Black Sheep

by Maren Smith

  Her eyes darkened, and her mouth thinned into another frown. “You refuse the position because I am a woman?”

  That stopped him. “You mean, you’re not turning me out?”

  “My old estate manager died,” she said bluntly. “I’m not exactly...” she shifted gingerly, wincing slightly as she adjusted how she was sitting, “...thrilled by your methods, but I suppose I have no one to blame but myself for how things turned out. You aren’t a violent man, are you, Mr. Strathsford? You aren’t predisposed to... to... walloping women on a regular basis, are you?”

  “Not remotely,” he hastily assured. “In fact, that was the first and, I suspect, last walloping I’ll ever be inclined to give.”

  “Well, then.” She folded her hands upon her desk again and cleared her throat, lifting her chin as she dredged up a level of magnanimousness that he never would have dared expect from anyone. “I suggest we let what happened lie in the past, while we move on as if it never happened. The fact of the matter is, I could use some help. This is a big house, Mr. Strathsford. A big house with a good deal of land and a thriving business to boot. Or at least, we were thriving.”

  Were thriving? He thought back to their first meeting, slowly sinking back onto his chair.

  “Before the sheep went missing?” he guessed, almost afraid to believe what she was offering. He wasn’t going to be sacked! Missing sheep? Considering he’d just buried his father, lost his fortune, been abandoned by his family and spent his very last penny on the coach that brought him here, hell, compared to all that, he could handle missing sheep! “What—” he spread his hands, trying not to laugh as he came to grips with still being employed. “What would you like me to do? Find them?”

  “No, no.” She waved one hand. “This is a dangerous business, and one in which I’ve already started, anyway. I’ve made great strides and am sure I’ll have the mystery sorted out by the end of the week. Perhaps the month, but surely no longer than that.”

  “Dangerous?” Leverton’s eyebrows arched. “How dangerous do you mean? If it’s bodily harm you’re meaning, perhaps you should contact the local constabulary and let them find your missing animals for you.”

  She waved her hand again. “I don’t need to find them. They’ll come back on their own, eventually.”

  Leverton cocked his head, his eyes beginning to narrow as he tried to follow her meaning. “So... they’re not stolen, then. They are lost.”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head, the rueful twist of her mouth definitely self-depreciating. As if she were more irritated by her inability to figure it out than by the thefts themselves. “They’ve been stolen, all right. I just can’t figure out why, or by whom. It’s a mystery, and a maddening one at that!”

  “Do they come back sheared?” he asked. Wool was valuable. That kind of scenario almost made sense to him, but she was already shaking her head.

  “Nope. Not a one. But that’s not the only strange part of this.” She scooted up to the very edge of her chair, her wince when her weight settled against a tender area almost absent-minded as she warmed to her topic. She was practically smiling as she asked, “Remember the pasture I caught you in? How many sheep do you think were in that, eh?”

  “Fifty,” he guessed. “Sixty, maybe.” At the time, he’d been less interested in counting them than in wading through the milling flock without tripping and falling flat on his face.

  “Two nights ago, I counted seventy-six,” she said. “I count them every morning so I can keep track of how many get taken. And some were taken. Last night, as a matter of fact. So now, guess how many I have in there right now.”

  He still hadn’t counted. He shrugged. “Fifty. Sixty, maybe.”

  She leaned towards him, pressing home the point as she informed him, “Seventy-six.”

  He used to be pretty good at math and yet, as he sat there puzzling through the problem of seventy-six minus seventy-six, he kept coming up with the same disqualifying answer. “That’s zero sheep stolen, isn’t it?”

  “Fifteen. Fifteen have been taken just a few at a time, and just a few at a time, they are returned. But here’s the crux of the mystery.” Her voice lowered with the import of the truth she revealed. “They’re not the same sheep.”

  Said the lady dressed like a bush.

  Bracing his elbow on the arm of his chair, Leverton covered his mouth with his hand and stared at her. “I’m being hazed, aren’t I?”

