Seven
Kate
Carrying twenty-year-old, billowing, silk mantuas down the manor's white marble stairs, Kate stopped above the landing to see what the major was doing now. Given the excuse of his injury, he'd discarded his coat and left his neckcloth untied—again. And then he’d abandoned the sling to steady himself while unscrewing some odd piece from the back of the clock. His clutter was once more spread across the stairs.
She'd spent far too much time attempting to understand the male mind, when it was really quite simple. They needed purpose. Fletch had too little.
“Sgt. Major, shall I ask the captain to help you? He enjoys taking things apart.” She traipsed down the stairs until she stood one step higher than the landing.
“Fletch. Not in the army now. Set us all free.” He didn't remove his head from the case.
“The captain isn't in the army either. There's no reason to ignore a well-earned title. I'll see what he's doing. You shouldn't use that arm.”
“Almost done. Cleaning and mending next.”
She didn't know why it irritated that he wouldn't look at her when speaking, but it did. She had decided not to reply when Miss Vivien sashayed down the main corridor, where she did not belong. The manor folk weren't strict, but people ought to know their place.
The memory of Ana Marie’s broken body at the bottom of the service stairs flashed, and Kate relented. She didn’t want to use those stairs either.
“Miss Lavender wants you in her office. I can take those gowns.” Vivien Jameson tugged them from Kate before she could hand them over. “You can't take care of the ladies and a shop, too, can you?” Her tone was almost malicious.
“Jealousy is not productive,” Kate admonished, relinquishing the gowns. Grieving Ana Marie’s demise and still terrified by her home’s invader, she didn’t have the mind for pettiness.
She lingered to talk with the major while Miss Jameson flounced off. “Mr. Ferguson—” She robbed him of both title and the intimacy of his given name. “—I'll send around for the captain. He'll know who can help mend and clean.” She'd also ask someone to send the fool man a cup of tea, at the very least.
He may have saved their lives last night. She wouldn't easily forget his bravery. Men occasionally had uses. Last night had been one of them. She had stupidly frozen in terror. She had hoped she’d learned better, but she had little experience in physically defending herself. Being adept at social graces did not stop intruders.
Not giving him a chance to argue, Kate swept down the hall to where she knew she'd find a footman. She set him on his errands then returned to the ballroom to see what Lavender needed.
Before she could reach the office, she noticed Miss Jameson had dumped the mantuas in the sewing room and vanished. She had intended to send her to the mercantile for more muslin. Kate debated who else to send.
That hilly drive was difficult for their older workers. She glanced around for another of the younger ones. Spotting one of their newest hires, Kate led Maryann to the side-entrance hall. A pleasingly plump young woman who smiled easily despite the gap between her front teeth, Maryann was eager to please.
“We need five yards of Mr. Oswald’s finest muslin. He knows to charge?—"
Damien and Rafe slammed through the portico door, startling them. And then, remembering they’d rode after Hugh, Kate sent Maryann scurrying back to the safety of the ballroom.
She stepped into their path to prevent the men from ignoring her. “What did you find?”
“Morgan, riding this direction.” Looking harried, Rafe glared down the empty hall. “Where’s the blamed footman?”
“I sent him on an errand. How long ago?”
“His horse disappeared up here before we arrived. We don’t have time for an interrogation, Kate. We need the captain to order the house and grounds searched.” Damien impatiently stalked past her.
Had she endangered the entire manor by sending the footman on an errand? Would Hugh have dared to sneak in? Unwilling to take risks, Kate ran for the ballroom to warn of an intruder.
“I’ll look outside,” Rafe shouted, while Damien hit the main corridor, yelling for the butler.
Verifying Maryann was informing the other workers, Kate hurried through the immense ballroom for the tower housing Lavender’s office and fitting rooms—a tower with stairs that remained unlocked on the outside during school hours. It was meant to be open to the public. . .
Apparently having sent the butler to locking doors, Damien followed on her heels.
They caught Miss Lavender examining one of the mantuas Vivien Jameson had carried in earlier. The modiste glanced up in surprise at their hasty entrance.
Apparently returned from wherever she’d been hiding, dark-haired Vivien stood in front of the cheval glass, holding one of the very large gowns against her slender frame and admiring her reflection.
“The madman who attacked Major Ferguson last night was seen riding this way,“ Damien explained, rushing through the workshop to the tower entrance. “We need to lock your door.”
