"Lord Carlson!" The Countess had thrust her wiry silver hair inside a purple turban and shrugged into a red silk banyan. Still bleary-eyed from the previous night's festivities, she set her jaw and scowled at Carlson. Nor was she too happy with Torrens who required her to receive a caller so early on Christmas morning. She pulled herself up to her aristocratic superiority and sniffed at the man. "My niece will not be disturbed at this ungodly hour of the morning."
Carlson fumed. "I will not stand here accused of such treachery without the person declaring her evidence to me personally."
Sir Henry said, "My lord, we have no need to bring her before you. We have her statement. And as of yesterday, when we caught this Ben Hagen, we have his testimony of your involvement."
"What? You have precisely what? The word of a criminal?" Carlson pulled tight his frock coat and oozed insult. "I'll not accept it."
"You will, sir." Sir Henry summoned his man. "Bailiff?"
A burly man strode forward and grabbed Carlson's arm.
"I'll not go."
"You will, sir," said Sir Henry with no nonsense. "My apologies, my lady, my lord, Your Grace. I hope I've not spoiled your Christmas."
Griff inclined his head toward the Customs man. "Nor we yours, Sir Henry."
"Thank you, my lord. Nasty business. But we're happy to have end of it."
After Simms had closed the door upon the lot of them, Griff spun to his step-mother and Alastair. A child enjoying his best joke, Griff hugged his mother and shook Alastair's hand. "We need a brandy."
"Thank you, but I must run tell Bee what's happened. She's been worried that they'd never identify him."
He took the stairs two at a time, but found her door ajar. He strode inside to see Mary frowning at piles of clothes strewn about the carpet.
"Where is she?" he asked the maid just as she asked the same of him.
"You don't know?" He stared at her.
"The last I saw her, Your Grace, she was with you in your room. And..." She held up shoes and a petticoat. "She's very orderly, my lady is. This is not like her. And besides...she's wearing her riding habit." The maid took a few steps to pick up a navy wool hat, then entered Bee's dressing room. She returned and held up a pair of riding boots. "But she's not wearing her boots."
Terror sliced through Alastair like ice. "We must find her. Ask Simms, the staff if they've seen her."
He took the stairs by leaps and bounds to find Griff and his step-mother laughing and imbibing their brandy. "Bee is missing," he announced and they blanched. "Not in her room. Gone. Her maid is mystified."
Griff froze. "Where would she be?"
"Worse yet, why would she go riding in her dancing slippers?"
The Countess fanned herself. "Riding? Riding? To the stables!"
Griff strode to the bell pull. "Let's go! Mama, get Simms to rouseBromley. We'll need him. Trevelyan, Riverdale too. We need every man."
Hallerton.Alastair did not want that man along, but prudence reined. "Wake all the guests. We need everyone to look for her."
Chapter 8
Sam Pickens scurried down the ladder from the stable rafters and rubbed sleep from his eyes. "Miss Belinda? You want to ride? This morning?"
"She does," barked Hallerton. "Two horses, be about it, boy."
"As you say, milord." He pulled his forelock but took a good long gander at the man before him. He strode to the nearby stall where a mare stood snorting at them. "This one, Miss?"
The animal was one Bee usually rode. The perfect choice. "Yes."
"And for his lordship?" Sam tipped his head toward the old grey mare in the opposite stall. In the past few months, Old Mary could only walk. Not trot and definitely not gallop.
"Good," she said.
