Page 12 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)

12

MISTRESS OF THE HUNT

* * *

H ounds strained at leashes while horses pawed the damp ground. The scent of wet leather and grass permeated the morning as Ashmoore’s hunting party gathered on the east lawn. Pheasants were on the menu for the midnight supper, and it would take the entire party to fill the order.

Louis sat atop his borrowed bay gelding, lingering at the group's edge. Lord Ashmoore and Northwick's conversation reached him in fragments, inconsequential compared to his preoccupations—Violet's lovely face, the brown bridge, and a promise he made to himself that he might fail to keep.

A brisk wind snapped at their scarves. Louis tightened his grip as his horse shifted beneath him.

“Ye look ready to shoot a man, not a bird,” Connor observed, guiding his mount alongside.

Louis started. “No one is in danger. Everything I do these days tends to be wide of the mark.”

Connor's smile widened. “Auch, nay. We tend to aim at what we want. Perhaps what ye want is wide of the mark. But that doesnae mean it’s wrong.”

Louis didn't reply, but his gaze drifted toward the manor where Violet toiled away. He wanted nothing more than to abandon this aristocratic ritual to help her—to solve the puzzle box, to bring her closer to saving Iris, to witness her relief when they succeeded.

“Miss Cottsweather seems charming,” Connor mused.

Louis stiffened. “How did you?—”

“Blair recognized her. This was her lifelong home, after all. She and Mercy have been comparing notes.” Connor's tone remained casual. “We've seen how ye look at each other.”

Heat climbed Louis's face. “We are allies in a matter of importance.”

“Is that what they're calling it?” Connor laughed softly. “Whatever the name, ye’ve been smitten from the go.”

The master of the hunt blew a sharp note on his horn. Ashmoore wheeled his mount around. “Coming, gentlemen? The fowl willnae wait all day.”

Connor slapped the rump of Louis’ mount, and he was off, whether he wished it or not.

* * *

Steam billowed through the Brigadunn kitchen as Violet worked alongside the other servants, doing Cook’s bidding. At the moment, she was slicing vegetables and finding a peculiar comfort in the rhythmic chopping of carrots and turnips, the peeling of potatoes, the bundling of herbs. Though she had no idea what grand dish these humble ingredients would eventually become, the work kept her hands busy while her mind raced ahead to what truly mattered.

The bridge. The treasure. Freedom for Iris.

Violet tucked a wayward strand of hair beneath her cap and stole a glance at the kitchen clock. With a midnight supper on the schedule, along with the ball, the day wouldn’t end until the sun rose.

Only then could she and Louis investigate the stone bridge. A thrill ran through her at the thought. If her interpretation of the riddle was correct, the treasure lay hidden there—not within the manor itself but between their properties!

“Mind those carrots, girl,” Cook admonished, eyeing Violet's momentarily slowed pace. “Even slices, if you please. This ain't no country stew.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Violet returned her attention to the task.

She had nearly abandoned her position that morning, so desperate was she to pursue this final clue. But Louis had already been swept away with the hunting party, the gentlemen of Brigadunn mounting their horses at first light with a chorus of excited hounds. And she refused to finish this quest without him.

So instead, she played her part and did as she was hired to do.

Carrots snapped smartly beneath her blade. The kitchen's bustling activity proved a blessing. Here, time passed more quickly, each completed dish bringing her closer to the moment when she might finally discover the truth behind her father's obsession.

A comforting thought had settled in her mind that morning, easing some of her desperation. Even if the treasure hunt ended in disappointment—if it proved a hoax, or if someone had already found what lay hidden—she would not leave Brigadunn empty-handed. Four days' wages as a housemaid, combined with whatever she might get for selling the ornate key, should provide enough to save Iris.

Not enough to secure her sister's future, perhaps, but enough to rescue her from immediate danger. Enough to bring her home.

“You have clever hands,” Cook observed, pausing to inspect Violet's work. “Quick and neat. You've done this before.”

“My mother taught me,” Violet answered truthfully. It had been over a year since they’d had a cook at Durrafair.

“Well, she taught you proper.” Cook moved on to inspect another worker's efforts.

Violet allowed herself a small smile as she reached for another pile of carrots. She wondered how the coins might compare in size to the slices she made now. And if they truly were hidden at the bridge, it meant she would have no need to hand it over to Lord Ashmoore and hope for a mere reward.

Violet glanced at the clock again. By this time tomorrow, everything might be different. She might be on her way to Iris…

And Louis?

Violet pushed that thought aside. Better not to set her hopes on anything or anyone until her quest was over. For now, she would be grateful for the mundane tasks that helped the hours pass, and for the unexpected ally who had appeared when she needed him most, and for the growing possibility that her father's tales might prove true after all.

One more carrot. One step closer to the bridge…

A shadow fell across the table. Violet looked up to find Lady Mercy Grey standing across from her, the woman’s expression unreadable.

“You. Violet.” Lady Grey pointed directly at her. “Come with me.” To Cook she said, “She will not be back.”