Page 48

A man afraid of death will never play the part of a live man.

SENECA

The constable had arrived early the next morning, summoned swiftly after Bridget’s accident with the sabotaged saddle. His investigation, however, left much to be desired.

“A thorn you say?” Constable Wickham scowled as he wandered through my stable, his hand trailing against the stalls. A piece of straw clung to his sleeve, which he seemed completely unaware of. “Are you sure it isn’t a prank of a silly boy? Perhaps I ought to interrogate the Dixon lads.”

“If it was a prank, I would throttle the neck of whoever did it,” I nearly growled, wanting to shake some sense into him. Too many accidents had occurred—loose animals, a stranger in the field, the stolen mosaic, and now this thorn and gunshots. Sabotage meant to frighten me. But why?

The constable had found no leads whatsoever, and I was growing tired of his incompetence.

He scratched behind his ear, eyeing both Mr. Whittle and Mr. Spencer with some suspicion. Mr. Spencer had a rolled-up blanket pinned beneath his arm, a satchel filled with supper, and matches for a fire. As soon as he was free to go, he planned to spend the night watching over Mr. Perry’s field.

Mr. Whittle sweated, but he always sweated when nervous, his forehead gleaming with dots of perspiration.

“And your men had nothing to do with it, eh?”

“Of course not,” I snapped.

“Nor your guests, I suppose.”

A weighted stone dropped in my gut, since the same fear had crossed my mind. “I believe they called upon the Hawkins family.”

“That’s easy enough to find out,” Constable Wickham said. He sniffed pompously. “I’ll need to open a full inquiry and question each of your tenants.”

Had I foolishly trusted the families within my care? Had one of them betrayed me?

That very evening, while I waited in the green room watching a cold slice of moonlight drag across the hardwood floors, I heard the jingle of horses, suggesting Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley’s return.

When I approached the window and pushed aside the velvet drape just enough to peek outside, I spied Lord Ainsley’s carriage, the harnessed bays glinting in the moonlight.

I waited at the window, making no move to welcome them.

A door slammed after they entered the abbey, their voices echoing in the cavernous hall. Footsteps hurried, clicking against the floor, and Mr. Whittle’s muted greeting.

Mr. Beaumont sounded unnaturally loud just outside the green room. “A remarkable day, eh, Ainsley? Such hospitality. I do so enjoy the countryside. We must do this again.”

My breath left me in a whoosh. I let the curtain fall into place.

The men had likely spent the day touring and flirting with the Hawkins girls.

They couldn’t have tampered with Bridget’s saddle.

Who, then, meddled with it? No one had seen the stranger during my last encounter. Who would dare to steal the mosaics?

In the meantime, a priceless artifact resided within the parsonage, endangering the Littletons.

A restless feeling suffused me, similar to the experience I had before the Battle of Bussaco. That quiet hour with a misty dawn, fog curling about my boots, right before all hell broke loose on the ridge in Portugal.

I resolved to call on Bridget the next day.

Morning couldn’t come soon enough. I ate quickly and hurried to Chaucer, my limp less pronounced with the herbal salve, thanks to the woman who had rejected my clumsy proposal. I had spent the evening unable to sleep and wondering how I could possibly change her mind.

Once astride Chaucer, I directed him first to the Perrys’ field. Dew sparkled on the grass, and Mr. Spencer greeted me with an exhausted wave.

“No trouble during the night?” I asked as I surveyed the field covered with an assortment of canvases like a motley quilt.

He tried to stifle a yawn behind a grimy fist. “No, my lord. My fire likely served as a warning to any thief. Only the Dixon boys here kept me company during the night.”

Two youths lay on the damp ground, one fast asleep with an arm pillowing his head, and the other blinking sleepily as he tossed aside a rough woolen blanket.

“Wake up, lads,” I called out, with irritation. “You wouldn’t survive a day within my old regiment.”

They scrambled to their feet, their hair standing on end as they brushed dirt from their pants. Mr. Spencer straightened to his full height with a wry chuckle.

“Have no fear. They’re good lads and stayed awake throughout the night in shifts. All they need is a stout coffee.”

“Send them to Mrs. Whittle,” I ordered. “She’ll give them something bracing enough to put hair on their chests.”

Another of Mr. Spencer’s throaty chuckles followed as I whirled Chaucer around in the direction of the parsonage. With most social calls occurring in the afternoon, I knew I risked appearing a fool to knock on the vicar’s door so early, but I felt it was imperative to see them. To see her .

