Page 157 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“Brilliant thinking on your part, my dear,” replied Mr. Weston. He handed his shotgun to Sam. “Keep an eye on this villain in case he wakes up. I’ll send one of the other men up with a rope to secure him until Constable Sharpe arrives.”

Even though Emma felt ridiculously unsteady, she forced herself to stand. Mr. Weston hurried over to help her.

“Take my arm.” He frowned as he finally registered what she was wearing. “That’s quite the odd rig. Best be careful with those boots, Emma. They’re much too big on you.”

“Yes, I know,” she dryly replied. “I take it my terribly brave nephew arrived at Randalls in good order.”

“Mostly,” he said. “Poor lad thought to take a shortcut across our back lawn and had a bit of a fall.”

Emma jerked to a halt. “Is he all right? Please tell me that he’s all right!”

She’d never forgive herself if Henry were injured.

Mr. Weston patted her hand. “He’s fine. Twisted his ankle, but he managed to keep going.”

She breathed out a shaky sigh. “I suppose that’s why it took so long for you to arrive.”

“Yes, and it took Henry a bit of time to get the story out, too. Poor lad was all wound up by the time he reached Randalls. Then I had to get the men up and organized.”

“But you’re sure Henry’s all right?”

He started her back down the corridor. “It’s just a little sprain, Emma. My wife was bustling him right upstairs into a hot bath by the time we were heading out. He’s a brave lad. You should be proud of him.”

Her eyes stung with tears of relief and pride in her nephew’s courage and fortitude.

“Thank goodness,” she said. “Isabella would murder me if anything had happened to Henry.”

“Let’s not have any more talk of murder. We’ve had quite enough of that around here.”

Emma couldn’t agree more.

They pushed through the service door and started down the stairs. The odor of smoke assaulted her nose, making her sneeze.

Mr. Weston eyed her with vague alarm. “I hope you’re not catching a chill. Your father would be very displeased.”

She had to swallow a hysterical impulse to laugh. A possible chill would be the least of her father’s worries. Emma couldn’t even begin to think how she would explain the evening’s events to him.

“I’m fine. It’s just the smoke.” She eyed the kitchen. “This poor room is not fine, however.”

The kitchen was a rather a disaster. There were scorch marks all around the window frame and on the brick wall, and the curtains were a sodden heap on the wet floor. Still, it could have been much worse.

After all, Guy had threatened to burn the abbey down, with her and Mrs. Hodges in it.

The housekeeper came hurrying in from the stableyard a moment later.

“Mrs. Knightley, thank God,” she exclaimed, rushing up to her. “I was so afraid!”

Emma grimaced at the housekeeper’s dirty face and sootsmudged cloak. “Oh dear. Are you all right?”

“It’s just a little dirt and smoke, ma’am. Did you get the villain, Mr. Weston?”

He nodded. “Plumtree won’t be giving us any more trouble. What about the grooms and your coachmen? Have they come to harm?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” the housekeeper replied. “But they’re still out cold. Apparently, Harry put plenty of laudanum in their ale.”

“Unbelievable,” Emma said, disgusted. “I should have guessed it was Harry much sooner than I did.”

Mrs. Hodges sighed. “I blame myself. He fair pulled the wool over my eyes.”