Rafe cursed. “Not completely mad, then.”
They had to restrain Rob from rushing into the stable until they were certain Morgan was gone. Their horses remained.
“He only took his own.” Rob rushed to hug his pony.
“Definitely mad,” Damien said sardonically. “Ours are already saddled and worth a lot more than his broken-down nag.”
“His was smaller,” Rob pointed out. “My uncle isn't very tall.”
“Smart lad. And with an injury, mounting might be difficult.” Rafe mentally chastised himself for not taking the horse. He'd just been expecting a dead or dying man. Hard to believe a man as solid as Fletch hadn't squashed the intruder like a bug.
As they walked their horses out to the lane, Damien’s bootmaker valet hurried out to greet them. “I heard there’s a lunatic on the loose?”
Not large or muscled, Jacques was garbed in a tightly tailored frockcoat, frilled linen, and boots that reflected what little sun was shining. Living out here alone, in the rooms above the workshop Damien’s father once used, he wasn’t the sort to fight a madman.
“Seems that way,” Damien admitted, bending over his horse’s mane so Jacques didn’t have to shout. “He’s injured, so he shouldn’t be too much of a danger, we hope.”
Jacques shifted from foot to foot, a certain sign he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Reminded that he had complained of ghosts, Rafe questioned, “Did you see him?”
The bootmaker wrinkled up his expressive face. “No, but someone or something was poking about the other night.” He hesitated again, then drew a breath and asked hastily, “An old friend of mine is visiting. He’s looking for a place to lease for a few months. I thought, maybe, if the Hall won’t be occupied. . .”
That was Damien’s business. Rafe pulled his mount aside but not so far that he couldn’t hear. He knew Damien hated the house he’d inherited. He had willingly agreed to move into the baker’s old cottage in the village when Brydie suggested it. It seemed foolish to leave a gorgeous old home like the Hall unoccupied, especially after it had been cleared out and repainted.
“How well do you know this friend?” Damien asked. “Does he have a family?”
Jacques squirmed and tugged at his immaculate linen in discomfort. “He’s an actor. He’s working with a traveling troupe. They need a place to stay while they rehearse before their summer tour begins. I only know Reynard. I just thought. . . If we have lunatics running about. . .”
Damien gazed in the direction of the sprawling old Hall his family had occupied and added onto over centuries. The fields had mostly been sold off. It was just the barn, the grounds, and the workshop left. Rafe knew Damien had hoped to sell it and had even had tentative offers. No one had followed through, due to unusual circumstances.
Damien also had to be aware that Jacques, and most likely his friend, weren’t what one called manly men. A troupe of actors. . . Probably ought to be staying under supervision at a public inn. The Hall offered privacy they couldn’t obtain elsewhere.
“I’ll talk to Brydie. Ask your friend how many people, how long, and how much he’s willing to pay.” With an unreadable expression, Damien shook the reins and headed off for town, while Jacques excitedly ran off to tell his friend.
Rafe caught up, leaving Rob and his pony trailing behind. “Not sure actors are much better than lunatics.” Although he could hope a whole company of dramatists might scare off Morgan.
Damien offered a grim smile. “I’m trying to imagine my father reacting to an invasion of thespians. Jacques’ ghosts might have a riot.”
“I’m hoping we’ll have caught the madman long before Jacques’ friends arrive, but I like the idea of more people living out this way if you and Brydie are settling in town,” Rafe admitted as they traversed the miles into the village.
Since they had slowed down to talk, Rob pushed his pony to catch up. “Do I have to go to school now?”
Damien slowed to the pony's pace. “That's for your mother to say. What would you do if you weren't in school?”
The boy shrugged. “Learn something useful. My dad was teaching me to take care of sheep.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
Rafe listened with interest. One day, he'd have to ask his son that. Or probably not. At eight, Daniel was only his ward. As a viscount, once he came of age, he was destined to manage an estate. In taking on the orphans, Rafe and Verity had tackled a task they weren't exactly prepared to handle. So he paid attention to how others did it.
“Arthur inherits the farm,” Rob said with a practicality most boys his age didn't possess. “I don’t like sheep anyway. I like mathematics, not boring Greek and Latin.”
“If you want to read the original mathematicians, you'll need Greek and Latin,” Damien warned. “Or do you like numbers because Davy and Oliver do?”
“Numbers make sense,” Rob insisted as they rode into the inn yard. “Sheep are stupid.”
Rafe was about to reply, when he caught a glimpse of horse and rider galloping up the tree-lined drive to Priory Manor. “Isn't that Morgan’s horse?”
Without waiting for an answer, he kicked his gelding into a gallop and gave chase.
