He was going to be sick.
Miss Honeywell put a hand to his cheek. It was warm and gentle and infinitely comforting. His nausea subsided.
“Montford,” she murmured.
With great effort, he sat up. Her hand fell away, though some part of him wished it had remained. He took a shuddering breath and attempted to take stock of his injuries. He felt bruised and shaken, but he wasn’t shot. “I’m uninjured,” he managed.
Relief flooded her face, and she sat back on her heels, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve.
“Good gads, man,” came a voice over their heads. He raised his glance to Sir Wesley/Mr. Honeywell, who was staring at him in alarm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“But the blood, man, the blood!” the gentleman exclaimed, indicating his shirtfront, his features puckering with apprehension.
Montford cringed and refused to look down. “I don’t think it’s mine.”
Miss Honeywell’s face contorted with renewed anguish, and she climbed to her feet. “Cyril!”
She ran towards the fallen horse, over which two laborers stood, shaking their heads grimly.
Montford staggered to his feet and followed after her. It was clear the gelding was done for. His neck was snapped at an odd angle, and no air worked in his massive chest. A dark patch of blood stained his side and pooled onto the grass beneath his lifeless body. Montford schooled himself not to swoon at the sight.
Miss Honeywell threw herself over the horse, sobbing violently. He turned away. He must have looked unsteady on his feet, for Sir Wesley clutched him under the elbow. Montford did not pull away. There was too much blood, and his head was still spinning.
“Damned shame. Damned bloody shame,” Sir Wesley muttered. “A foul business.”
A man appeared at the top of the ridge. He was large, dressed in tweed, with a pipe sticking out the corner of his mouth. He bit out several colorful oaths as he saw the carnage before him, and lumbered down the hill. The large man pulled the pipe out of his scowling mouth, a harsh furrow slashing between his bushy brows. “Wot’s happened here?” he demanded in a thick Scottish burr.
“Foul business, Mr. McConnell,” Sir Wesley babbled. Montford gritted his teeth. Sir Wesley was no help.
The Scot turned his attention to Montford. He took his measure in one swift, intelligent glance, and nodded. “Duke,” he said, without an ounce of deference.
Not that Montford cared at the moment. “Someone shot at me. As you can see, his aim claimed my mount instead.”
The Scot’s lips thinned to a harsh line. “Aye. An’ what makes ye so sure it were ye an’ not the poor beastie the bullet was intending to hit?”
Montford was all astonishment and affront. Or as much as he could be under the circumstances. “Oh, I don’t know. Common sense. Intuition? It hardly signifies, however, as the result was doubtless the same either way. ‘Twas only blind luck that saved me from breaking my neck,” Montford said in as calm a voice as he could manage.
The Scot looked unconvinced, but Montford decided not to argue with the man.
Miss Honeywell’s sobs broke into his consciousness once more, and his heart twisted painfully in his chest. He hated the sound of her despair, hated his own weakness that prevented him from offering her some comfort – even though in the back of his mind he could almost believe that she had something to do with this business. If she wasn’t so distraught over the gelding, leading him to reason with what little wits he had left that she would never do anything to endanger the animal, he wouldn’t have put it past her to arrange his assassination.
He turned his head and glimpsed her kneeling by the horse, cradling his head in her lap, her shoulders trembling, and his heart flipped over again.
No, he could not believe she’d arranged this.
But someone had.
He turned back to Sir Wesley and Mr. McConnell and tried to manage an authoritative scowl. “Should one of you aid the lady?”
Sir Wesley looked startled and bounded forward. “Yes, yes of course.”
Mr. McConnell held Sir Wesley back by the arm. “She’ll be wantin’ her sister. Why doan ye take yerself back to the castle and prepare Alice?”
Sir Wesley looked confused but agreeable to this plan.
Mr. McConnell went to Miss Honeywell’s side and knelt down. Montford heard her sob, “Oh, Hiram!”, then pitch herself into the Scotsman’s embrace.