  She blinked, her smile fading somewhat. “I’m sorry?”

  “I went to Cambridge, Miss Wainwright.” He cleared his throat, folded his hands in his lap, and prepared to be a good sport about being the butt of whatever joke this was supposed to be. “A proper baker’s dozen—thank you, sir, may I have another—followed by a bare buck romp across the cricket field in naught but boots and a pair of ladies’ knickers over my head. I’ve earned my stripes in that regard, and I can recognize this for what it is, thank you very much.”

  “This is not a prank,” Elspeth insisted. “There truly is a mystery here. My sheep are being swapped out for impersonators, and no one will listen to me!”

  She certainly looked serious. Intently serious, with perhaps even a smidgen of desperation lurking behind those pleading eyes. It was beginning to dawn on him that he might not have been hired as an estate manager as much as perhaps a care companion. “Is there anybody out here who might need to know you’re running around the fields in the middle of the night?”

  “The constable said that, too.” Slapping the desktop, she vaulted to her feet. “I am not crazy, Mr. Strathsford. What is it with you men, that you can’t seem to recognize a devilish-good mystery when it’s staring you in the face? And I am not crazy, dash it all!” Limping heavily, she began to pace feverishly back and forth, the metal heel of her leg brace clunking against the floor as she passed from rug to bare floorboards and back to rug again. Folding her arms across her chest, she gnawed at her fingernails. “I just can’t figure this out. No matter how I look at it, the why of it leaves me baffled! Why would someone do this? Why would they take my sheep and replace them with someone else’s? Every few days, one or two more go missing, just like clockwork. It’s maddening, I tell you! Maddening! And I am not imagining it!”

  She might not be in full control of all mental faculties, but she certainly was passionate in her convictions. Leverton watched her pace and then stifled a sigh as he allowed himself to be pulled into her drama. He wasn’t a big fan of other peoples’ drama. He tended to have enough of his own. “Are yours the only sheep going ‘missing’?”

  “No,” she readily admitted. “But mine are the only ones being switched with impersonators.”

  “So, someone could be stealing your sheep and replacing them with livestock from neighboring farms.”

  She didn’t exactly pause in her pacing, but she did glance over at him from beneath her bangs, her shoe-polish-painted face reflecting a hint of surprise. She hadn’t thought of that. “Good point. Good man. Thank you for taking this seriously.”

  At this point, he was ready to do anything so long as there was a pay packet waiting for him at the end of the month. He shrugged with his eyebrows, the weariness of the day beginning to settle in on him. “If I am to take this position, then as the manager of your estates, your problems must become mine as well. Tomorrow, I suggest we begin by making inquiries as to the exact number of missing sheep and from which farms they are disappearing. I do recommend you not mention this ‘swapping’ business to anyone else but me, however. We don’t want our little investigation to end with ourselves on the gibbet for thievery.”

  She had stopped pacing now and stood by the window, her hand to her mouth although she no longer chewed at her already nibbled-to-the-quick nail. “You needn’t concern yourself with—”

  He stopped her. “You have already said there is a level of danger in this, and if that is true, then you and I shall bring this ‘maddening mystery’ to its proper conclusion together. I did not travel halfway ac
ross England to lose my employer in some nefarious mutton plot.”

  They stared at one another; her gaze piercing him with near hawk-like intensity while she chewed at her thumbnail. After a long moment, she finally gave in and quietly said, “You look tired.”

  “It’s been a long day,” he admitted. And an even longer week, truth be told.

  “Are you hungry? Mrs. Brody, my cook, has gone to bed, but I could make you something. Bread and cheese, perhaps. A cup of wine before showing you to your room.”

  He relaxed a little. “Thank you. A cup of wine would be heaven sent.”

  Despite their inauspicious beginning, she looked damned angelic as she took her thumb from her mouth and winsomely smiled at him, her teeth flashing straight and white amidst all that black polish. There was a small assortment of crystal liquor decanters on a short side table near one bookcase, and it was only a minute wait while she limped over to it and poured him two fingers’ width of dark red wine in a wide glass.

