He watched as a craft heading for Birmingham, piled high with crates, barely cleared the viaduct. The ancient stone arch was meant for pedestrians and had only a low wall on the sides. If one were a thief. . . a weighted rope dropped over the edge would allow the barge to be boarded.
Actually, a man could simply jump to the top of the crates. . .
The window gave sufficient view of the river to see barges approaching from either direction. Grey’s cynical mind had him rushing down the stairs.
Hearing him, Miss Leonard emerged from the bedchamber they’d already chosen for her—the one at the back of the house with the trundle.
“You needn’t follow,” he told her. “I want to explore outside. You and Andrew make note of any further inadequacies and what furnishings might be needed.”
She blinked in surprise but did not argue. He was very fortunate in his new staff. They were excessively informed in areas he was not, leaving him to take his inquiring mind where he willed.
He was an art historian, but he was not ignorant of history in general. His own small estate had a river passing through, near enough to the coast to serve as a means of transporting smuggled goods under the cover of night. He was fairly certain that was how his ancestors had earned some part of their wealth—then poured their funds into the coffers of kings in exchange for titles and privilege. He despised monarchies. The Americans had the right of it.
Gravesyde was not near the coast, but the terrain was hilly enough that a river provided easy transport for the former monk’s priory, on the north side of that bridge. In these more modern times, the increasingly prosperous center of Birmingham, a little farther north, required a steady flow of goods and provisions. As slow as this river was, poling upstream might be easier than taking the highway, especially with the new canals.
And there, at the end of the lane, as he’d suspected, was a recently-used footpath, through the neglected hedgerow, down to the river. It could have been made by fishermen. The shell of a boat nearly hidden by enormous reeds might belong to said fishermen.
The wheel-trodden space hidden from view by wild trees and neglected hedges did not belong to any casual fisherman.
Absorbed by his discoveries, Grey didn’t see the blow coming. He only heard Miss Leonard’s cry from a distance as he fell.
Thirteen
Eleanor
“Greybourne!” Eleanor shrieked, lifting her damnable narrow skirts and racing for the weedy thicket where the professor had disappeared so abruptly.
On the river below, a burly man in a floppy hat hastily pushed a rowboat from shore with an oar. She knew she must remember details, but her entire world had exploded when the indomitable baron had fallen. She could not think clearly while Greybourne lay injured—or possibly dead—in the brambles.
She sprinted down the lane and shoved through the overgrown weeds and gorse, heart pounding until she thought she must faint. By the time she found him, he was returning to his knees, holding his head. Offering prayers to the heavens, El lent him a steadying hand, and he actually accepted it. It was a warm June day and neither of them wore gloves. The contact of flesh to flesh was so electric, she nearly dropped him.
Ignoring her unexpected reaction, she let his big hand engulf hers and clung hard so he might shift to his feet. Thorns tore at their clothing as they staggered back to the footpath. She shut out the obscenities he muttered under his breath. She’d heard them all before. What mattered was that he was alive to curse, that his hand was warm and strong in hers.
She was tall for a woman. Greybourne was half a head taller and a great deal wider and heavier. She could not have carried him. But once on his feet, he seemed stable enough.
She knew better than to suggest returning to the house where he might sit and let her examine his head. She simply steered him that way while he was still dizzy, giving him no opportunity to argue.
Andrew limped hurriedly down the lane to offer his shoulder. Unfortunately, that simply reminded the stubborn fool that he was holding her hand. He dropped it and stumbled forward without help, muttering louder and rubbing his head.
“Shall I fetch Dr. Walker?” Andrew fell behind to ask her, already having learned enough of his noble lordship’s habits to know better than to ask him.
“Yes, do, and Mr. Russell. Grey was hit from behind. I saw a boat push off. What if that was Mr. Comfrey’s killer? He might be hiding hereabouts!” Eleanor was very afraid this meant they shouldn’t sign the bank’s lease. What kind of criminal refuge had Gravesyde become?
Andrew hobbled off for the curricle as quickly as he could, leaving Eleanor to steer Greybourne inside, through the parlor, and to a kitchen chair. Since Andrew had been with her, she’d left her maid at the inn. Peg wouldn’t have brought bandages or had any notion of what to do either. Washing the wound seemed practical.
Greybourne brushed impatiently at El’s hand when she tried to examine his poor head. “It’s no more than a lump. The wretch will be well gone. I should have been wearing my hat.”
“There is a bump the size of a goose egg pushing up through all that thick mane of yours, my lord. And a gash that needs tending, although any infection daring to reach your thick skull will have a hard time of it.” Eleanor had studied the fireplace stove earlier. It was crude, but she was used to crude. She threw in kindling some workman must have gathered and set it alight, planning on heating water to clean the wound and preparing tea.
Until she turned to fill the kettle at the pump and remembered. “Is the well spring-fed?” She’d made that up to please Andrew but she had no real idea how wells worked.
“Most likely from the river but safe enough, especially if you boil the water. I do not expect there to be tea hereabouts, if that’s what you’re after. You should have gone with Andrew.” He staggered to his feet again. “There is a reason this is the tallest house in these parts, when all else only have lofts.”
Her teacher parents had seen to it that El was very well educated. Her mind made the same leaps as his and she grasped his point instantly. “For the river view? Smugglers? Is that likely this far from the coast?” She followed on his heels, expecting him to topple at any moment.
“Thieves, smugglers, pirates, if you will. There is most likely a hiding place for the goods in the cellar. We have not explored there.” He headed back out the door.
“I cannot carry you out of a cellar if you collapse there! Instead of rushing off like a senseless hare, sit down and let us discuss this like sensible people, while waiting for Mr. Russell. What kind of goods would anyone steal on that pathetic excuse of a stream?”