“I’ll ride back to the castle, then,” Sir Wesley said, climbing the hill. He hesitated and turned to Montford. “Shall you come?”
Montford was rooted in place. The strangest feeling had come over him when he saw Miss Honeywell fall against the Scotsman’s chest. He’d felt physical pain. Anguish. He’d have done anything to exchange places with the man, as ludicrous as that seemed. He remembered her gentle, warm hand on his cheek when she had roused him from his faint.
And yesterday, when she had lain beneath him, so soft, so eager.
“No,” he heard himself saying. “I think I’ll stay.”
Sir Wesley looked surprised, but continued on his way.
Montford stood with the two laborers in uncomfortable silence as Miss Honeywell continued to cry. Mr. McConnell patted her back with one hand and drew his pipe up to his mouth at intervals to take a puff, occasionally glancing down at the gelding and shaking his head in disapproval or offering some stiff word of comfort.
Somehow, Montford found solace that McConnell didn’t seem to be besotted with the chit.
Eventually, the man succeeded on coaxing Miss Honeywell to her feet and taking her by the shoulders. “There, there, lass, it ain’t like ye to go on so. Pull yerself together, there’s a lass.”
Miss Honeywell snuffled into a rough handkerchief McConnell produced from his pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s just such a … a shock, Hiram. Cyril … my lovely, lovely Cyril.”
Montford’s heart once again clenched in his chest. She had loved the horse, and, as unlikely as it seemed, sincerely loved the name.
“’Aye, ‘tis a great shame. Fine bit of horseflesh he were. Now come away from this place, ‘tain’t no good to wallow in yer miseries.”
Miss Honeywell looked towards the felled horse and McConnell tucked her under his arm and led her away gently but firmly. “Come on, lass. Dunna look back at such horrors.”
Miss Honeywell expelled a shaky breath and allowed herself to be guided up the slope. Montford followed in their wake. McConnell barked out orders at the laborers to fetch a cart, and the two men departed in the direction of the brewery. Then he led Miss Honeywell in the direction of her mount, which had wandered across the lane, prancing nervously about, as if sensing trouble in the air.
McConnell seized the mare’s reins and soothed her in the same gruff manner he’d soothed Miss Honeywell.
Montford turned his attention back to Miss Honeywell. She’d stopped crying, but her eyes were puffy, her skin mottled from her tears. She blew her nose into the handkerchief in a very unladylike manner and squared her shoulders. She could not meet his eye. Montford reached out to pat her shoulder or perhaps touch her hand, something to comfort her, but he let it drop to his side.
What was he thinking?
McConnell guided the mare in their direction, but Miss Honeywell could not look at the creature either, as if the sight of it was too painful.
“I suggest ye take the Princess back to the stables, let us take care of the …” McConnell coughed into his hand.
“Corpse,” Miss Honeywell provided in a remarkably even tone.
McConnell nodded.
Miss Honeywell made a vague gesture of acquiescence, but made no move to grab the reins McConnell offered her. Montford grabbed them instead.
“I … I saw something,” Miss Honeywell said.
McConnell’s eyes flashed with alertness.
“In the wood,” she said, pointing into the thick foliage next to them. “The shooter. About fifty paces in. I saw him run into the
forest.”
“Did ye see who it were, lass?”
She shook her head. “No. He was tall. He wore a dark green coat.”
Montford exchanged grim looks with McConnell. “It seems someone wished to do me harm,” he said. “I cannot believe this was an accident.”
“Aye, ye’ve the right of it,” McConnell acknowledged.
“Who, I wonder, would wish me dead?”
McConnell removed the pipe from his mouth and fixed Montford with a steady, slightly wry expression. “I reckon nigh on everyone in the county, Yer Grace.”
“That certainly narrows it down,” he muttered.
“No one would dare,” Miss Honeywell insisted. “No one from the estate, surely. Murdering you would hardly be in their best interest. The authorities would think that I … I had something to do with it, and then the estate would be seized …” She turned to him, wide-eyed. “You don’t think I would do such a thing!”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he allowed.
