to put everything away.
“Is anything missing?” he asked again.
She frowned. “Arthur’s sandals. Perhaps the thief thinks they will help him tap Merlin’s power – not that I believe they are real.”
“They had no particular value, then?”
She shook her head. “I can’t in good conscience sell them as Arthur’s sandals.”
“Why do you think them false?”
“Condition. I don’t believe leather would survive uncracked for centuries. They don’t even look worn.” She examined the shelves, frowning. “There should be a box— Ah. Here it is.” It had rolled beneath a chair. “His Borgia ring, complete with poison chamber. I don’t know its value, though the stone should be worth something. John loved it.” Her voice broke.
Simms returned. “Everything is properly locked except the kitchen door, ma’am. There is no sign that it was forced from outside,” he added to Alex.
“You mean someone let him in?” choked Eden.
“Not necessarily,” said Alex. He turned to Simms. “With your permission, I will interview the staff.”
“Immediately,” added Eden.
“As you wish. We are in the servants’ hall.” He left.
Alex turned to Eden. “Go back to bed. This is one interview you will not conduct.”
“Why? They
are my staff.”
“Exactly. Admitting carelessness to you would put their positions in jeopardy.”
“Carelessness?”
“Either Cook forgot to check the door before retiring or someone slipped out after Cook went to sleep. It is too soon to assume that X seduced a maid, though it is possible.” The staff must include maids who had not met Sir Harold ten years ago.
“Very well. I will wait for your report.”
“Go to sleep. If I learn anything urgent, Carver will fetch you. Otherwise, we can discuss the results at breakfast.”
She frowned, but left.
Alex took a moment to settle his thoughts before heading to the kitchen. Holding Eden always scrambled his wits. Lingering fury at her recklessness didn’t help. Nor did it help that he was torn between applauding and cursing her intrepid spirit.
* * * *
The gentleman was still shaking when he handed his horse to the posting inn’s groom, rounded a waiting mail coach, and went in search of the proprietor. How had he been caught? The gods were supposed to be on his side.
It’s a test, he reminded himself again. To see if you’re worthy.
If it was a test, he was failing. Nothing had gone right in weeks. Storms kept separating him from his quarry. The fire that should have finished the matter had done nothing. Every time he took even a brief nap, Mrs. Marlow slipped away, disappearing in the predawn blackness or becoming invisible to everyone on a street. It was as if she could sense the moment he closed his eyes.
He’d been so sure this time. He’d arrived at Ridley after dark, intending to camp in the woods until he learned the estate’s routine. But the gods had smiled on him for once – or so it had seemed. He’d not even chosen a campsite before a maid tiptoed from the servants’ entrance, her stealth proving that no one was near the door.
So he’d walked in.
No one had seen him. No one had heard. The sorcerer’s power had reached out, protecting him – or it should have. It was his right, his inheritance, his—
He twisted his face into a congenial smile and rang the bell to summon the proprietor. But his thoughts remained at Ridley. What had he done wrong?
The innkeeper bustled from the taproom, face welcoming despite bleary eyes that bespoke a late night. Laughter followed him in surprising volume. The crowd rivaled a London club – odd for three of a country morning, even with the mail waiting outside.
“May I help you, sir?” The man’s eyes dimmed as he took in the shabby jacket and scuffed boots which proved he wouldn’t be letting his best room.
“I hope so.” He pulled a shilling from his pocket. “My brother disappeared while returning from London. I’ve traced him as far as Melton Mowbray, where he was seen heading this direction late on March the eighth. Did he perchance spend the night here? He’s about your height but thinner. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”
The innkeeper frowned, even when a second shilling dropped on his desk. “I see men what fit that description every day, sir, begging your pardon. ’Tain’t uncommon and even fits that body what turned up a couple miles up the road. Highwayman, he was.”
So his scene-setting had worked. He hid his satisfaction behind a frown, gripping the desk with both hands. “A body?” he squeaked. “Dear Lord! It can’t be… But you said a highwayman. I won’t believe…”
“But you do.” The innkeeper flexed muscular arms. “If your brother goes about robbing decent folks—”
“No, no. You misunderstood. If it is he, then the tale must be different than rumor claims, for George is a peaceable man, and not without assets. But if he were attacked—” He produced an artistic shudder. “What was the victim wearing?”
“Clothes about like yours.” His frown deepened.
“What did he carry?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “My cousin helped bring him in. He says he carried but a handkerchief, some string, and a bit of wire.”
He let relief spread over his face. “Praise the Lord! It can’t have been George. His wife’s letters always lie above his heart. Are you sure George didn’t stop here? George Mason, he is, an honest man and hard worker.”
“I don’t recall, but see for yourself.” He opened the register.