The maid ushered me into the drawing room, and I waited, feeling even more foolish as each minute ticked by on the ornate clock perched on the white mantel. Like a besotted youth, pining for an elusive love. Immediately, I squashed that foolish observation, no matter how close it clung to truth.

A soft swish of a gown and footsteps, and there was Bridget. She wore a deep blue gown, a plain muslin unlike the frothy piece she wore to the Hawkinses’ dance with flowers in her hair. Nor like the deep emerald riding suit that had clung to her figure the previous day.

I had rehearsed many things to say, but they evaporated like mist.

“I hope you will forgive my intrusion,” I said.

“Your father wished for me to place your items in my safe. I thought I would save you the trip. I also wanted to let you know the field appears safe enough. I met with Mr. Spencer and the Dixon boys on my way over. They kept watch last night and said all was well.”

Her features softened. “Thank you. Mr. Harrington and I were of half a mind to guard the field ourselves, except Father would have none of it.”

My mouth hitched at the idea of her guarding the dig with pistols in hand. Then I sobered. “Bridget, we must speak about what happened. I cannot let it rest.”

She started when I reached for her hand and captured it with my own, her fingers cold within my grip. Her eyes widened as I curled my fingers around hers. I was certain I did not imagine how she leaned into me. Encouraged by her response, I drew closer to her.

“I have thought of nothing else.”

She winced even though she made no move to withdraw her hand. “Rafe, no. There is no need to apologize again for the ride.”

I winced. The military hadn’t turned me into a poet, despite reading Shakespeare. I couldn’t bungle things worse than I already had.

“Please, allow me to state how I truly feel—”

“I can only surmise that you will regret marrying a woman of diminished status. What will the ton say when you march to the altar with a lowly vicar’s daughter?” she interrupted, studiously examining our clasped hands.

“I don’t give a blaze what the ton thinks. Surely you’ve heard what they think of me,” I answered, wishing I could make her understand how deeply I cared for her.

She pulled her hand free, her anguished eyes meeting mine. “I don’t want to be a burden, Rafe. I’ve always felt like one. I don’t want to be forgotten on a shelf. I can’t marry a man who will eventually come to resent me and throw himself into his work while I wither.”

I placed my hands on her shoulders, drawing her closer as understanding dawned. Her father, kind yet oblivious, had never attended to her needs. And her brother? Doubtful. No wonder she didn’t trust anyone to cherish her when her experiences had been nothing but scraps tossed under the table.

“Listen to me, Bridget. I see you. From the moment I nearly collided with you on that awful, fateful road, you captured my attention. Then you commanded my respect and earned my friendship. I would be a fool not to—”

The door swung open, and Mr. Harrington and the vicar entered the drawing room. Mr. Harrington’s smile faltered when he saw me clasping Bridget. She pulled free, her cheeks pink.

He bowed while clearing his throat. “Lord Hawthorn, how delightful to see you. I hope I interrupted nothing important.”

“No,” Bridget breathed.

“Yes,” I answered firmly.

Our opposing answers uttered at the same time caused us both to search each other’s face for some hint of emotion.

Finally, I nodded, feeling flummoxed at being interrupted so suddenly. She backtracked until she nearly hit the fireplace mantel, putting as much distance between us as she could, as if my presence pained her.

She did not want me.

Struggling to regain my bearings, I pivoted to the men.

“I came to collect your items and take them to my safe with your permission. I visited Mr. Perry’s field this morning and am relieved to report that I have seen no sign of tampering at the dig.

There has been no word from the constable regarding our stranger, but as a precaution, Mr. Spencer will continue guarding the site overnight. ”

Vicar Littleton’s narrowing gaze lingered on me while I heated under the collar. “How kind of you.”

Bridget pulled out a desk drawer and removed a long tin, then opened it to reveal a gold ring and the ivory doll. When she handed me the box, her fingers brushed against mine.

“Mr. Harrington has agreed to purchase the ring from Mr. Perry on behalf of the Society of Antiquaries, who will donate it to the museum.”

Despite being nestled within a piece of cotton, the ruby glowed with a hidden fire.

“I will guard it with my life,” I promised her, even though I wanted to say so much more. But I would wait. I would prove to her that I would not disappear or forget her. I would be her friend, if that was all she chose.

Her faint smile was reward enough.