She looked indignant. McConnell looked fairly murderous.
“Of course I don’t think you arranged this,” he finished. “But someone did. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
McConnell and Miss Honeywell looked at each other, and some mutual idea seemed to pass between them, rousing Montford’s suspicions. But they shook their heads and stared at the ground.
“You two suspect someone,” Montford insisted.
McConnell fixed him with a hard look that said he would be answering no more questions. “The pair of ye’ve had a fright. And ye, Yer Grace, be out of sorts from yer fall. Go on back to the castle an’ repair yerselves. I’ll see to what’s left and go into the forest for a look ‘round. Whoe’er did the deed is come and gone by now, but I’ll see what can be done.”
After he’d made sense of the Scot’s brogue, Montford started to protest, but the pain in his head left him dizzy, and the smell of blood left him weak. He decided to heed the man’s advice. “You’ll come and report to me when you’ve completed your work,” Montford said.
McConnell’s eyes narrowed at the implicit command. “Aye, Yer Grace.”
“Good.” He turned to Miss Honeywell. “Shall I help you up?”
“I think I’ll walk. I have no desire to ride at the moment.”
“Neither do I,” he said wryly.
McConnell left them, and they started down the lane. He held the mare’s reins and leaned his right arm against her shoulders as he walked, not yet trusting his own legs.
They were silent for a very long time, Miss Honeywell trudging at his side, her face downcast so he could not read her expression. He cleared his throat and searched for the right words. “I am very sorry this happened. Please believe I did everything I could to turn Cyril.”
She made some noise at his side, and he feared she was crying again.
Dear God.
But when he looked at her, he saw she was smiling bleakly. “You cannot blame yourself. I cannot even blame you. Besides, I think he would have died either way.”
“Foul business,” he muttered, then cringed when he realized he was mimicking Sir Wesley’s insipidity.
“I would not want you dead. I may wish you to the devil, but it is supposed to be metaphorical,” she assured him.
“Likewise.”
“I had nothing to do with this,” she insisted in a defensive voice. “I hope you believe me.”
He stopped walking, which made her stop as well.
“Miss Honeywell, I do believe you.”
She looked at her boots. “Thank you.” Then she looked up at his face searchingly. “You are terribly banged up.”
“I feel banged up.”
She reached out and dabbed at his temple with her handkerchief. He leaned against the mare and let her gentle touch soothe his aching head. At length, she pulled away and presented him with the evidence of his wound, which soaked through the linen handkerchief.
He averted his glance and tried not to swoon. “Thank you, Miss Honeywell,” he said tersely, resuming his stride.
“You’re welcome,” she said equally tersely, no doubt baffled by his abruptness.
They walked on in strained silence.
“Just trying to help,” she muttered after several minutes of obvious stewing.
“I said thank you, Miss Honeywell,” he repeated through his teeth.
He heard her sniffle next to him and barely suppressed a groan.
Surely she wasn’t crying.
But when he turned to her, he found her face wet with tears, her nose bright red. Instead of annoyance, he felt sympathy well inside of his untried heart – sympathy and something else that made him want to reach out to her and squeeze her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her nose, even if it was horribly red and dripping. He wanted to do a thousand inappropriate things to her, even while she was in this dreadful state. It was utterly inconceivable.
He had hit his head very hard.
“I’m not usually a watering pot,” she insisted, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve, since the other one was ruined with his blood. “I’ve not cried … oh, in years and years. Not since my mum…”
He offered her his handkerchief, which had somehow survived the recent carnage, and she took it gratefully, blowing her nose into the costly lace.
He would not want that back.
He searched around to find something comforting to say to her, but he found nothing. Then a crazy thought struck him, and he blurted it out before he could stop himself, even though it could not in any conceivable way be considered consolatory. “My name is Cyril.”