  “I really do appreciate your willingness to work under a woman,” she said as she brought the glass to him.

  It took effort to keep his smile from turning wolfish as he accepted the drink. “Think nothing of it,” he replied. He’d spent many a happy moment under women, and he’d never considered any of it work. Such observations were probably best not shared with one’s boss, however, and so Leverton occupied his mouth with his drink instead.

  Because she was standing there, waiting to take back the glass, he simply kicked it back and swallowed rather than sip and enjoy as he was of a mind to do. The wine was good, albeit with an odd after flavor that left him peering into the transparent bottom of his glass before handing it back to her. “Madeira?”

  “You know your wine,” she said softly. She set the glass on the desk without looking at it. “Let me help you to your room.”

  Leverton stood up, following her back out into the main hall to collect his carpetbag and sack of clothes.

  “This way.” She gestured with her hand, staying close to his side as she walked with him towards the winding, half-circular stair. He was halfway up them before he began to realize why.

  His legs grew heavy. That was the first thing he noticed, followed quickly by a fuzziness in the head and an ominous ringing in his ears. He was less than three steps from the second floor landing when his brain lost contact with the rest of his body and his suddenly numb fingers dropped his carpetbag. He was helpless to do anything more than watch as it bumped and rolled all the way back down to the entryway. He caught his head in his hand and blinked repeatedly, struggling to bring the carpet at his feet back into focus. Carpet? Hell, everything was swimming. Including his feet.

  “Wha—” he slurred as he started to crumple over. In all likelihood, he might well have followed his carpetbag (and now his clothes’ sack, which had slipped off his shoulder and was rolling down the stairs), but for Elspeth, who ducked under his arm at the very last minute.

  For a woman with such a pronounced limp, she certainly was strong.

  “Heavens, that stuff works fast,” she panted, and muscled him up those last three, mountainous steps.

  She’d drugged him! Leverton stared at her, shocked at first but that was a short-lived emotion. One that was quickly overcome by fury as his feet shuffled only two clumsy steps more down that swimming hallway and then buckled under, refusing to go any further. He twisted in her arms, trying to grab her by the shoulders, but his hand found her breast instead.

  “None of that,” she said evenly enough, catching fistfuls of his coat as he slowly toppled over backwards. She guided him as gently as she could all the way to the floor.

  Half groaning, half hissing, his tongue was suddenly so limp and uncooperative that he couldn’t even manage a really good, accusatory, “You!”

  He reached after her, his body growing heavier by the second, until even his arms grew too unwieldy for him to move. They flopped back onto him, sliding down his chest to the carpeted floor one at a time.

  Elspeth leaned over him. “I sincerely hope you don’t remember any of this tomorrow,” she told him.

  If only he could have gotten his hands on her, he’d have throttled her. He growled instead. At least, he tried to. It came out sounding more like a rattling gargle.

  “But just in case you do,” she winced slightly, “please don’t think too harshly of me. This truly is a dangerous situation, one that has already cost me one estate manager and I simply don’t think I could bear anyone else’s blood on my conscience.” She bit her bottom lip, then smiled as she reached down to hesitantly stroke the side of his face with the tips of her fingers. “For such a cad and a brute, you really are quite handsome, you know.”

  He hissed again, his eyelids growing so impossibly heavy that he could no longer keep them apart.

  Disappearing into a side room, the last thing he saw was Elspeth returning with a blanket to drape over him and a pillow, which she tucked gently beneath his head. And the last thing he thought was how she’d best have a surplus of such pillows handy. Before he was through with her tomorrow, she was going to need a mountain of them just to sit down.

  Chapter Three

  His head was at least two sizes smaller than his hangover required, his mouth tasted as if he’d been licking out the inside of his shoe, and if so, his stomach was on the verge of rebelling.

  Leverton groaned, but even that small sound was too painful. It made him groan again, only much softer this time, and only through extreme strength of will, did he manage to force his eyes open.

