Connor wrenched his foot free and climbed to his feet, dusting off his coat and trousers…and testing the welfare of his ankle that had been twisted in the tumble. A wince and scowl fought for rights on his brow, the glower triumphant in the end as he directed it toward the groom, who responded with a guileless smile. The bloody cinch had been tight, that much was certain.
Peering down the trail, he saw that Mrs. Milbourne had disappeared from sight. Evidently, she hadn’t a whit of interest in him or his welfare. What wasn’t obvious was why the groom had been set on assuring Connor didn’t follow the lass. He could try to catch up with her, ask her himself. Given the twists and turns of the narrow lanes across the property, the effort would most likely come to naught. She was long gone by now.
Connor shot a glare at the groom, considering whether he could browbeat a confession of her whereabouts from him. “What is yer name?”
The groom didn’t quail under his notice, rather he squared his shoulders and met Connor’s unflinching scrutiny. “Albert, m’lord.”
“How long have ye been a groom here, Albert?”
“Been working for the marquis and the previous one for nigh on a score of years or more, m’lord. Since I was a lad.”
Twenty years or more, the man likely knew every resident within a radius of as many miles. There was little doubt in Connor’s mind that the groom—all of them, given their avid audience—knew exactly who the woman was and where he might find her. Yet any man willing to risk his lifelong livelihood to do what Albert had done wouldn’t be the sort to yield under pressure.
Perhaps he’d recommend to the marquis that the man be sacked. Of course, then he’d have to explain why.
That he’d been as taken by the second glance of a woman as he had by the first. His sister would laugh herself to tears and take it upon herself to share—and exacerbate—his interest with the entire family. There’d be no end to the humiliations then. The MacKintosh clan did enjoy a good chuckle at a sibling’s expense. Especially when it came to matters of the heart. Connor would know. He’d been on the other end of that game plenty of times.
With a low curse, he tossed the reins back to the groom. “Rub him down and coddle him within an inch of his life to make reparation for yer egregious treatment of him.”
Of us both, he silently amended.
Albert tapped the brim of his flat cap without remorse. “Aye, m’lord.”
“I’m no’ a bloody lord!”
Connor tramped back up the drive to the main house, resisting the urge to limp on his tender ankle or provide succor to his bruised arse until he was out of sight. Woodlands surrounded the house in every direction. Sparse in some areas but growing more dense right along the perimeter of the building and gardens. They were intended to prevent such unsightly things as stables, outbuildings, and crops from impairing the scenic views from the manor, whether one viewed them from the lawns or from the windows of the highest turret. A tunnel of low-hanging branches formed by a thick cropping of English oak and birch cast the drive in shadows before he emerged near the east wing of the house.
Around the edge of the building, he could see the long expanse of the parterre that extended from the rear of the house. Lush, tailored lawns lined by ornamental flower beds. An enormous and hideously gauche fountain marked the far end. The graveled lane he walked upon merged into the drive at the front of the house. Two long avenues branched off perpendicular to the ends of the manor and ran parallel to one another down an equally long approach to his left. Within its confines, an intricate, geometrically precise garden of fastidiously trimmed hedgerows and flowering shrubs radiated from a more sedate marble fountain at the center. All of it meant to awe and impress visitors with an unimpeded vista of the manor as they traveled up the avenue.
None of it suited him. He far preferred the natural, entangled gardens at Glen Cairn Manor. Wild flowers mixed with roses. Herbs and vegetables. Functionality and beauty blended together. Lawns far less pristine, where family games and children at play marked them with life. All Connor saw when he viewed the grounds were the hours of manpower needed to maintain them. Manpower that could be put to better use growing things far more practical.
Perhaps there would be time to consider the options, however, it wasn’t agriculture that interested him at the moment. Nay, it was a confounding lass in red.
Entering through the servants’ entrance, Connor crossed the kitchen courtyard. Around him, doors led to the boiler room, coal house, scullery, kitchen, and larder, though he chose the one to the housekeeper’s corridor. Passing the workroom and still room, he found what he sought in the office.
Or rather, whom.
“Mrs. Davies, may I have a word?”
The housekeeper looked up from her ledger without reaction or expression of surprise for his unexpected appearance. Setting her pen aside, she removed her spectacles. “Of course, my lord. How may I help you?”
“Well…I…” Connor cleared his throat, stifling the urge to shuffle his feet under her inscrutable gaze. With her severely styled, steely gray hair, pinched expression, and stiff black bombazine dress, she’d give the most terrifying schoolmarm reservations of misbehaving. “I came across a young lady at the stables a few minutes ago, a Mrs. Milbourne.”
Mrs. Davies waited, hands folded over her ledger.
“Quite tall with black hair.” He refrained from waxing poetic over the color of her eyes. “Wearing a crimson habit?”
“Have you a question, my lord?”
“I’m no’ a lord, Mrs. Davies.” He flicked his wrist and reverted to the matter at hand. “She said she’d been visiting the Grange.”
“And?”
“And I thought it odd.” His discomfiture gave way to irritation. “Odd given there is no one in residence that she might call upon. I considered that perhaps she might have come to visit wi’ ye.”
“There’s been no visitors to the Grange today, my lord.”
Connor rolled his eyes at the address. If he didn’t presume to have the measure of English humor by this point, he’d swear they all did it on purpose. “Ye’ve had nae visitors today?” he repeated in disbelief as he matched Mrs. Davies stalwart expression. “No’ a one?”