She stopped blowing her nose and looked up at him, startled. She lowered the handkerchief. “What?”
He sighed and rubbed his sore neck. What the blazes was he doing? “My name. My given name, that is. It’s Cyril.”
She looked at him as if he were a lunatic. “Oh.”
“But no one calls me that.”
“Really?”
“I hate it. Hate all my names. People just call me by my title.”
Now she looked faintly amused, which was irritating. He was going for gratitude, or a show of understanding on her part, not amusement. But he supposed it was better than tears. He expelled a breath and resumed walking. “Just forget it.”
“Cyril.”
“Don’t call me that. I told you because of your roan, and I don’t know why, but I thought it would help.”
He felt a hand covering his own, stopping him. He looked down and saw Miss Honeywell’s dirty, snotty fingers covering his palm, and for a moment he could not breathe from the wall of heat that bombarded him. He dared to look at her and saw she was staring up at him, her eyes glossy with unshed tears, a tremulous smile hovering on her rosy lips.
His heart stopped beating.
“Thank you, Montford. It did help.”
There was the gratitude he was aiming for. But beneath that gratitude and those shining tears lurked a layer of mischief that made him quite apprehensive. As if she knew precisely the value of the weapon he had given her in his weakness. Namely his given name, and the fact that he hated it.
She would use these facts against him, the strumpet.
But for the moment, he was safe.
No, not safe, because he was drowning in her eyes. Drowning in her, bit by bit. She touched his hand – his hand! – and he wanted to sink into her flesh, wrap himself in her limbs, kiss away her tears.
“Miss Honeywell,” he began. “I think I hit my head harder than I thought.”
“I think so too. You are looking quite odd.”
And thus they resumed their walk back to the castle.
Chapter Ten
IN WHICH THE CURSE OF THE BLACK CRINOLINE CASTS A PALL OVER RYLESTONE HALL
ASTRID WAS concerned by the Duke’s strange manner in the lane. Although he appeared to be uninjured by the tumble he’d taken, he had a nasty cut above one eye that continued to bleed despite her attempts to staunch it, and kept loo
king at her in a peculiar manner that made her alternate from hot to cold and back again.
Then he’d begun babbling about his name. Or names. He seemed to have a lot of them, and he didn’t seem to like any of them. Except for his title.
As Astrid couldn’t imagine him as a Cyril, she had to agree with him. He was Montford. Less a real person than a title.
Though at the moment, he was looking all too human, covered in blood and rumpled beyond repair, his face pale and his eyes slightly discombobulated. She felt sorry for him, and a little apprehensive about his brainbox. It had taken quite a coshing. The last thing she needed at this juncture was a concussed Duke staggering about and attempting to be nice to her.
Which was what he had been attempting when he’d told her his name. Cyril. He’d been trying to make her feel better in his own lame way. And she was surprised to find that he had succeeded. She did feel better after his admission. Not because he had told her his name, but rather because he had been so sheepish about it. He clearly thought his name was ridiculous, and he had regretted telling her almost immediately. She had found this endearing.
Poor fellow. It was a rather ridiculous name.
She was fully prepared to throw it back in his face at some point, but at the moment, she was in sympathy with him. He’d been amazingly understanding about the whole shooting incident, and she didn’t want to push her luck. Besides which, she was embarrassed to have displayed such grief in his presence. He’d seen her cry not once, not twice, but thrice in the space of two days, and probably thought she was a ninnyhammer.
But she had good cause on all three occasions. Just thinking about her poor Cyril, lying broken and bleeding in that ditch, made her tear up.
Who could have done such a thing?
She was not lying when she had told the Duke none of her people would have shot him. But she had her enemies. And everyone knew that if anything happened to Montford while he was visiting, she would be blamed.
There was only one person she could think of who had it in him to arrange such a dastardly plot. But how could Mr. Lightfoot even know of the Duke’s surprise visit? And how could murdering the Duke further that man’s own designs? He didn’t want her swinging from a hangman’s noose, did he?
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