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Dismounting near the entrance to his familial home, anger surged within him. He strode up the stairs, then stopped cold on the threshold. Women filled the atrium, surrounding his housekeeper and several moaning maids who bent over someone on the parquet floor.

Hell, and the Devil! Had the intruders injured one of his own?

This was not to be borne!

“What is going on?” he demanded, pushing his way through the sobbing women.

What met his eyes pilfered his breath.

Stuart.

The reason his butler had not been at his post became clear. He could not man it. Damn me, I should have known! Blood spilled from Stuart’s faultless attire onto the pristine marble floor.

“Stuart?” Rushing to his side, Myles’s heart seized, squeezing his chest cruelly. “Dear God, man, what has happened? Who did this to you?”

“They—” Stuart attempted to rise, but collapsed, wincing. “Two.”

“Two?”

“Henchmen.”

“Remain still, sir,” he advised, not wanting Stuart to exasperate his injury or cause himself further pain. Though women attempted to assist Stuart, he shot a them a frustrated look, feeling utterly helpless. Needing a miracle. “Do something. Stop the bleeding!”

“We’ve tried, Your Grace. He is . . . He is?—”

“No time.” Stuart wheezed.

“He refused to let them pass,” Mrs. Warren volunteered, shaking her head to warn Myles that Stuart’s injuries were fatal.

Indeed, a closer look at the dark color of blood signified severe internal damage. Myles bowed his head, incapable of believing the proof before his eyes. He grabbed Stuart’s hand, barely able to hold back his misery or the catch in his voice. “Why did you confront them?”

Stuart smiled wanly, the effort costing him dearly. Old and frail, the butler had dutifully served the family long before Myles’s birth. The stoic man’s exceptional style, unquestionable loyalty, and bright, unchecked wit had been a buoy in times of trouble and a comfort in times of plenty.

“Your life is worth more than anything this house offers.”

“My . . .” A deathly pallor overtook Stuart. “Duty?—”

“Duty be damned, man! Think no more about the estate. Conserve your energy. You must recover.” He choked back his anguish. “You must. I need you.”

“Not.” Stuart perked briefly. “Anymore.”

What did he mean? Not anymore? “You are essential to life here. To me. You must fight. FIGHT, Stuart!”

“Fare . . . well.” Pain wracked the butler’s body. He reached up weakly to touch Myles’s cheek. “My . . . boy.”

With a cringing, frightening gasp, Stuart inhaled his last breath. The gruesome sound vibrated through Myles’s bones. A lump rose in his throat but he quickly banished the tears that threatened to come, commanding himself to be strong in front of his household staff.

Mrs. Warren shrieked.

The maids groaned with loud, heart-wrenching sobs.

Stuart.

A low growl erupted from Myles as he gently lowered the man’s hand and closed his unseeing eyes.

Images flashed before him. A childhood filled with laughter and lessons.

Stuart silencing him when he spoke out of turn.

The occasional nudge given when he refused to put the right foot forward.

The unequaled insistence that honor and duty prevailed over everything else.

The quiet reassurances that had steered Myles through the worst events of his life—the death of his father, his rise to a dukedom and the responsibilities he shouldered to the tenants and croft owners in the vale.

He’d cherished Stuart’s wisdom and leadership, and yes, his friendship, knowing they didn’t have a typical master-servant relationship.

Yet, the whole was a marvel. The respect he had for Stuart’s sense of duty and the care with which he kept Darby and those under his supervision in line without selfish reservation had meant everything to them all.

In hindsight, Stuart’s lifelong devotion was the last link to his father. And now, he was gone. Taken. Stolen. And nothing would stop him from locating and punishing whoever was responsible. Nothing!

Summoning control, Myles knew that, first and foremost, he had to get to the root of what happened.

Stuart had not said thieves or robbers had entered the house and killed him.

He’d used the word ‘henchmen .’ The dutiful butler had never spoken without clear intent before, so that must be a clue.

Henchmen danced to the demands of puppet masters, people powerful enough to sway men into thievery and murder.

But Stuart had stopped them, thwarting their objective. The question now begged: What could they have been searching for? Whatever it was, they hadn’t got it.

“Yer Grace.”

The only way to locate the henchmen is to know thine enemy.

“Yer Grace.”

Clenching his fists, he closed his eyes, willing the memory of Stuart lying in a pool of blood to fade. Impossible.

“The thieves ’ave escaped, Yer Grace.”

His groundskeeper’s voice cut through the thorny bramble, restricting his attention. “What?” he asked, turning to the man who was speaking.

“They’re gone,” Cobb said, his flushed face and dodging eyes revealing that he’d rather be elsewhere. “What would ye have us do?”

“Every minute is crucial.” His staff depended on him to make the correct decisions through misery and despair.

But he was not the only one mourning Stuart’s death. The maids wept and clung to one another. Mrs. Warren, God love her, knelt to rearrange Stuart’s clothing carefully to restore his ghastly appearance.

“It is late and dark and there is little else to do for Stuart now. Go,” he said. “See that everyone returns home. We shall meet early in the morning to discuss what needs to be done.”

“What about Stuart, Yer Grace?” Cobb asked.

“Carry him into the red parlor.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Yer Grace, but wouldn’t it be better to?—”

“No.” He whipped around on Cobb, unable to contain his anger.

He’d lost so much. And now, someone dear to the estate, to the household, to him, had been erased.

Cobb and several others shuffled in to lift Stuart’s body.

Biting back the weighty turmoil roiling through his blood, he added, “After you place Stuart in the red parlor, Mrs. Warren and I shall take care of him.” Indeed, he planned to study Stuart’s body for evidence that might lead to his killer.

After that, everyone else could pay their respects.

“Go now,” he said, dismissing the lot when their work was done. “Leave me.”

When the last had crossed the threshold and closed the door quietly behind them, he stared down at Darby’s loyal champion.

The old guard had aged more than he realized, lines etched into the skin around his eyes and mouth, his wrinkled forehead a map of censured thoughts.

What had they been, and why had he waited until it was too late to wonder what Stuart would have told him if he’d been free to impart wisdom?

The butler had been a symbol of all that was well and good at Darby. And the gut-wrenching truth was that Myles wasn’t sure if Darby would ever recover from Stuart’s absence.

While the land and the house symbolized permanence, containing sculptures, paintings, an extensive library, luxurious rooms and halls, fountains, a lake and a folly, Rutlands hadn’t built the estate to repel intruders.

It had no hidden passageways, turrets, and towers for defense. There’d never been a need.

The attempted robbery and Stuart’s death changed that.

Logic returned. This was no isolated incident. Someone knowledgeable in Darby’s location had orchestrated it. But who? Who would dare send henchmen to Darby and for what purpose?

He placed Stuart’s hands across his chest, blood staining his fingers. “I will find whoever did this and bring them to justice.”

But where would his search lead? And was the highwaywoman a pivotal piece of the puzzle?