She’d like a different kind of ride even better. Maybe tonight, when the work was done…
The messenger approached without meeting their eyes. The moment the letter was in Jacob’s hand, the footman tore off down the road as if the hounds of hell were after him.
Viv frowned. “In an awful big hurry, wasn’t he?”
Jacob shrugged. “Footmen generally have more tasks assigned than they have time to do them.”
“Footmen generally are on foot,” she pointed out. “Hence the name. Idle lords famously spend hundreds of pounds wagering over how fast and how far their footmen can run. That messenger was on horseback.”
“Maybe his employer isn’t a numbskull.” Jacob handed his own horse off to one of the Wynchester servants with thanks and a smile.
“Did you recognize his livery?”
“I didn’t even notice his uniform,” he said with a chuckle. “You must be confusing me with my brother Graham. Who, like you, always thinks everyone else is up to something.”
“They usually are,” she muttered.
“Do you know what I wouldn’t mind getting up to?”
She smiled. “Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
He widened his eyes innocently. “Biscuits. I wager Cook has fresh ones in the oven.”
She stifled a snort of laughter. “Are you bamming me? You’re hungry again, after that breakfast we just had?”
They bickered playfully up the front walk and into the house, stopping only when they reached the sitting room and half a dozen faces turned in their direction.
“Oh, it’s you two,” said Graham. “I heard horses. I’m waiting for news on the Rainsford case.”
“I think it just arrived. As we were heading in, a footman handed me a note addressed to…” Jacob’s voice cut off as he glanced for the first time at the letter in his hand.
Viv felt the sudden tension emanating from his body. Her own flesh ran cold in response.
Marjorie rose to her feet. “Something’s wrong.”
“Another rejection?” asked Adrian. “Don’t take it so hard. Honestly, Marjorie and I could fashion for you as many printed and bound books as you like, completely indistinguishable from—”
“Addressed to all of us,” Jacob said. “‘Wynchester Family.’ There’s a smear of red in one corner. It almost looks like… dried blood.”
“It’s not blood,” said Philippa, her voice shaking. “Is it?”
Marjorie plucked the letter from Jacob’s hand and scanned it. “I recognize the handwriting. This is from that hoaxer who claimed to have kidnapped Horace Wynchester.”
“What?” asked Viv, startled.
“There’s nothing to fear,” Philippa assured her. “There is no Horace Wynchester.”
“But there is blood,” Marjorie said softly. “Jacob’s right.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
“Why is there blood?” Viv whispered. “Is that normal?”
“Was the messenger bleeding?” asked Graham.
Viv was ashamed to admit she hadn’t noticed. Her eyes had been on Jacob.
“We receive heaps of utter nonsense,” he said. “It could be nothing.”