  It was morning, and he was still lying on the floor in the hallway. The pillow Elspeth had so lovingly tucked beneath his head was still propped in place, but every hair follicle attached to his scalp felt like a miniature spear stabbing back into his brain. The blanket she had spread over him was like concrete slabs sewn over him, and there was a little old man and woman bent over him, quietly watching and waiting for him to move.

  “You’re right. He is alive,” the old woman said to her companion. She must have known what his head currently felt like, because she said it very softly.

  Just as careful with his tone, the old man extended his hand to help Leverton up. “Young fellow, I recommend you eat and drink nothing that she gives you. Even better, don’t insist on going with her.”

  Standing was accomplished only in stages. He nearly lost the battle with his stomach when he crawled onto his knees. Groaning again and swallowing convulsively, he let the old man catch his arm and haul him vertical. Leverton staggered, his legs and feet feeling like someone else’s limbs, attached to his body and resenting it. He stumbled on his first step, fell into the nearest wall and very nearly collapsed right back onto his knees.

  He bent, his head gingerly held in one gentle hand and wishing the house would stop spinning in slow figure-eights. “Where is she?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Not home yet,” the man replied. “You should go lie down. I’ll let you know when she gets back.”

  “You do that.” He licked his sandpaper lips, but there was absolutely no spit in his mouth. “You let me know, because then I’m going to strangle her.” The old couple looked at one another in alarm as, using the wall for balance, Leverton tried to push himself upright. He took an experimental step and almost tripped over the pillow, which reminded him, “And then I’m going to blister her backside. She won’t sit for a year!”

  Snatching the pillow off the floor, he covered his head with it, protecting his throbbing brain from the hostilities of his own rising pulse of anger. He staggered first one way and then the other, very nearly falling sideways down the stairs but for the old man, who grabbed his arm and steered him back onto firmer foot. Grabbing onto the banister, his temper growing in tandem with his voice, Leverton thundered, “And then I’m going to strangle her again!”

  And he didn’t even care that it hurt his head worse to shout. He just held on tighter to the pillow and jerked clumsily around when the front door in the entr
yway below swung open.

  “Good morning,” Elspeth called up the stairs when she saw them.

  “You!” Leverton bellowed.

  Her smile instantly dimmed, but did not vanish entirely. Instead, she closed the door behind her and began untying her costume of branches.

  “I was worried about you,” she said, studiously avoiding meeting his furious eyes while trying to maintain a false level of cheerfulness. “As fast as you went down last night, I was afraid I’d given you too much.”

  “I’ll give you something to worry about!” The whole house flushed dimly red as Leverton grabbed for the railing. He missed, shook his head once to clear it, and then grabbed again, this time catching a firm hold of smoothly polished oak.

  “Oh, dear,” the old man said, catching hold of Leverton’s other arm to steady him as he started downstairs.

  Eyeing his rate of descent without trying to look as if she were watching him, she headed for the den, her fingers flying from knot to knot as she stripped the branches away.

  “Don’t you walk away from me,” Leverton called after her. When she only walked faster, he changed his mind. “Go on! Walk faster! In fact, you’d best run!”

  She reached the den and quickly closed the door behind her, even as he tried to walk off the stairs, missing the bottom two steps entirely. He went all the way down onto his knees. Shaking his head, fighting to keep his vision from blurring up all over again, he shoved back onto his feet. He was growling by the time he reached the den. Growling and a little more steady on his feet. His head was starting to clear, and his knees were starting to throb in time with his hangover.

  The old man caught his arm. “Come into the kitchen, lad. Mrs. Brody will fix you a nice cup of tea. You’ll be right as rain, eh?”

  Leverton shook off his staying hand and shoved his way into the room. Elspeth hadn’t locked the door on him. Maybe she sensed that, angry as he was, he’d either have broken it down to get at her or broken himself in the process. She had, however, stuffed the branches of her costume into the fireplace, and there was now a rousing fire crackling brightly in the hearth.