The man calling himself Mason carefully thumbed through the pages, then sighed. “No sign of him. I would have thought since he changed horses at Melton – but perhaps he pressed on for another stage before halting. Thank you for your help.” He paused, as if with an afterthought. “How did your highwayman die? Did the coachman carry a musket?”
“No. He attacked a rider. Ineptly. The horse knocked him down, discharging his own pistol into his chest.”
“There’s a lesson there,” Mason intoned. “One can hardly rue the death of such a man.”
“But one can rue his attack,” growled the innkeeper. “A good man died with him – thrown when the horse bolted. We’ll not see his like again.”
“My condolences.” Another shake of his head brushed the conversation aside. “I’ll relieve my thirst before I press on, if you would bring me an ale. And a bite of food if the cook remains awake.”
“Always. Would you prefer the parlor, Mr. Mason?”
“The taproom will do. Perhaps someone in there saw George pass."
The innkeeper gestured him to a table, then moved off to speak with others.
Mason studied the room. A dozen men clustered around a table in the far corner, so intent on a card game that it must involve considerable stakes. They groaned in unison as one of the players threw down his hand. Three men gulped stew at a second table, obviously passengers from the mail. They rose as one when the call went out to reboard, stuffing crusts into pockets to finish on the road.
A maid delivered his plate and ale, adding a smile before she whisked away to take orders from the card players.
Mason downed the ale, relaxing. The gods remained with him after all. No one suspected that their supposed highwayman had been murdered, and his near capture tonight was his own fault. He’d acted impatiently and paid. Next time he would leave nothing to chance.
He smiled as he dug into the meat pie steaming on his plate. The plan was simple, so as long as he didn’t rush his fences…
Chapter Fifteen
At breakfast, Eden held her tongue until Alex finished eating, but her patience gave out when he lingered over his coffee.
“Well?” she demanded. “Why was the kitchen door open?”
“A maid slips out twice a week to meet a groom from Beckfield,” he said, naming the next estate. “She swears she always locks up when she returns.”
“That doesn’t help the rest of us while she’s gone.” Eden frowned.
“No, it doesn’t. She was gone two hours last night, returning to find the house in an uproar. That’s why she forgot the door. I hoped she might have seen our intruder leave, but she circled around the front of the house to avoid the housekeeper’s window.”
“And Cook’s.” Eden clenched her fists. “If she’d returned earlier, she would not have confessed. We would have been puzzled over how he entered.”
“She would have told me the truth.”
She shivered at his grim look and had to agree. Alex would have forced a confession through sheer determination. His intensity was back with a vengeance, clearly laced with anger.
“Which maid?”
“Polly.”
She shook her head. “I never suspected she had a beau – or that she might sneak about if she did. Sarah is the flighty one.”
“Nor did Simms or the housekeeper or the cook. They are furious.”
She would have to let Polly go. Rules aside, the staff would make the girl’s life miserable otherwise. They wouldn’t appreciate being put in danger. If Eden failed to act decisively, she would lose their respect. “So X happened to find the door open last night.”
“Which he will interpret as proof that Fate approves his plans – obviously he’s decided the stone he stole was a decoy, so he’s
seeking the real one. That could make him even bolder.”
She suppressed a shiver. “Then why burn down the inn?”
“I can’t yet explain that. Even madmen display a certain logic, so he must have had some reason beyond his own insanity.” He shoved his plate aside. “I want to check the collection more closely.”
She’d hoped he would escort Olivia to call on the ailing Mrs. Sommers this morning while she spoke with the steward, but the break-in made it more urgent than ever to find X. So she led the way to the collection room.
“Where were the servants the night John died?” he asked, examining the window in daylight. “You did interview them, I presume.”
“Of course. Two of them heard John shout, Stop, thief! as he raced out, but they were upstairs and saw nothing.”
“Which two?”
“Carver was turning down the bed in my room. From there, you can see the formal gardens, but you have to thrust head and shoulders beyond the casing to see the terrace. She didn’t. The boot boy was returning John’s riding boots to his dressing room. He ignored the shout.”
“Typical. As the lowest-ranking male on the staff, he probably feared being blamed if someone broke in. Where did John go when he left?”
“I’ll draw you a sketch.” She reached for a sheet of paper, then warned, “This won’t be to scale.”
He nodded, then leaned over her shoulder to watch, clasping his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t touch her. He couldn’t afford wandering wits. Yet her scent rose up to strangle him, proving that she could distract him no matter what he did. Was he doomed to yet another failure because he couldn’t keep his mind on the job?
“Here’s the house and terrace,” she said, breaking into his thoughts as she drew a pair of rectangles, then added lines that marked off the various gardens. “John ran to the terrace from the study. There are the only three ways off of it” —she pointed— “steps in the middle down to the formal gardens and steps at either end to the grassy rides. The west ride leads to the lake, the east ride to the woods. John was turning right as I reached the study, so the thief must have run toward the woods.”